The Butcher Bird

by S. D. Sykes

  Geoffrey looked into the sky. ‘It was morning. Two days ago. I had been up since dawn, as Mistress Cadebridge asks me to sweep out the fire and to roll up my straw mattress before she rises from bed. She doesn’t like me to come up to the common, as she thinks I’m doing it to get out of minding little William. But I have to remind her that you yourself, sire, Lord Somershill, have requested that I supervise the pastures.’

  I have met many windbags in my time, though few have been as young as Geoffrey. Expanding a story to the point of boredom seems to be a learnt quality, and none are better at it than the elderly. But Geoffrey was proving my theory wrong. ‘Please keep to the facts,’ I said.

  He coloured again. ‘Oh yes. Of course. It was just after dawn. The moon was still visible in the sky. And there was a hoar frost on the branches. I was looking for the calf, but something caught my eye in the bushes. It was a red woollen shawl. But something was wrapped inside.’ He hesitated. ‘It was the baby.’

  ‘I thought you said she was skewered onto the thorns of a bush?’

  He bit his nails. ‘She was in a shawl . . . but pushed into the thorns.’

  ‘Hardly the work of a butcher bird, then?’ The boy blinked nervously. ‘And this shawl. Was it red with blood?’

  ‘No sire.The cloth had been coloured with madder root. It was as bright as a newly dyed cape.’ Then Geoffrey leant into the bush and pulled a small fragment of fluff from one of the thorns. I had noticed it earlier, but had dismissed it as the wrinkled skin of an old rosehip. ‘This is from the shawl,’ he told me. ‘It must have got stuck in the bush when I pulled her from it. You can see how red it is.’

  I held the fragile skein between my fingers and took a deep breath. ‘Tell me, Geoffrey. When you opened the shawl, was Catherine’s body rigid or slack?’

  He grimaced and for once remained silent.

  ‘It’s important. Please. Try to remember.’

  He wiped his eye. ‘Her poor little body felt stiff, sire.’

  So Catherine had not been murdered immediately before Geoffrey’s discovery of her body. I knew this must be true, since I had often dealt with corpses at the infirmary. It took a couple of hours for stiffness to set in after death. Sometimes a dead body could then remain rigid for another day, making it difficult for me to prepare them for the grave. I turned back to Geoffrey. ‘Did her body smell at all?’

  Another unpleasant question.The boy shook his head. ‘Only of babies. The way little William can smell. Sort of sickly.’

  ‘And you took her body straight back to Somershill?’ He nodded. ‘And when you passed the dead child to her mother, what happened?’

  ‘Mary Tulley cried, sire. She was very sad.’

  ‘And Thomas Tulley? ‘

  ‘He raised the hue and cry at once.’

  ‘And they were looking for John Barrow?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Nobody else?’

  Geoffrey began to pick at the stitching to his glove. ‘John Barrow went missing before Catherine was taken. And he had begot the . . .’ Geoffrey’s words trailed away to silence.

  ‘And what time did Catherine go missing?’

  ‘The night before, I think.’

  ‘Mistress Tulley told me that the infant had been taken while she was helping with the ploughing. That would have been during the day.’

  Geoffrey stepped nervously from foot to foot. ‘I must be mistaken then, sire. Perhaps it’s only when I heard the news.’

  ‘Perhaps?’

  I had only a couple more questions for the boy, which was fortunate since Tempest was beginning to paw at the soil. ‘Did you see anybody else around here?’ I said.

  ‘When, sire?’

  ‘When you found the baby in the bushes, of course?’ My patience was being strained. Why was answering a few simple questions so difficult?

  Geoffrey ran his fingers across his forehead. ‘There was something, sire. I didn’t want to tell anybody at the time. I thought perhaps I was dreaming.’

  ‘Please tell me, Geoffrey.’

  The boy had removed one of his gloves and was now picking at the fine stitching in the other. I wondered that Mistress Cadebridge had not taken these garments from the boy, as she had appropriated most of his other possessions in the name of Christian charity. ‘I thought I heard wailing,’ he said.

  ‘The wailing of a man or a woman?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ Then he looked up sharply. ‘I’m not lying, sire.’

  ‘I’m not saying you are. But it’s normally easy to tell the sex of a voice.’ Geoffrey was continuing to frustrate me. I didn’t believe him to be a liar, but he was an exaggerator. An actor, happy to have some currency to trade, if only a few crumbs of evidence.

  He reddened. ‘Perhaps it was just the call of the peewits?They are singing now for their mates.’ And just as he said this, a pair of the birds fell from the sky in their spectacular rolling dive. The calls not unlike the lament of a person.

  ‘But you saw nobody?’

  He put his thumb to his lips and bit at the fingernail. ‘That’s right, sire. I didn’t.’

  The library at Somershill is always a cold room, having a large north-facing window and no fire. I only usually frequent the room in the spring and summer when I’m able to breathe out and not create my own personal miasma. This last winter the tapestry of the three-headed dragon had grown a whitish mould. I touched the cloth to find it damp, giving off an odour that smelt like rotten fruit and the must of a mushroom. I would have strayed back into the great hall, but today the chamber was full of servants as they gathered about the fire, sewing up the loose seams in their tunics and patching up the holes in their leather shoes. I had given permission for them to remain indoors as a late frost had made little else possible on the farm. I noticed Piers the stableboy huddling up towards Ada as if she were his own mother. As she tenderly showed the boy how to thread a latten needle and then draw it through a piece of cloth, his face blushed and broke into a smile.

  I closed the door of the library on this scene of contentment as it made me feel lonely and unloved. Sitting at Brother Peter’s old stool, I took out a book that I had asked Ada to sew me that morning from a selection of parchment squares. It was a rough and primitive thing, but sufficient for my purposes. I would write down what I had discovered thus far regarding the death of Catherine Tulley, to see if the information made any sense. I was reviewing my findings – with no particular conclusions being drawn – when Featherby knocked at the door and walked straight in without my permission.

  ‘What is it?’ I asked. He had disturbed my train of thought.

  He stalked over towards me, his hat held in his hands. I quickly stood up.

  ‘We need to discuss the wages, sire. I’m having such problems with the men.’ He looked embarrassed for once. ‘You see—’

  And then, before he had the chance to continue, we were interrupted by a second intruder. This time it was Piers. Featherby turned on the boy. ‘What is it? We’re having an important discussion here.’

  Piers trembled. ‘I thought Lord Somershill would want to know this.’

  ‘What is it?’ I asked, irritated both by these disruptions, and Featherby’s assumption that it was his role to chastise the

  Piers gave a short bow. ‘Sire.There’s news from Versey Castle.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘There’s a messenger in the hall. He will only speak to you personally.’

  As I went to leave the library, Featherby had the audacity to stand in my path. ‘But what about the wages, my lord?’

  I swerved around him. ‘We’ll discuss this another time.’

  Following Piers out of the library, I found the messenger from Versey to be none other than Clemence’s stooped and dirty servant, John Slow. He was gathered with the others about the fire and was giving his strongly held opinions on how to darn a heel in a woollen hose. As I approached, he performed his customary flinch.

  I cleared my throat and waited for h
im to drop his hands from his face. ‘I understand that you have come with news from Versey?’

  ‘Yes, sire.’

  I waited, hoping that the man would have the sense to continue the story, but he only looked at me with a stare so vacant that I wondered if he were having a dream. ‘And? What is your news?’ I said at last. ‘Does it concern Lady Clemence?’

  The man focussed his gaze and juddered into reality. ‘Ah yes, sire. She has given birth to a boy.’ The other servants exclaimed their delight at this news, though not one of them cared in the least for my sister.

  ‘When was the baby born?’ I asked.

  Now Slow screwed up his face. Was this such a difficult question to answer? ‘Come on Slow. When was the child born?’

  An expression of enlightenment flickered across his face. ‘It was yesterday morning, sire. I was sent immediately to tell you.’ ‘It’s taken you over a day to get here?’

  He nodded vigorously. ‘Yes. I had to walk.’

  ‘Why didn’t they give you a pony to ride?’

  ‘I can’t ride.’ He then smiled. A toothy and lopsided expression that was entirely disconcerting. ‘My legs are too wide apart,’ he said, pointing to his groin. ‘See. I can’t grip the barrel of the beast. I keep sliding off.’

  Some of my servants began to laugh, so I held up my hand to prevent Slow offering any further insights into the deficiency of his anatomy. ‘Why didn’t my mother send a messenger who could ride a horse?’

  He shrugged.

  ‘Is there anything else you need to tell me?’

  He opened his mouth in astonishment, but if I was expecting a further piece of news to follow, I was to be disappointed, for the fool simply pointed to the mitten that lay in Piers’s lap. ‘You can’t sew a glove like that.’

  Now I did grab Slow. And I will admit to shaking him. But it was only the once, and it was gentle – though anybody would think, given the way he flung himself onto the floor, that I had assaulted him with a horsewhip. When he stopped shaking, I offered him my hand, and pulled him up. ‘I’m sorry, sire. I’m sorry. I won’t do it again, sire. I won’t do it again.’

  To stop his shaking, I rested my hand very gently upon his arm, making sure not to move too quickly and alarm the man’s sensitive nerves. I even contemplated an apology, but remembered the disquiet that such acts of deference could cause in my servants. Instead I spoke calmly. ‘Please, Slow. Is there any other news that you have been asked to give me?’

  He scratched his head. ‘Well, yes. There is, sire.’

  ‘And?’

  He paused. ‘Lady Clemence is dangerously ill.’

  ‘She is?’

  ‘Yes. The infant was very large. They say she will die.’

  Chapter Six

  Irode with all haste to Versey, angry that Mother had sent such a deficient messenger as John Slow to tell me the news. If my sister were already dead by the time I reached the castle, I would take great issue with her mistake.

  Versey loomed through the fog as I galloped out of the forest and down into the valley where the de Caburn family had built their home centuries ago. The grass was still frosted, and the air smelt of wood ash and the pine tar of the small boats that were moored by the moat.The old-fashioned drawbridge was raised as if my mother and sister were expecting an attack, so I had to call for it to be lowered so that I might gain entry to the inner bailey, where I left my horse with a servant and made straight for Clemence’s bedchamber. I was told that she clung onto life by the frailest of threads.

  I found Mother sitting outside the door to the ladies’ bedchamber, on the high-backed chair that her dead son-in-law Walter de Caburn had used at the dining table. She looked up on seeing me, but did not stand. ‘At last, Oswald. We thought you were never coming.’

  ‘If you had sent a messenger who could ride a horse, then I might have been here sooner.’

  She waved her hand in front of her face and slumped further back into the chair with a sigh. ‘That’s a silly excuse, Oswald.’ I went to argue, but she seemed so despondent that there was no point.

  I went to open the door to the ladies’ bedchamber, but now Mother leapt out of her chair and stood in the way. ‘I wouldn’t go in there, Oswald. The place smells like a latrine.’

  ‘I want to see Clemence.’

  Mother bit her bottom lip. ‘Just remember your sister as she was.’ I went to push her away, but she stood her ground, placing an arm across my path. ‘A foul miasma infects that chamber, Oswald. If you enter, your lungs will harden. The air is poisoned.’

  This description was enough to prompt a moment’s hesitation. ‘Is Clemence alone in there?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, no. That dunderhead Humbert is in there, of course. Though the fool does nothing but sob by her feet. And there’s—’ Then she hesitated, wrung her hands and looked to the ceiling. I would say she seemed embarrassed.

  I suddenly felt suspicious. ‘Who else is in there, Mother?’

  ‘Nobody. Well not really—’

  ‘Who is it?’

  She licked her thin lips. ‘Actually, it’s my physician.’

  I gasped. ‘Not Roger de Waart?’

  She sat up stiffly. ‘There’s nothing wrong with Master de Waart, Oswald. He’s—’

  I pushed past Mother’s arm and opened the door to find a chamber just as stinking and foul as she had described. Thick tapestries had been hung at the window to block out the light, while a pungent steam rose from a pan on the fire. Mother slammed the door behind me, and for a moment it was difficult to discern exactly who was in the chamber. Then a figure emerged from the shadows. A tall and thin man with the pointed beak-like nose of a seagull.

  ‘Who’s there?’ he said. ‘You will agitate Lady Versey with such a loud entrance.’ It was de Waart, wagging his skeletal finger in my direction. His accent was from the Low Countries, though I had always suspected a certain affectation to its lisp, as if this might justify the. extra penny he added onto his charges.This man had ministered to me as a child, feeding me purgatives with excessive regularity. I had escaped his eye at seven, but had frequently taken over the care of de Waart’s patients at the abbey infirmary – poor souls who had been nearly poisoned to death by his experimental methods. Mother knew my opinion of him, which now explained why she had chosen the slowest messenger to bring me news of the birth.

  I pulled back a corner of the tapestry to let some light into the chamber. De Waart covered his eyes with his hands and cowered as if he had never seen the sun. His skin was still as sickly and pale as I remembered, as if his whole head had been moulded out of hoof jelly. I couldn’t help but think, in my boyishly stupid way, that de Waart was such an appropriate name for the man, for he had a face full of raised moles that clustered like ticks about the crevices of his nostrils.

  ‘Pull that back,’ he said. ‘The light will damage my lady’s skin.’

  ‘Of course it won’t.’

  His hands remained in front of his eyes. ‘Who are you?’

  I pulled the tapestry from the window in a dramatic gesture. In fact, it was spectacular enough for de Waart to let out a gasp. How I thanked Providence for allowing this performance to go so well, as I would have looked very foolish if the cloth had remained fixed to the window.

  De Waart bowed obsequiously. ‘Lord Somershill. I do apologise. I did not realise it was you.’

  I ignored this insincere act of contrition and looked about the room to see Clemence lying silently in the bed with her eyes closed, while her faithful servant Humbert held her hand in his own. The large boy turned neither to look at the light, nor me. Instead he maintained his unerring gaze upon my sister’s face – a face that was as pinched and drawn as a corpse’s. As I reached the bed, the unpleasant scent from the boiling pan gave way to the acrid, smacking stink of a pissing alley.

  I turned to de Waart. ‘Why does Lady Clemence smell so bad? Have you allowed her to wet the bed?’

  ‘My lady must stay perfectly still.’<
br />
  ‘Why?’

  ‘She must not move. It will allow the birth fever to settle and dissipate.’ He then made a great show of pointing out how he had raised the bed below Clemence’s head with a square of wood, so that the frame might be inclined by a shallow angle. ‘See how the heat will descend towards her feet, leaving her lungs and heart to cool.’

  I leant over my sister, only to find the smell was even more pungent at close quarters, except now the reek of urine was mixed with the unmistakeable odour of night soil.

  ‘Have you allowed Lady Versey to shit in the bed, as well?’ I said.

  ‘Of course not, sire. She was administered a purgative before she took to her rest.’

  ‘Then what is that stink?’

  De Waart clasped his hands together unctuously and bowed his head with a smile. I could see he was proud of the answer. ‘It is a remedy I have prepared especially.’ He moved over to my sister’s side, pushed Humbert’s hand away and then pulled back the blanket to reveal Clemence’s linen nightgown, a garment that was stained with a large and watery brown circle.

  I reeled back, for this stink was stinging to the nostrils. ‘By God, what is that?’ I asked, now holding my nose as I attempted once again to approach my sister.

  De Waart gave another of his self-satisfied smiles, revealing a front tooth, which was grey. ‘It is a tincture mixed with vinegar.’

  ‘What sort of tincture?’

  ‘I prefer badger droppings. But I was somewhat short of that ingredient, so I have mixed it with horse dung. It will have the same efficacy.’

  I dropped my hand from my nose. ‘Efficacy to do what, exactly?’ ‘It will draw the fever from my lady’s chest.’

  ‘I thought you were draining the fever into her feet?’

  As we spoke Clemence stirred for the first time, emitting the faintest of moans and then opening her eyes to regard me desperately. I went to touch her, but Humbert blundered past and grabbed her hand before I was able. She asked feebly for something to drink, but Humbert only dabbed a small sponge into a mug of ale and then held it to her dried lips.