The Good Death

by S. D. Sykes

  We had planned our escape and were ready to go. But just as we were about to leave Kintham, a messenger arrived at the gates, delivering a letter from my mother at Somershill. I opened this letter with trepidation, but this was not the news I had hoped to hear. It seemed that my plan to lure William to Rochester had both succeeded and failed.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  Somershill, November 1370

  Mother opened an eyelid and stared at me without saying a word. The dawn had broken at last, with pale rays peeping through the drapes, and filling the room with a melancholic, wintry light. I had been talking all night, and I was exhausted. All I wanted to do now was sleep, but the house was waking up around me and filling with noise. I could hear the cock crowing, the running feet of the first servants to rise, and the occasional bang and crash from the kitchen, as the cooks prepared for the day ahead.

  For a moment, my mind strayed briefly to Filomena, but then I caught my thoughts and dragged them back to the present. Her elopement with Sir John was just too great a problem for me to address, so I deliberately threw it to the back of my mind. There were more pressing issues. By the sound of Mother’s deep and laboured breathing, she was about to depart this earth at any moment. But I will admit to feeling liberated instead of sad. Mother had heard my confession and knew the truth. Now I sincerely hoped that she would offer me her forgiveness and return the letter to me. She would have her good death, and I would be free of this burden forever.

  I stood up to fill my cup with wine, when she spoke to me at last. For the previous few hours she had simply nodded as I told my story, so it was jolting to hear her voice.

  ‘Oswald,’ she whispered. ‘Come back over here for a moment.’ I returned to her bedside and leant over to listen. I was expecting some soft words of clemency, but that is not what I received.

  ‘What a pack of lies,’ she hissed. She was not able to lift her head from the pillow, but she spoke with force, venom even.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I asked, stepping back. ‘I’ve told you the truth. All of it.’

  She coughed. Rasping and dry. ‘Is that the best story you can come up with, Oswald? Did you think I would swallow such a tale, just because I’m feeling unwell?’

  ‘That’s the true story,’ I said. ‘Without a word of a lie.’ I drew back. ‘And you’re not feeling unwell,’ I added spitefully. ‘You’re dying.’

  My words kindled an unexpected energy in her – as effectively as if I’d just stuck a spoon of sal ammoniac under her nose. Mother had been provoked, and suddenly found the strength to work her way up the bolster until she was nearly upright.

  ‘You’ve convinced yourself of this lie, have you?’ she said with a scornful flourish.

  ‘It’s not a lie. It’s what happened.’

  She croaked a laugh. ‘You are a veritable fraud, aren’t you, Oswald de Lacy? All those years, you’ve been telling everybody that you became Lord Somershill by some extraordinary turn of fate. What nonsense!’ She held a hand to her cheek and found the energy to perform a childish parody of me. ‘Oh, I didn’t want the role, you know. I was going to be a monk, but then suddenly I was a lord. The honour was thrust upon me. And it’s been such a terrible burden. To own a thousand acres, a village, a grand house and a stable full of fine horses.’ She stopped to make the sharpest, most contemptuous snort. ‘Fate indeed! You plotted it all along, didn’t you, Oswald? That’s what really happened. This was all a deceitful scheme so that you had somewhere to go when you left the monastery. After all, you’ve just admitted that you didn’t care for the church. That you’d lost your faith. It is, perhaps, the only part of your story that I can truly believe.’

  ‘It’s all true, Mother. Every part.’

  ‘Says you. But the trouble is, there’s nobody to back up your story, is there, Oswald? There is only one person from this tale who remains alive. And that is you.’

  I ran my hands through my hair. Despite her great age and closeness to death, I found myself wondering what it would feel like to wrap my hands about her bony neck and squeeze them tightly until she was no longer able to breathe. The moment of madness passed. ‘Don’t be contrary, Mother. You asked for the truth, and now you don’t like it.’

  She waved a bony finger at me. ‘I know what you did, Oswald. So stop with your lies.’ She paused. ‘You are responsible for the death of your brothers and father. You wanted all three of them to go to Rochester, knowing they were certain to catch plague there. Knowing their deaths would make you Lord Somershill. You are nothing better than a cuckoo. Pushing the other eggs out of the nest.’

  ‘No, that’s not true,’ I replied. ‘I had to protect myself from William. That was all. I had no idea that my letter would prompt Father and Richard to accompany William to Rochester.’

  She hesitated, looking at me with sheer contempt. ‘So why did you invite them?’ she asked.

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘Oh yes, you did,’ she said, pulling the letter from between her chemise and her chest and thrusting it towards me. ‘It’s all in here, Oswald. Your father, William and Richard were all invited to Rochester in your bogus letter. So you see. You are proven to be a liar, and here is the evidence. You didn’t plan to kill one man. You planned to kill all three!’

  I pulled the letter from her hand. The missive that I’d last touched over twenty years previously. The name on the outside was written in my hand – just as I remembered – but when I opened the fold of parchment, I saw immediately that the first line of the letter had been changed. Somebody had washed away the words that I’d written – ‘To William de Lacy’ and amended them to read ‘To Henry, William and Richard de Lacy’. I nearly let the letter slip from my hand in shock. No wonder Mother had accused me of plotting their deaths. No wonder she had demanded to know the truth before she died.

  I lifted the letter again and forced myself to read on, finding that the rest of my letter remained unchanged. It was all there, as before. The invitation to meet the Earl at the Angel Inn. The request for secrecy. The promise of learning something of advantage. It was just that very small change at the start of the letter that had caused all this trouble. The addition of two names that had altered the whole course of my life. The forger had attempted to copy my style of writing – and indeed, he had made a very good job of it – but he could not hide his deception from me.

  ‘This letter’s been altered,’ I croaked. ‘Brother Peter added Father and Richard’s names alongside William’s.’

  She huffed. ‘That’s right, Oswald. Blame your crime on somebody else. Claim that you had nothing to do with killing innocent men.’

  ‘But it’s true, Mother,’ I protested. ‘Brother Peter changed my letter so that Father and Richard would also attend the meeting with Earl Stephen. He did it because…’ I wasn’t sure how to end this sentence.

  Mother ended it for me. ‘…he was ambitious for you. Is that what you’re going to tell me, Oswald? Your beloved Brother Peter acted in your interests, but without your knowledge. Orchestrating the deaths of the men who stood in the path of your advancement?’ She closed her eyes and turned her head away from mine. The conversation had exhausted her. ‘Shame on you, Oswald. Shame.’

  I tried to take her hand, but she pulled it away.

  ‘Just leave me alone,’ she said. ‘I don’t want to look at you.’

  ‘I’m telling you the truth, Mother. You have to believe me.’

  She closed her eyes. ‘Just take your letter and bring the priest. I want the Last Sacraments. I want to die.’

  * * *

  As the priest arrived, I sat in the solar, clutching the letter, and hardly knowing what to feel. In the end I threw the thin square of parchment into the fire and watched it burn, but felt no release with its destruction. After all, so many of Mother’s words had been true. I had never been the accidental lord of Somershill, as I had always claimed. This role had not come to me via the vagaries of fate. The Wheel of Fortune had not rolled in my favour by
chance. Instead, I had turned it myself, and made sure that it spun to my advantage.

  And yet, I had also told Mother the truth. I had never meant to send my brother Richard and my father to their deaths. I had not written their names on the letter to lure them into the same trap I had laid for William. That part of the scheme had been Peter’s, and Peter’s alone. But it seemed, whatever I said, Mother would not believe me. We would part in sorrow and without reconciliation. The idea made me feel truly ill.

  * * *

  The morning was a sequence of comings and goings, as members of the family filed in to see my mother before she ended her time on this earth. I watched as Clemence, Henry, Mother’s priest, and even our old steward, Gilbert, traipsed their way in and out of her room, each to say their farewells.

  It is a strange custom to line up beside the bed of a person who is dying, like members of an audience expecting to watch a play. I hope, when I come to die, that there isn’t a trail of well-wishers standing beside my bed, wanting to wave me off as I float away into oblivion. I might feel some requirement to put on a show. To utter some wise words, or make some great pronouncement about the future of the family. Or even to die quickly, now that they have all gathered together, so that I have not inconvenienced them in any way. If I have any choice in this matter, I hope to die quietly, holding a single person’s hand and staring out of a window. I do not want this charade.

  * * *

  I had remained outside the room for many hours, when Clemence stepped out to find me. I immediately felt panicked when I looked up into her small face, seeing that her cheeks were stained with tears.

  ‘Is she dead?’ I asked.

  ‘Nearly,’ said Clemence. ‘But she’s asking to see you.’

  ‘She is?’

  Clemence gave a wearied smile at this. ‘You know that you’ve always been her favourite, Oswald,’ she said. ‘Of course she wants to see you.’

  * * *

  The room seemed darker than ever before. There was a stillness, a reverence. A peaceful silence. The hurly burly of the morning had passed, and now this chamber was as quiet as a Lady Chapel.

  I sat down on the stool beside Mother’s bed and looked into her face, noticing immediately that the lines across her forehead had softened and the corners of her mouth were curled into a peaceful smile. She looked younger than she had done for many years – her complexion free of the stresses and strains of her life. I will forever remember her face that way. She was serene and ready for death.

  As I watched her, she whispered something unintelligible. At first I thought it was delirium, but then I realised that she was saying my name. I drew my ear close to her mouth, straining to hear what she was saying.

  ‘Oswald,’ she said. ‘Is that you?’ She reached out a hand and took mine. Her skin was cold and hard – her fingers curled like a claw.

  ‘It is, Mother.’

  ‘I don’t want to die with bad blood between us.’ She paused to gasp for breath. ‘But it was very difficult for me to hear your confession. I always suspected there was something wrong with William… but no mother should hear such stories about their own child.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mother,’ I said. ‘I shouldn’t have told you.’

  She managed a thin sigh at this. ‘You had no choice,’ she replied. ‘I asked you to do it. I had to hear this story from your own lips, before I could forgive you… How else was I to have a good death?’ She squeezed my fingers. ‘But I took out my anger about William on you,’ she whispered. ‘I know that Peter added those names. It was in his nature to protect you. And so now I’m asking for your forgiveness.’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive,’ I said, lifting her cold fingers to my lips. ‘Nothing at all.’

  ‘Good,’ she whispered, as I placed her hand back on the sheet. ‘Because I have always loved you Oswald,’ she said, staring at me, her eyes watery and blurred – studying my face until she was unable to keep her eyelids open any longer. ‘Our souls have been weighed, and we part in balance.’

  Epilogue

  I went to look for Filomena at dawn the next morning, after Mother’s body had been prepared for burial. First of all I cornered Henry and demanded to know more about the conversation he claimed to have overheard between Filomena and Sir John. I spared Henry’s blushes and didn’t bring up the subject of his infatuation with my wife, because I understood what he was suffering. As this story has shown, I had experienced the pain of youthful passions myself. I knew that the agony of hopeless, irrational, unrequited love was an essential part of growing up. In truth, I would recommend the experience to any young person, if only to rid their system of this affliction when they are most able to deal with it. This sort of passion is best suffered in youth. Like the itching pox, its effects worsen with age.

  So, once we’d skirted around the reasons why Henry was eavesdropping on my wife’s private conversation with Sir John, I was able to ascertain some information about Filomena’s disappearance – though Henry’s story was far from convincing. Despite Clemence’s protestations to the contrary, her son really did not have a good grasp of the Venetian language. If Filomena and Sir John had been planning a tryst in that tongue, then it was impossible to see how Henry could have understood what they were saying. On the other hand, Filomena had taken money, clothes and jewellery with her, and she had not been seen for two nights. Nor had she attempted to send a letter to explain her absence. There was no doubt that she had deserted me and she had deserted Somershill. We gave the servants to believe that their mistress had been invited to a friend’s house in Edenbridge, but I could tell that the whispers and rumours had already started.

  With nothing else to go on, I could only rely on Henry’s account. He told me that Filomena and Sir John had agreed to meet at an inn near Tonbridge, and then to follow Watling Street to Dover. From Dover they were to start their journey to Venice. Given that they had a two-day start on me, I decided to ride with all haste towards this inn. In the hours since Mother’s death, my feelings regarding Filomena’s disappearance had ranged from a rage at her betrayal, through to a desperate sadness that I might never see her again. The truth was, I missed my wife desperately. More so than ever. I wanted to find her, and I wanted to bring her home.

  * * *

  I saddled up my horse, ready to ride for Tonbridge, but I was only an hour or so outside the village of Somershill, when I saw a figure riding towards me on the road ahead. It was Filomena. When she saw my face in the distance, she kicked her horse to a canter until she came to a halt beside me.

  ‘I heard the news about your mother,’ she said, her breath misting in the air. ‘I’m so sorry, Oswald.’

  ‘Where have you been, Filomena?’ I asked. ‘And why didn’t you tell me where you were going?’

  She looked away, too embarrassed to answer.

  ‘There were rumours that you’d run away with Sir John,’ I said. ‘Henry told me that he’d overheard you both talking about Venice?’

  Filomena looked up at me, her eyes flashing. ‘Did you believe that story?’ she asked.

  I hesitated. ‘No,’ I said. ‘I didn’t believe it.’

  She flushed at this. ‘But you were coming to find me?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Because I was worried about you.’ I paused. ‘I wanted you to come home.’

  Filomena looked down, letting her fingers run through her horse’s mane. ‘I stayed at an inn for two nights. But I was on my own, and it had nothing to do with Sir John.’ She lifted her dark brown eyes back to mine. ‘I just needed to know that you would bother to look for me, Oswald,’ she whispered. ‘I needed to know that you cared about me.’

  ‘Of course I care for you, Filomena,’ I said. ‘I love you.’

  ‘But I wasn’t sure about that.’

  ‘Why?’ I asked. ‘Because of Mother?’

  She coughed, obviously embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry, Oswald. It was childish and unfair. I realise that now. Especially when your mother was so ill.’ She took
a deep breath, and I knew that she was about to say something that made her highly uncomfortable. ‘You see, I thought your mother was play-acting again. After all, she has been mortally ill for the last three winters and has failed to die.’ She paused. ‘I’m so sorry. I hope you can forgive me? I did not want to cause you more pain at this time.’

  I leant over and took one of her hands. ‘There’s nothing to forgive, Filomena. This is not your fault. It never was.’ I paused. ‘I allowed my mother to intrude into our lives too often. And then, when she was dying, I had my own, selfish reasons for spending so long at her deathbed. It is my fault you felt ignored and neglected. It is I who should apologise to you.’

  She sighed at this. ‘I knew what to expect, Oswald,’ she replied. ‘When we became man and wife, I knew that your mother would always be part of our marriage.’

  ‘But she’s gone now, Filomena,’ I said, taking a deep breath. ‘And we’re free.’

  My wife gave me a sideways look. She was trying her best to appear disapproving. ‘That’s not very kind of you, Oswald,’ she said. ‘You shouldn’t speak that way about the dead. Especially your own mother.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it cruelly,’ I replied. ‘But I think you agree?’ I paused. ‘Don’t you?’ When she refused to answer this, I added, ‘Come home with me Filomena, and let’s never argue about this again. I promise you all of my attention. Forever.’

  She let her lips twist into one of those lovely, reserved smiles that were so hard to win. ‘I don’t want too much attention,’ she warned me, quickly extinguishing her grin. ‘It might become annoying.’