by S. D. Sykes
‘It’s the ewes being sheared today,’ I told Clemence. ‘Not the rams.’
Now she laughed at me. ‘I’m surprised a little monastery boy like you would know the difference. All that time spent with the rams of the abbey.’ Her face had crinkled into an ugly smile, as she helped herself to some bread from my plate.
‘I find a ewe as easy to identify as any man does,’ I said, grabbing her hand and squeezing it to make her let go of the bread. ‘It’s the mutton I find more difficult to notice.’ She tried to wriggle her hand away, but I pressed more tightly. ‘But no doubt, Clemence, you’ve discovered most men suffer from that problem.’
My sister freed her hand and went to strike my face, only deciding against it at the last moment. Instead she stood up, bowed her head to Mother, and left the room in tears.
‘I do wish you wouldn’t goad her,’ said Mother, as Clemence climbed the stairs back to the solar and slammed a distant door. ‘Her womb is suffocated with her own seed as it is.’
‘Find her a husband then. At least we’d be free of her.’
My mother huffed and dipped her bread into her pot of warm beef lard, letting the honeycombed dough soak up as much of the rancid swill as possible. ‘I would love to make a match for her, Oswald. But what am I to do? She’s twenty-six, and practically winter feed.’
My mother still had the mouth of a cowherd, causing me to feel a sudden wave of sympathy for Clemence, and now regret my taunt. My sister’s last two betrothals had ended with the suitor dead before the wedding – meaning Clemence hadn’t even achieved the status of a respectable widow. And she had only narrowly avoided the convent of St Margaret by Father’s reluctance to pay a dowry to Sister Constance. Through a combination of bad luck and avarice, Clemence was stuck at Somershill, like an apple going bad on the tree.
Thankfully my conversation with Mother was ended by Gilbert, who lumbered wearily to the table to announce my reeve was at the back porch. I stood up, attempted to smooth down the bulging tunic, and went out to greet Featherby, finding him fidgeting with a horsewhip and uncharacteristically shrinking against the wall rather than seeming about to pounce upon me. A light rain blew into our faces.
‘Are we all ready for the shearing then?’ I asked, clasping my hands together as if excited by the prospect of the day ahead. ‘Are the men assembled?’
Featherby shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other and wouldn’t meet my gaze. ‘I only have the two men, sire. John Penrice and young Wilfred.’
‘Where are the others?’ He didn’t answer. ‘I presume you told them to be here at daybreak?’
There was a long silence. ‘They’re at church, sire.’
‘Why?’
‘It’s these dog heads. The men are uneasy.’
I rolled my eyes. ‘But I’ve arrested Joan Bath for the murders.’
‘It’s the word of Father John, sire. He still says the dog heads did it.’
‘Well they didn’t. Tell the men they have obligations to me on the demesne.’
‘They won’t listen to me, sire. I even threatened to whip them, and that didn’t do any good either.’
‘You mustn’t do that!’ I said, and then quickly added, ‘We need them to be fit to work.’
Now he began to loom, so I stepped back. The rain was drawing the scent of horse hair and matted dung from his clothing.
‘What should I do then, sire?’ I noted his arms were folded and his head cocked.
‘Wait here!’
I returned to my bedchamber, threw the stinking leather tunic onto the chest and changed into my best hose, tailored cotehardie, and finest cloak. This time I wouldn’t cower in the porch. I would get past the church door and speak to the men. I would be their lord.
As we reached St Giles, Cornwall’s familiar bellowing could be heard echoing about the gravestones. But I could bellow myself, if adequately provoked. And Cornwall had provoked me. The village must surely know by now that Joan Bath had been arrested on suspicion of the murders, so why was he persisting in his scaremongering?
I threw open the heavy door, and Cornwall’s words trailed away to silence. This time there were both men and women in the congregation, and as they turned to look at me, they appeared as uneasy as a herd of cows regarding a stranger in their field.
Cornwall’s cheeks were suddenly patched with red.
‘I have an announcement to make to you all,’ I said, striding through the nave towards the chancel. Turning to address the congregation, I suddenly felt self-conscious, but it was vital not to falter though the wooden Virgin peered at me, still holding out her empty arms, devoid of the Christ child. I took a deep breath and held my nerve. ‘As you do not seem to have heard, I have arrested a woman for the murders of Alison and Matilda Starvecrow.’ My words were met with murmuring and whispers. The villagers then rotated towards Cornwall.
‘Whom have you arrested,’ said Cornwall, and then remembered to add, ‘sire.’
I cleared my throat. ‘Her name is Joan Bath.’
This time the faces broke rank from their uniform movement and turned in all directions to speak to a neighbour or a friend behind them.
Cornwall raised his voice loudly to be heard above the uproar.‘What makes you so certain of this woman’s guilt, sire?’ The faces fell silent again. They knew it was insolent of Cornwall to question me so openly.
‘I am more convinced of Mistress Bath’s guilt than I am of the existence of dog heads.’
Cornwall spread the wings of his cloak. ‘My lord, I would remind you I have prayed to God for the answer to this mystery. And He has informed me the agents of Satan are to blame.’ A few elderly heads nodded at Cornwall’s words. The others remained perfectly still, unsure which breeze to catch. ‘I suggest that you think again,’ he added and then pointed a finger at me.
This was the final provocation. I could tolerate this man no longer. ‘Then I suggest you round up your dog heads for trial, Father John,’ I told him. ‘The Hundreds court will visit the estate shortly. Then your suspects can answer to the crime in the same court as Mistress Bath.’ Some muffled giggling broke out, which Cornwall was unable to stifle with the swing of his cloak or the flare of his nostrils.
A local wit called out, ‘They can bark for mercy, sire!’ The crowd burst into laughter. And soon other jesters joined in, with suggestions of tails wagging at the verdict or arse sniffing in the dock. I couldn’t help but raise a smile despite the crudity of their comedy, because Cornwall and his ignorance deserved to be laughed at. The Plague had wrung the spirit out of England. These people needed hope, not more tales of damnation.
But Cornwall would not easily be quelled. ‘The beasts can only be judged in Heaven by God himself,’ he called over the merriment. ‘You must all continue to pray for deliverance.’ But, for once, the priest was ignored – and though he tried repeatedly to regain his position at centre stage, it seemed his flock had abandoned him and his nonsense.
Finding his words were drowned, he strode past me with fanned robes and only the most cursory of acknowledgements. But I cannot claim to have felt entirely triumphant at this moment, for my victory over Cornwall was pyrrhic. I knew that. We had been opponents, but it seemed we were now enemies.
Even so, I must admit to feeling rather pleased with myself.
Once the clamour had subsided I sought out Featherby at the back of the church beside the doom painting – a vivid depiction of Hell that had been painted on the lime plaster many years ago by an artist who had given Beelzebub a pair of cross eyes and the buck teeth of a rabbit. Featherby was leaning over a young woman who seemed relieved by my intervention, for she seized the opportunity to escape from his overbearing attentions and scamper away to her mother. I told Featherby to organise the shearing immediately on the demesne now that the drama was over, and for once he didn’t offer me any objections or unsolicited advice.
And then as I watched the villagers leave the church, bobbing their heads or muttering their respects to me,
a sideways smile caught my attention. It was Mirabel, her head covered modestly with a hood.
I bowed, causing her to giggle and then curtsey. It seemed my encounter with Cornwall had impressed her. I would even say she liked me.
But there was a boy behind Mirabel who seemed not to like me at all. He was tall and broad, with hair as orange as a weasel’s. Not that he looked like a weasel. I might even have called him handsome, had he not barged through the crowd to take Mirabel’s arm before throwing me a look of hostility.
I was pleased to see that she shrugged him away.
Returning to Somershill I found Clemence standing by the main door waiting for the rain to stop. She wore a fine velvet riding cloak – an outfit I had not seen since before the Plague. I could smell she had been chewing cardamom to sweeten her breath. Her devoted servant, Humbert, lurked behind her, staring at the elaborate braids and jewelled pins in her hair without blinking.
‘You look elegant, Clemence,’ I said, mindful of my insults to her at breakfast. ‘Are you expecting guests?’
She eyed me suspiciously. ‘In my riding clothes?’
‘Are you making a visit then?’
She snorted and pushed past me. ‘None of your business.’
‘Clemence,’ I shouted after her. ‘I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to upset you. I wish we could be friends.’
I waited for a reply, but she was gone.
Piers returned in only two days from Canterbury with a letter from the sheriff. The date for the next Hundreds court would be the seventeenth of July, assuming a royal judge could be spared. This gave me just over a month to prepare my case against Joan Bath. A case that, even I had to admit, currently lacked sufficient evidence to convince a jury.
Needing to find Matilda’s body, I sent men out to search for Joan’s sons in the hope they could be persuaded to reveal the location of her corpse. But the boys remained elusive, probably hiding in the forests and living by their own stealth and ingenuity. This was not surprising, as they had been raised by their mother to be hardy, self-reliant children, and Kent is a large county to hide in.
I interviewed the villagers about Joan in order to understand her character a little better. But it seems she kept to herself, and soon it became obvious that the only people willing to talk about the woman were the disgruntled wives of her customers – and they shed no light on this particular crime whatsoever. My progress was frustratingly slow, but in truth I was wasting my time.
For, if my first mistake had been to let Cornwall have his way, then my second was to have my own. I squeezed what information I had gleaned into a story that suited me, but was truly only conjecture. In truth, the facts fitted into my case as badly as I fitted into my father’s leather tunic.
The signs were there. With care and attention I might have seen them. But I became distracted, as a new storm blew across my path.
And suddenly I was caught in its eye.
Chapter Eight
It was a few days later and I was enjoying a rare hour of peace in my bedchamber, reading a text on geometry to try to stop thinking in antitheses. One moment I was concerned with the dark fate of Matilda Starvecrow, only to lurch into lustful thoughts about Mirabel and the way her breasts moved to and fro beneath her tunic. My mind was rather fixed on Mirabel’s breasts when Mother burst into the room like a blizzard, and I quickly had to hide my embarrassment under a bed sheet.
Not that she noticed. ‘I’ve just heard the news, Oswald. Clemence and de Caburn! At her age as well.’ She whipped the book from my hand and flung it onto the bed. ‘Our two estates linked. How clever of you to arrange it.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Mother’s dog Hector had raced in behind and jumped onto the bed covers. He, at least, seemed to understand what I had been up to. ‘Get off!’ I said, trying to push him back onto the floor.
Mother did nothing – even though Hector was now trying to wriggle under the sheets. ‘I do hope you haven’t agreed too much of a dowry,’ she said. ‘Our income is a little fragile at the moment. And the ceremony should be a simple affair. I will insist on that much.’
‘Mother. Please listen to me,’ I said, trying once again to push the dog from the bed. ‘I haven’t the slightest idea what you mean.’
‘And we shouldn’t invite too many guests to the wedding. Clemence may be something of a boiling fowl, but we wouldn’t want to make a spectacle of her. But, if we’re too secretive, the gossips will say she’s with child. And that sort of news would fly up to court like a—’
‘I think you have dreamt this up, Mother. The story is nonsense.’ Hector was once again attempting to burrow under the bedclothes. ‘For God’s sake get this damned creature off me!’ I shouted.
‘Never mind the dog, Oswald. I want to talk to you about Clemence and de Caburn!’ Her voice was suddenly shrill, and caused Hector to shoot off the bed, as if he were fleeing thunder.
I sat up fully now the dog had gone and spoke calmly, so Mother couldn’t misinterpret my words. ‘I don’t know what you’ve heard, but I have not arranged a marriage between Clemence and de Caburn. Do you understand?’
She frowned. ‘You haven’t?’
‘No.’
‘Oh.’ She sighed. ‘But Clemence has just told me the news herself.’
‘She has?’
Now Mother pulled a face. ‘Yes. Why do you think I rushed in here, Oswald? I’m not the Delphic Oracle.’
‘Clemence herself? Are you sure?’
‘Yes. How many times? Oswald? Where are you going?’
I got out of bed. ‘To find Clemence.’
There was a tale often told in taverns about my neighbour de Caburn – that he was a man who loved his horse more than his wife. I don’t suppose the two unfortunate women who had married him found this story entertaining, the latest dead from birth fever. She might have survived, but de Caburn had refused to send for the physician on the grounds that she looked healthy enough to him. More likely, in my mother’s opinion, it was to punish the woman for producing another daughter.
The baby died within days, also without the attendance of a physician, though I heard from his bailiff that de Caburn did summon a surgeon only a week later, although this time it was for himself, as he needed somebody to sew up the fistula that was hanging out of his arse. Too much time in a wet saddle, joked the bailiff. But I didn’t laugh. I wished de Caburn’s whole backside had become infected, so he could never get in a saddle again. These days he rode his horses over my land a little too often.
It wasn’t difficult to locate my sister. When Clemence wasn’t tormenting some piece of linen with her needle, then she was usually to be found in the stables with her stallion, Merrion – the only beast she considered worthy of carrying her noble personage about the estate, regardless of the fact that he was every bit as unpleasant as my own horse Tempest, and as likely to buck my sister off as he cared to discharge any other member of the family.
It should come as no surprise that my sister was so devoted to such a crabby and haughty creature, however. And her attachment was certainly fortunate from the horse’s point of view, since no servant, not even Piers, the stableboy, was keen to see to him. After Merrion had drawn blood by biting Gilbert’s shoulder, our servants had more or less refused to groom the beast, so Clemence had taken it upon herself to perform the function, boasting about the shine of his coat, or the sway of his mane.
I opened the stable door to find her singing to the horse, as if that might temper the creature’s bile. As ever, Humbert waited but an arm’s length from my sister, his hands full of summer hay and his eyes constantly focussed upon his mistress.
‘Clemence. I need to speak with you,’ I said.
She was startled by my words, evidently lost in some sort of daydream. ‘Don’t creep up on me, little brother.’ Her scowl returned. ‘You’ll unsettle Merrion.’ The horse whinnied obligingly. ‘See what I mean.’
Humbert now stood in my way, and as I attempted to pu
sh him aside, I found his chest to be surprisingly firm, when I had expected him to wobble like marrow jelly. When Humbert still refused to move, Clemence reluctantly waved for him to let me pass.
‘I’ve heard a distorted story from Mother,’ I said, when our eyes were finally able to meet. ‘I need to clarify a matter with you.’
She curled her lip and returned to sweeping the horse’s glossy flank with her iron curry comb. ‘What sort of story?’
‘That you are to marry Walter de Caburn.’
‘And why should that be distorted?’
‘It’s true then?’
She put down the comb. ‘Yes, it’s true. We are to marry by St Swithin’s day.’
I felt a swell of nausea rising in my stomach. ‘You can’t marry de Caburn, Clemence. I can’t believe you would even contemplate it.’
She laughed. ‘Why ever not?’
‘He’s a monster. I forbid it.’
‘You’re in no position to forbid me anything.’
‘With all respect, Lady Clemence, you will need the permission of your brother to marry.’ We turned to see Brother Peter standing at the door. In his arms he held a bunch of coltsfoot and elderflowers. ‘I’ve collected these herbs to treat Merrion,’ he said, passing the greenery to Humbert. ‘It should clear the beast’s cumbersome airways.’
‘Take your witch’s weeds away,’ said Clemence, grabbing the herbs from Humbert’s large hands and throwing them to the floor. ‘That is twice you have exceeded your rank with me, Priest. I will not tolerate it again.’
‘Brother Peter is correct, Clemence,’ I said. ‘You do need my permission to marry, and I won’t give it.’
‘You can’t refuse me,’ said Clemence, now gritting her teeth. The horse began to twitch and fidget and she struggled to hold onto his tether. ‘I will marry Walter, whether or not you give me permission.’
