The Butcher Bird

by S. D. Sykes

  I felt empty and nauseated. ‘Get away from me,’ I said, though Agnes remained exactly where she was – so close that I could see the warp and weft of her tunic.

  ‘What do you think drives a woman to kill her own child?’ she whispered to me.

  ‘Evil.’

  She poked her finger into my arm. ‘Shall I tell you? It’s hunger and poverty. The type that is everywhere about this pathetic estate. Your estate.’

  ‘That’s no excuse for what you’ve done.’

  ‘Most women just starve their infants in such circumstances. Did you know that? They just leave them in a corner to die. But that’s a long and painful death, wouldn’t you agree?’

  Now I really felt sick.

  ‘Mary and Christina brought their babies to me instead. Will you condemn them for such an act of kindness?’

  ‘I don’t call murder a kindness. You poisoned two infants and left them in a bush. You wanted people to believe they had been killed by some sort of bird. You wanted them to blame John Barrow.’

  She locked her eyes onto mine, and this time I was unable to look away. ‘Barrow was going to kill himself sooner or later. I felt no guilt. He came to me often enough for deadly poison.’ Then she laughed. ‘Though I wouldn’t help him.’

  ‘Why not? You would kill two babies, but not a grown man?’

  ‘He was a madman. I could not trust him to keep his mouth shut before he died.’

  ‘Whereas an infant can tell nobody?’

  She turned away from me. ‘You have no understanding of our lives. In your great house. With your servants, and your kitchens full of food. You cannot see that a butcher bird haunts this place.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  She sneered at me. ‘It is a creature that feeds upon the weak and vulnerable. But it has no wings and it cannot fly.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘It is a cruel and wicked thing. With gold and land. But it will not share these gifts from God. Instead it keeps its men as slaves. Slaves that it will not free from bondage. It lets them starve.’

  I felt her breath upon my face. It was icy cold and so caustic I could taste its bile in the back of my throat. ‘Get away from me,’ I said.

  ‘Mary and I are not murderers, sire. It is you. You who drove these women to kill their babies.’

  I cringed away from her. ‘No. That’s not true. I didn’t.’

  ‘But you did. There is a butcher bird in Somershill.You.’

  I galloped home, and after lying in my bed and staring at my canopy for many hours, I searched out Featherby.

  He opened the door of his cottage to me with a self-satisfied face. ‘Yes, sire? Come to beg me to stay on the estate, have you?’

  I ignored this remark. ‘I’ve decided to raise the men’s wages,’ I told him.

  He was taken aback by my words. ‘I see. But I thought—’

  I straightened my gown. ‘I’ve listened to your arguments, Featherby. About losing men to other estates. And I’m convinced we must act. Regardless of the Statute.’

  He poked his tongue about his cheeks. ‘I thought you wouldn’t break the law.’

  ‘I’ve changed my mind.’

  He frowned. ‘If you’re sure.’

  I cleared my throat. ‘We’ll record the men’s wages at the lawful level in the ledgers, but secretly we’ll pay them more. That way, our accounts will be in order when Hatcher visits.’

  Featherby raised his eyebrow. ‘It’s a risk, of course. If the men talk.’

  I stepped towards Featherby and made myself as tall as I was able. I would tell you I even loomed over the man. ‘Then make sure they don’t.’

  Epilogue

  Two months later I was throwing a ball about the orchard with Mary and Becky, when Clemence’s carriage came into view across the field.

  Mary dropped the ball like a stinging beetle. ‘I didn’t know my stepmother was visiting,’ she said, clasping my hand. Becky bolted into the distance and climbed a tree.

  ‘Neither did I,’ I told Mary.

  The girl began to cry. ‘She hates me.’

  ‘No, she doesn’t,’ I said.

  Her lip trembled. ‘She’ll never forgive me.’

  Unfortunately this was difficult to deny.

  I sent both girls to the ladies’ bedchamber and told them to change into fitted gowns and surcoats. In recent weeks I had allowed them to roam about Somershill in their simple woollen tunics, so that they could climb walls and run around in the fields. This privilege had restored some of their former happiness, and at times they seemed like the children of old. But I did not want my sister to see them in their rough clothes. I could not stand to hear her words of disapproval.

  Once Clemence was seated at my chair in the solar, I tentatively asked the reason for this unexpected visit. ‘Can’t a sister visit her brother?’ she said.

  ‘Of course. I’m pleased to see you.’ Baby Henry bounced upon her knee, as fat as a suckling pig. At her shoulder, Humbert stared into space, never more than a few feet from his mistress.

  ‘Where’s Mother?’ she asked.

  ‘She’s gone on a pilgrimage to Canterbury. To thank God for the return of Henry.’

  Clemence smiled at me. At least I took it to be friendly, for the line between a smile and a sneer from Clemence was only the breadth of a hair. ‘It’s not God we should thank for Henry’s return.’ She leant forward and squeezed my knee. ‘It’s you.’

  I coloured a little. It was rare to receive a compliment from my sister. Then I instinctively touched the scars on my forehead – the holes that had been marked in my skin by Humbert’s attack.

  Clemence noticed this and looked sheepish. ‘It’s healed well.’

  ‘I think the skin will scar.’

  Her face now soured a little. ‘Have the grace to accept my apology, Oswald,’ she said, a little crossly.

  Gilbert shuffled into the room with a tankard of ale, which he handed to Clemence as uncouthly as if she were a farmhand. He was, no doubt, as irritated as ever by the lack of notice he had received regarding guests.

  ‘I see our valet remains as bad-tempered as a boar pig,’ said Clemence, when the man had lumbered back out of the chamber.

  ‘He’s been complaining of toothache. And the girls wear him out.’

  Clemence looked to Humbert. ‘Oh yes. My stepdaughters. How are the child-snatchers?’

  ‘Don’t say that, Clemence. Mary’s sorry for what she did.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘Have the grace to accept an apology, Clemence.’

  She looked at me and smiled. Her complexion was recovering some of its colour, now Henry was being weaned onto solid food. I would say she was fresh-faced, even handsome.

  ‘You think I should just forget what happened?’ she said. ‘That my stepdaughters abducted my son and tried to drop him onto a waterwheel?’

  ‘No, Clemence,’ I sighed. ‘But you should try to forgive them.’

  She smacked her lips and took a deep breath. ‘Very well.’ Then she clapped her hands. ‘Please call for Mary. I wish to speak with her.’ *

  I eyed her suspiciously. ‘Why?’

  Clemence wriggled in her chair. ‘To offer forgiveness, of course.’

  I left the chamber to find Mary myself, rather than call for a servant to do the job, since I knew the girl would not want to attend an interview with her stepmother. In the end, Mary only agreed to come into the solar if I promised to hold her hand.

  Clemence gave a curt smile as we entered. ‘Good day to you, Mary. Are you and your sister well?’

  Mary curtsied, though her hand trembled in mine. ‘Yes, Stepmother. Thank you.’

  Clemence left a long and deliberate silence. ‘Would you like to see your brother, Mary?’ she said at last, indicating that Mary was allowed to approach the baby in her arms.

  Mary froze, but I pushed her forward gently. ‘Don’t be frightened,’ I whispered.

  She edged forw
ard with her eyes to the floor until she reached Henry, and when she looked upon his face it seemed she was about to burst into tears.

  Clemence stood up quickly and thrust the baby into Mary’s arms, before the girl had the opportunity to cry. ‘I’d like you to take Henry for a walk in the orchard, Mary.’

  Mary’s eye twitched. A strand of blonde hair was stuck to the skin of her lip, and though she tried to say something, not a word came out.

  ‘Go on,’ said Clemence. ‘Hurry up. I need to speak to your uncle.’ The girl held tightly onto the baby and walked to the door. ‘Be sure not to drop him, Mary,’ warned Clemence. ‘And keep his shawl about his chest. Henry feels the cold.’

  With Mary gone, I grasped Clemence and kissed her. ‘Thank you, sister. This will make Mary very happy.’

  She scowled. ‘Maybe.’ Then she turned to Humbert, who had remained at her shoulder. ‘Follow that girl every moment,’ she told the boy. ‘Don’t let her out of your sight.’

  I went to object, but Clemence put a finger on my lips. ‘Let me deal with this on my own terms, Oswald. Henry is my child.’

  Once we were alone, Clemence stood up and walked to the squint, where she watched Humbert follow Mary out of the great hall below. She smiled. ‘Humbert is so very fond of Henry.’ Her tone was sweet and gentle.

  ‘Yes,’ I said.

  She spun on her heel and fixed me with a glare. ‘So you believe the story then, do you?’ Her dark eyes flashed.

  ‘What story’s that?’ I lied.

  ‘Come on Oswald.The story that I lay with Humbert.To conceive a child after my husband was murdered.’

  ‘No,’ I said, though my tone was less than convincing.

  ‘But you think that Henry looks like Humbert, don’t you?’

  I scratched at my cheek. ‘I hadn’t really thought about it, Clemence.’ I was lying again.

  ‘Don’t take me for a fool, Oswald!’

  I stood up to leave. ‘I think you should return to Versey after a meal, Clemence.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘This is my house. And I don’t care to be spoken to in such a manner.’

  ‘This is not your house.’

  ‘Yes it is!’ I opened the door to show her out. ‘This is Somershill. And I am Lord Somershill. So you will not speak to me again in that tone.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘You have Versey, Clemence. And your son will have Versey. I made that promise to you. So, let me tell you this. I don’t care who Henry’s father is.’ I ushered her to the door. ‘Come on.Time to take a rest, I think. Your temper needs sweetening.’

  She pushed me away. ‘Close the door, Oswald.’

  ‘No.’

  She sighed. ‘Please, Oswald. I apologise. I didn’t come here to argue with you.’

  ‘Then what is your purpose?’

  ‘I wanted to talk to you about Humbert.’

  ‘As I just said, Clemence, I don’t care if Humbert is Henry’s father. That is entirely your own business.’

  She shut the door herself, and looked about the room to make sure we were completely alone. ‘Please listen to me, Oswald.This is your business. It’s important to both of us.’ I had rarely seen Clemence so animated.

  My interest was piqued.

  ‘Henry does look like Humbert,’ she whispered. ‘That can’t be denied. But there is a good reason for it.’

  ‘What reason is that?’

  She remained silent.

  ‘Is he the child’s father?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘Then the similarity is a coincidence.’

  She shook her head again. ‘No. It’s not.’ She hesitated. ‘They are related.’

  I frowned. ‘What?’

  ‘Please come away from the door, and I’ll tell you. We must talk quietly.’

  We sat together on the bench by the window that Mother used to insist we both squeezed onto as children. For the most part Clemence had appeared to hate me in those days. But sometimes, when my older brothers, William and Richard, had pinched my ear or stolen my shoes, she would secretly donate me a sugarplum to make amends. If they had locked me in the cellar, then Clemence was the one to let me out. If they beat me, she was the one to chase them away. But I was never allowed to be her friend, no matter how often I tried to slip my hand into hers. I was not even allowed to thank her with a kiss, for risk of receiving an even harder pinch than my brothers had dispensed.

  ‘I questioned Peter about Thomas Starvecrow’s coffin. When I had him imprisoned in the dungeon,’ she told me. ‘The child was not dead after all.’

  ‘I know. Peter gave the infant to a travelling knife grinder,’ I said.

  Clemence seemed surprised by this. ‘So you asked him as well?’

  ‘You imprisoned us both in a cell. Remember? Of course I asked him.’

  ‘Did he tell you the name of the knife grinder?’

  ‘No. He said he couldn’t remember.’

  ‘And you believed him?’ Her eyes darted about my face.

  ‘I had other matters on my mind, Clemence. Henry had just been taken. Your manservant had just assaulted me with a rock.’

  She waved this point away. ‘I made Peter give me a name.’

  ‘You tortured him?’

  She touched her hand to mine, and didn’t answer this accusation. ‘I found the knife grinder, Oswald. Only last week. Nineteen years later.’

  ‘And the boy? What happened to him?’

  ‘He was dumped back at Somershill when he was seven years old. Left in the hay barn, because they considered him stupid and too expensive to feed.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘Humbert.’

  ‘Yes. The true Oswald de Lacy. The true Lord Somershill.’ ‘And he is Henry’s uncle. A blood relative.’

  She nodded. ‘Which explains their resemblance.’

  ‘Does Humbert know any of this?’

  She shook her head. ‘No.’

  I saw my whole world dissolving onto the floor, like a doom painting being washed from the lime plaster of the church. ‘We should tell him, Clemence. Perhaps he already suspects?’

  Now she laughed at me. ‘Of course he doesn’t.’

  ‘But he’s not as simple as they say.’ I thought back to the day when I had overheard the boy’s lullaby.

  ‘Humbert is kind. He is brave. But he couldn’t be Lord Somershill. You know that.’

  ‘Do I?’

  She squeezed my hand. ‘I haven’t always treated you kindly, have I?’

  This show of affection was making me suspicious. ‘No.’

  ‘Listen to me, Oswald. You are more of a brother to me than Richard and William ever were.’

  I couldn’t help but frown. ‘Do you mean that?’

  She squeezed my hand again. ‘In these last months you have saved my life. You then saved the life of my child. I’ve seen true nobility in you, brother.’ Now she whispered into my ear. ‘It is not blood that makes a lord. Oswald. It is heart.’

  We sat in silence and listened to Humbert’s sweet singing from the garden.

  Historical Note

  In the late 1340s the pandemic, now known as the Black Death, swept westwards across Europe from the Mongolian Steppes – reaching the south coast of England in 1348. For the next two years this plague killed an estimated half of the population, causing fear, panic and despair as it spread across the country. In those years the Plague was seen as a retribution from God. A punishment for sinners. People understood it was contagious, but had no idea about the link between the disease and the rat population. This link was only properly understood in the late nineteenth century, when the bacillus yersinia pestis was identified – a bacteria carried in the digestory tract of infected rat fleas.

  In the years of the Black Death the Plague took two main forms: the Bubonic Plague, which infects the lymphatic system of the victim via a flea bite, causing boil-like buboes to form in the groin and armpits; and the Pneumonic Plague, when the bacillus enters the body via
the respiratory system. It is now believed that it was the Pneumonic Plague, rather than the Bubonic Plague, that was responsible for such a high mortality rate. The pneumonic form was easily spread, rather like flu, via coughing and close contact. It progressed quickly through a population that lived in cramped conditions and didn’t properly understand sanitation. The pneumonic form of the Plague was always fatal.

  The effect on society of losing one half of the population was immense. After the many months of misery and despair, the survivors of this nightmare found the world to be a different place. Particularly the poorest people in society – the families living in the rural estates and farms of England.

  England had been ruled by Norman-style feudalism since the invasion of 1066. The land was divided into estates or manors, which were owned ultimately by the Crown or by the Church; but which, at a practical level, were controlled by a lord or a monastery.

  There were two types of labourers in these manors – the free and the unfree. The ‘unfree’ or ‘villeins’ were bound to the estate and had many aspects of their lives controlled – such as who they could marry and where they could live. They rented land in return for providing labour in the lord’s fields. The ‘free’ were tenants on the estate. They also rented land from the lord, but didn’t suffer the same restrictions on their movement and conduct. These tenants were often expected to work in the lord’s fields as part of their tenancy agreement – but they were paid for their work. I should say the above is a rather simplistic explanation of feudalism – it was a complex and varied arrangement. For example there were tenants who provided labour for free as part of their tenancy, and a villein might be paid for his or her labour, at the lord’s discretion. But, broadly speaking, this definition held true.

  The Black Death put a great fist into the face of feudalism, however. The lords of England were suddenly, and very chronically, short of labour. In some rural communities, as the population was reduced by nearly seventy per cent, there simply were not enough men and women left to work the land, and slowly the labour market became subject to supply and demand, in a way it had never previously been. Put plainly, workers were able to demand higher wages.

  The Plague had provided the lowest classes of people with a new advantage. It gave them a new confidence, a new voice. Not only were they demanding to be paid more, they were also asking for freedom from villeinage. Left with fields that needed harvesting, and livestock that needed tending – the lords and abbots of England were suddenly forced to acquiesce to these demands or risk losing their workforce to a nearby lord who would.