by S. D. Sykes
It did not take long for Brother Peter and his band of men and dogs to find me. I was taken back to the monastery and given a bed in the infirmary. By now the combination of the damp sheets, the damp night, and the fear I had experienced gave way to a fever. I heard Brother Peter arguing in the corner of the infirmary with Brother Thomas, but this time Peter did not concede to Thomas’s superiority. The old man shuffled and harrumphed, wobbling the jowls of his florid cheeks at each of Peter’s accusations, but Peter kept going. The child in their care was Oswald de Lacy, not some son of a common merchant. If Lord Somershill were to hear that his own son was being treated with such cruelty and that the boy had run away, then the nobleman would withdraw his support for Kintham Abbey. Brother Thomas laughed. What support would that be, he asked? In Thomas’s opinion, Lord Somershill was as charitable as a Pharisee. He lent books for the library, of course, argued Peter. Thomas only scowled at this, since he had little regard for manuscripts, despite being responsible for the younger boys’ education.
Peter’s arguments fell on deaf ears, but he must have found somebody to listen to him, further up the ladder of command – since on recovering from my fever I discovered that I would not return to the dormitory. Instead I would have exceptional treatment and remain under Peter’s care in the infirmary. He would educate and care for me. In return I would work with the sick and dying of our community as Peter’s apprentice. I would sleep in the warmest corner of the chamber, just outside the curtained wall of Peter’s own bedchamber.
The prowler never troubled me again. He didn’t visit the infirmary at night. But I saw him often enough in the day, as I walked about the monastery to prayers at Vespers or mass at Compline. It was the abbot himself.
After the rigours and length of the previous day – riding home from Versey and then taking John Barrow into my care – I was relieved when my headache failed to develop into a full assault on my head. Sleep didn’t find me that night, but I was pleased of it. I didn’t want to dream, as the burning boy would come to me. I knew he would. Instead I used these quiet hours to review the details of Catherine Tulley’s murder, remaining certain that John Barrow was innocent. It was too easy to blame the nearest madman or outcast for an unsolved crime. On the other hand, I determined that I should question the man, if only to rule him out completely, and to prove that I was not being dogmatic in my thinking.
At first light I dressed quickly, stepped out onto the frosted grass and headed for the north-west tower, without having my breakfast. Gilbert joined me reluctantly, but on reaching the cell we found that Barrow was crouched in a corner and refused to speak.
Gilbert stood behind me and tutted. ‘Would it help if I twisted his arm a little?’
‘No!’
Gilbert sighed. ‘Very well, sire.’
‘Have you fed him yet? As I asked you to?’
‘Yes sire. See for yourself.’
I looked into the corner of the room to see a chunk of stale bread and a mug of ale, which remained untouched. A dead fly and a sprinkling of dust floated on its surface. ‘Bring the man some pottage.’
Gilbert stiffened. ‘Is it wise to give him meat? It might . . .’
‘It might . . . what?’
He pulled a face. ‘Stir him up.To . . . you know.’ Unfortunately I did know. Gilbert thought this man a murderer, and there was nothing I could say to convince him otherwise. Everybody in the village felt the same. I might be able to keep John Barrow under my protection, but this sanctuary would only last as long as I was able to provide it. The last two years had taught me this much, however. Nothing can be counted upon in this world. Nothing at all. You might see the future as a progression of the past, but this is a fool’s notion, a delusion – for the future is as mixed up and unpredictable as a stew of leftovers. It could taste of anything.
The only real way to protect Barrow from the same fate as Leofwin was to find the true murderer of the Tulley child. And to be quick about it.
Leaving Gilbert to tend to Barrow, I made for the stables and instructed Piers to saddle up my horse. My plan was to ride straight to the village and continue my investigations without delay. I watched Piers throw a cloth over Tempest’s back. The horse was such an elegant creature.The best stallion in my stable. He had taken his time to accept my presence in my father’s saddle however, having more than once discharged me in remote spots, or, even more unhappily, in front of an amused audience. Gilbert had advised me to beat the creature into submission, or to sell him to a knight as a warhorse – but I had noticed something about this stallion. He was a haughty creature who could sense fear in a man at twenty paces, but if I approached him with a confident stride and if I spoke calmly into his ear, then he would become amenable and cooperative enough. As long as I backed up my confidence and bravado with a sweet apple or a lump of hard cheese.
I smoothed down the glossy black hair of Tempest’s neck and drew myself up into his saddle, trying not to betray the slightest modicum of apprehension, even though I had seen the horse rearing in his stall as I approached. Piers was still a small boy and struggled to hold the creature’s reins, so it would have been more convenient for everybody if I had swapped Tempest for an easier horse. But this horse was an invaluable asset in my role as lord. He could be a performer. Even a spectacle. He gave me the last sprinkling of grandeur that was needed in my position.
A low sun shone through the grey of the clouds as I rode towards the village of Somershill. Wood anemones carpeted the forest floor in a sea of white, opening their faces to the sun in a brief dazzle of revelry before the leaves grew above their heads and blocked out their light. But spring kept its distance, and the air still smelt of snow. I pulled my fur cloak about me and made for the home of Geoffrey Hayward, the boy who had found baby Catherine.
It was somewhere to start my investigations at least.
The Haywards had once lived in one of the larger houses along the narrow road leading up to St Giles. An ox horn hung above their door – a crude instrument that his father used to blow if the cattle were invading the hay fields. The Haywards were all dead, apart from Geoffrey – a boy of thirteen who had often badgered me to appoint him to his father’s position – though he was far too young to take over such a responsibility. Despite his ambition, Geoffrey would have to wait for the role until he was older, as the hayward in Somershill usually leads the sowing in the demesne fields. I could not rely upon the older villagers to cooperate with such a young boy. Even so, I had given Geoffrey the responsibility of keeping the common pastures free of stray cattle, and of raising the alarm if the land was being used by strangers.
In truth, Geoffrey had taken this role too seriously and liked to come to me with almost daily reports on the state of the commons, until I had been forced to ask the boy not to bother me unless there was an actual problem. After this conversation, Geoffrey had shuffled out of the hall with his head hung low, causing me immediately to regret my rudeness, for I noticed Featherby smirking at the boy’s reprimand.The pleasure my reeve took from the boy’s disappointment so annoyed me that I made the mistake of telling Featherby to take note of the boy’s enthusiasm, for I was tempted to propose Geoffrey as reeve once he was old enough. It had been an imprudent threat, however – for later that day, Geoffrey was thrown into the mud of the cow field and soundly beaten. When I asked the boy to name his attacker, he resolutely maintained that he had not seen the man who had pushed his face into a great pat of cattle dung and then kicked him repeatedly in the ribs. But I knew who was guilty.
Geoffrey Hayward now lived in a cottage with Mary Cadebridge and her daughter Violet – a girl who had given birth to a bastard son following a liaison with a passing flagellant during the months of the Plague. The child was said to be sickly and cursed because of his mother’s sin, though whenever I saw the boy, he would be running about the street with legs as thick as small tree trunks and a face as wide as a dinner bowl. Now an orphan, Geoffrey earned his keep by making himself useful to the two
Cadebridge women, bringing them firewood, mending the roof and tending the virgate of land they farmed. I’m told that the Cadebridges made more than good use of the boy’s labours, but did not always reward him for his efforts. More than once he was forced to beg a meal from other members of the village.
It was Geoffrey’s intention to take back his family’s house, but he could not afford the rent and I had reluctantly let the tenancy go to the Pavenhams, a family who had moved to our estate in the autumn from Canterbury, having one elderly aunt already in Somershill. They had told me they were in need of a larger home, though they paid only half the rent that I had previously received from the Haywards. And given the behaviour of their youngest son, Felix – a boy constantly held before the manorial court for altering his boundaries and calling his neighbour’s wife a whore – I was more than a little sorry to have them as tenants. Still, as Father used to tell me, we must eat bread made of rye when the wheat is exhausted. I had no choice but to allow them residence.
When I knocked at the Cadebridges’ door, Geoffrey opened it to me with a smile and a low bow. I was pleased to see that his encounter with a cowpat and the sole of Featherby’s boot had not dampened his.enthusiasm for life. ‘Good morning, sire,’ he said eagerly. ‘Have you come for a report on the common pastures?’
Mary Cadebridge, seeing that it was my face at the door, pushed past young Geoffrey and curtsied. ‘Get away Geoffrey. Lord Somershill doesn’t want to hear one of your foolish reports.’ Violet’s young son now peeped around Mary’s legs and, seeing his opportunity for escape, made a dash for freedom into the street.
Mary screamed out loud. ‘Lord help us. How did little William get past you Geoffrey? You’re supposed to be looking after the child.’ By the look on Geoffrey’s face, it was obvious he had not realised that guarding William was his responsibility, though he said nothing to defend himself against the charge. I expect he had one mind to the provision of his supper that night. Mary ran into the street after the child, who was now bolting towards the church with impressive speed - his linen napkin trailing behind him in the mud.
Now we were alone, I turned to Geoffrey. ‘It’s you I wished to speak with. I believe you discovered Catherine Tulley’s body.’
He reddened and bowed again. ‘It was me. Yes.’
‘I would like you to show me where.’
‘Well of course, sire.’ Then he frowned. ‘But it’s across the common and the ground is wet.’
‘Can you ride with me?’
Geoffrey squinted uncomfortably, and then I remembered that he had sold his father’s horses in an attempt to keep the house. ‘There’s only Mistress Cadebridge’s pony,’ he said. ‘But I’m not allowed to ride Polly.’
By now Mary Cadebridge had returned to the house with the infant struggling and screaming with unbridled fury at his capture. As he yelled, I could see his two small white teeth that poked their way through his bottom gum like a pair of uneven gateposts.
‘Geoffrey will be using your pony for a while,’ I told the . woman, as she launched the boy back inside the cottage.
Mary bridled. ‘But he can’t ride properly, sire.’
‘Of course he can.’
‘But last time he mounted Polly he—’
‘Enough.’
She opened her mouth to argue, but soon shut it again. ‘Geoffrey is most welcome to ride Polly,’ she said with a curtsy. ‘I’m always pleased to oblige you, sire. You know that.’
I gave my best harrumph at this statement. ‘Then you should let the boy ride more often. Particularly as he’s sent to the market in Burrsfield.’ She went to object, but I held up my hand. ‘It’s a long way to return with a sack of flour over your shoulder. Wouldn’t you agree?’
She squeezed out a smile. ‘Indeed, sire.’
I told Geoffrey to saddle the pony, and then turned to leave, but not before the Cadebridge woman had jumped in front of me. ‘May I ask where you’re going, my lord?’ Once again she curtsied.
I regarded her for a moment. So unremittingly devout, and yet so staunchly unkind. ‘No,’ I said. ‘You may not.’
Chapter Five
March is not my favourite month, but I will say this, it is preferable to October and November when the world is decaying in front of your eyes. Autumn is the season of wet leaves and woodsmoke, when a bleakness takes hold of the land and squashes out the memory of summer. There are some people who claim to like the cold months, but I will never count myself among their sombre numbers. I wish, instead, that I were a hedgehog, able to sleep in a mound of dry leaves until the next spring – only waking when the new year grows some skin upon its bones.
As I rode beside Geoffrey this particular March morning, there was no promise of spring, only the shadow of the previous winter with its melancholy chill still hanging around like a beggar at the city gate. As Tempest ambled along, displaying a modicum of hostility to the smaller pony beside him, I turned my mind to the murder and tried to imagine who could have killed a small and innocent newborn child such as Catherine Tulley. What would be the point of such an act? She had hardly breathed a scrap of air, nor eaten a morsel of food. She could have formed no enemies nor made any friends. Her coming and going had been as brief and unnoticed as the mayfly’s.
A sadness washed through me and settled in my stomach.
Geoffrey trotted forwards to advise me that we would be taking a side path along the edge of the common, rather than the track that led diagonally across this higher land. In the distance a man with a stooped back herded his sheep away from us. A flock of peewits climbed into the sky and then tumbled towards the earth with their acrobatic dives. Cowslips waved their heads in the patches of soil where cattle had trodden the grass into muddy wounds.
Geoffrey stopped his pony beside a length of hedge and dismounted. ‘It was here, sire.That I found the baby.’ I had to forgive his youthful naivety, but he beamed with pride, as if he were announcing the location of a hidden chest of treasure.
‘Why were you on this side of the common?’ I asked. His face froze, so I attempted to smile at the boy and put him at his ease. ‘I only ask because the villagers tend to keep to the other side. I can see ragwort and thistles grow here.’
Geoffrey relaxed a little and wiped his face with a small gloved hand. The glove was made of soft leather and betrayed the former wealth of the boy’s family. ‘I was looking for a stray calf, sire,’ he said. ‘John Moore offered to pay me a penny if I could find the creature.’ And then his face returned to its usual level of eagerness. ‘I thought to check along the hedges to see if the beast had fallen into one of the ditches. Or perhaps it was caught in the blackthorn. Sometimes they do that.’ Then he bit his bottom lip and looked away. ‘I didn’t expect to find a baby, sire. Oh no, not at all. It was a horrible thing to find. I ran straight back to the village with her. I didn’t waste a moment.’
I threw my leg over my horse and dismounted. ‘Just show me exactly where you found her.’ Geoffrey scanned the hedge and then pointed to a blackthorn bush, dotted with small buds that were on the verge of breaking into white blossom.
‘Are you sure it was here?’ I asked. ‘There are so many other blackthorn bushes along this hedge.’
Geoffrey nodded nervously. ‘Oh yes, sire. It was here. I’m sure of it.’ But I was not so convinced. This hedgerow ran for many yards along this edge of the common, and one stretch looked exactly like another, being a patchwork of beech, hawthorn, and blackthorn.
I decided to change tack. ‘Describe what Catherine looked like when you found her.’
I would say Geoffrey grimaced at this question. But then who likes to recall such a discovery? ‘Her body was pushed onto the thorns,’ he told me.
‘And she was definitely dead?’
‘Oh yes, sire. The butcher bird never skewers a living thing onto a spike. I’ve seen them do it before. They kill the young of other birds, while they are newly hatched and naked.’
I groaned. ‘There is no giant but
cher bird, Geoffrey. And you know it.’
He bit his lip again and looked to the grass, his cheeks as coloured as the petals of a dog rose. ‘But I’ve seen it, sire. Soaring over the meadows.’
‘Of course you haven’t.’
‘It’s taken lambs. Ask Silas.’
‘Lambs? Are you sure?’
Now he backtracked. ‘Well.They’ve gone missing.’
‘And a fox is not suspected?’
He shook his head, but not with conviction.
I put my arm upon his. ‘You’ve learnt to read, haven’t you Geoffrey?’
He looked up at me. ‘Oh yes sire. I was to attend the Grey Friars school in Maidstone. If—’Then he took a deep breath and appeared to be holding back a tear.
I chose not to answer this. What was I to say? Nobody could have predicted this present from the recent past. If the Plague had not warped the world, then I would be a monk and Geoffrey would be at school with a prosperous family to support his studies. Instead he was an orphan, and I was a lord. But his situation did not excuse his ignorance. He was spending too much time around the fools in the village and needed to recommence his education. ‘Come up to the manor house Geoffrey. I can let you read some of my books.’
‘Thank you, sire. Thank you.’ His gratitude was almost overwhelming, and now faced with such desperate fawning, I almost regretted having made the offer.
I put my hand upon his shoulder in the hope of calming his spirits. ‘Now tell me about finding the child. I want to know every detail.’
