by S. D. Sykes
Also by S D Sykes
The Butcher Bird
Plague Land
City of Masks
The Bone Fire
S D Sykes
www.hodder.co.uk
First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Hodder & Stoughton
An Hachette UK company
Copyright © S D Sykes 2019
The right of S D Sykes to be identified as the Author of the
Work has been asserted by her in accordance with
the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any
means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be
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imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance
to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
eBook ISBN 978 1 473 68001 2
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‘Cito, longe, tarde’
‘Fly quickly, go far, return slowly’
The counsel of Hippocrates, at the first news of plague
For Mum
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Epilogue
Glossary
Author’s notes
Acknowledgements
December 1361
To the finder of this letter,
If you are reading this, then I am dead. Taken by plague. If your nose does not lead you directly to my body, then look in the chamber beyond the curtain – for this is where I shall go to die. I would ask you to bury me, as this will give comfort to my family, but I shall not condemn you for taking the other option. These are wretched, savage times, and I know why the fires blaze and the bones burn.
If you have the heart to place my body in the soil, then wrap me in my cloak and bury me alongside the other graves in the ground behind this cottage. Elsewhere the soil is hard and icy, and will not yield to the spade.
If you are well yourself, then I beg you to take this letter to Castle Eden, as my wife must know my fate. She will not thank you for this news, but she will reward you for your service. You may look upon my decaying, corrupted body and see a poor man who has died in this lonely place, but you should know this. My name was once Oswald de Lacy, Lord of the Somershill estate.
Chapter One
Our party left Somershill in the November of 1361, as soon as we heard that plague had crossed the river Darent. There were five of us – myself, my wife, son, and mother, and just a single servant, my valet, a boy named Sandro. I chose the plainest cart and the sturdiest pony from my stables, and we left with enough food and drink for the whole winter, or so we hoped. I expected every last grain of barley and every last cup of wine to be consumed before we returned to Somershill in the spring – for we were retreating from the world. Heading to a place that was far away and difficult to reach. Somewhere that plague could not find us.
We made good speed on our first day. The roads were dry and empty as we headed south, and we found rooms easily enough at an inn near Battle Abbey. But our luck ran out on the following day as we reached the coast at Tenterden. It was here that the weather turned against us. A spiteful wind had arisen in the English Channel, and then gathered malice as it crossed the vast salt marsh between us and the open sea. We were heading for an island within this marsh – a stretch of land that rises from the waters like the long back of a sleeping sea monster. The Isle of Eden cannot be reached at low tide with a cart, as the muds are too treacherous to cross with a heavy vehicle. At high tide, there is only one way to traverse the short channel of sea – aboard a wide-bottomed ferry. But the ferryman would not consider setting off that day. The waves were too high, and the wind was too strong. And so we were forced to stay another night, at another inn, waiting for some respite from the storm.
It was little better the next morning. The wind still blew in from the sea in icy, piercing bursts, and the waves still assailed the coast in long, diagonal lines – but we could not afford to wait any longer. Knowing that plague was chasing our tails, I offered the ferryman more than twice the usual fee to make the crossing. He agreed to this, but warned me that the passage would be rough – and he had not lied. The ferry rocked and creaked in the swell, as the storm grew in intensity. Above us the sky was invaded by black clouds, surging towards land like the fists of an angry god. As the rain fell in long and heavy strikes, I felt sick, cold and wet, and so I kept my eyes ahead, trying to think about where we were going and not what we had left behind.
The Isle of Eden is only six miles long by three miles wide, with few inhabitants other than a collection of tenant farmers. The sweetest apples grow here. The fattest walnuts and the ripest grapes, as the soil is usually warmed by the sea and sheltered by a succession of folding valleys. On my previous visits, the island had always lived up to its name – a true Garden of Eden. And yet, today, the island ahead of us was shrouded by an ominous, swollen gathering of clouds – so low and dark that this scene could be mistaken for the entrance to Hell.
We eventually reached the far shore, surviving the rains and the winds of the crossing, before we came to a ramp covered by waves. At first our pony refused to pull the cart from the ferry, shying away from the water and then attempting to rear. It was only when the ferryman threatened the whip that the pony finally agreed to move off, allowing us to follow the cart through the water to reach the shingle beach at the other end of the ramp. Our feet had barely touched the shores of Eden, before the ferryman turned his craft back towards the mainland. Seeing his boat retreat into the distance, I felt panicked for a moment, and nearly called out for him to return. But I bit my tongue, took a deep breath and forced a smile onto my face. We had to go on. We could not turn back.
Once we had settled the pony, I looked out for Godfrey, as he had promised to meet us here – but the shore was deserted, with not even a watchman from the nearby village to greet us and demand to know our business. I decided not to wait for my friend. This was the final stretch of our journey and we needed to reach his castle before darkness fell. And so we set off, taking the only road that crosses Eden – a track that bears south, following the spine of the island through a patchwork of field and forest.
The pony
reared again as we headed up the first steep hill and then refused to move. It was scared by the change in the weather as much as anything. The rains had stopped now, but something worse was brewing – a sea-fog that was cold, white and heavy with vapour. For a moment I was tempted to abandon the cart and come back for it the next day – but our load was too valuable to leave about on a deserted track. It would be a rich prize for any thief. In the end I followed the ferryman’s example and reluctantly threatened the pony with the whip, finding that it still responded to the threat of pain.
As we pressed forward in the thickening gloom, Mother struggled to keep up whenever she was required to get out of the cart and walk. I took her arm and helped her up the steeper inclines, but she complained bitterly at each step. ‘I don’t know why we had to come here, Oswald,’ she hissed, as she stumbled into a rut and nearly fell.
I caught hold of her before she landed in the mud. ‘Yes you do, Mother,’ I said, once she was steady on her feet again. ‘We couldn’t stay in Somershill.’
‘So we’ve run away from the Plague,’ she huffed, ‘only to die in this cold. This is not how I wanted my life to end.’
‘Keep going,’ I urged her, ignoring the comment about her nearness to death. It was a common refrain of late, now that she was over seventy years of age. ‘It’s not far to Castle Eden,’ I said. ‘We should be there within the hour.’
‘Eden,’ she puffed disparagingly. ‘Your father wouldn’t have run away to a stranger’s castle. I can tell you that much.’
‘There’s no shame in fleeing plague,’ I said. ‘And the owner of this castle is not a stranger. Godfrey is an old family friend. You’ve met him many times.’
‘But I didn’t say that I liked him, did I?’
‘Then you should have gone to Versey,’ I said. ‘To stay with Clemence.’
She looked at me witheringly. ‘You know I can’t abide your sister.’
‘Then you will have to make the best of this choice. Now come on,’ I said, pointing ahead at the two blurred shapes in the fog. ‘We mustn’t let Filomena and Hugh out of our sights.’
I took Mother’s arm and we caught up with my wife and son, finding that Filomena was shivering and Hugh was sucking his thumb. I think he would have been crying, had he possessed the energy. When he saw me appear at his side, he pulled his hand from Filomena’s grasp and held up his arms to me, begging to be lifted.
‘How much further is it?’ Filomena asked, as I picked Hugh up and let him burrow his head into the fur of my hood.
‘We’re nearly there,’ I said confidently, though, in truth, I was beginning to fear that we were lost. The track was now descending into another valley, where the fog lay at its thickest. If this lack of visibility were not bad enough, I soon became aware of shapes in the mist about us. Shadowy forms that followed our progress at a distance, but never came into focus. Fog will bend any benign shape into a monster, and any ordinary sound into a threat. I guessed that they were sheep, since the island was home to many herds, but their tramping hooves soon became the stalking footsteps of wraiths. Their low bleats were ghostlike calls.
I was not the only member of the party to be bothered by our sinister followers. The pony was misbehaving again, now stubbornly refusing to walk through this shrouded glade. Even the threat of the whip no longer held any fear for the creature, no matter how menacingly I waved the leathers in front of its eyes. In the end my valet Sandro produced an apple from his pouch, which finally persuaded the pony to move off again. We then trudged along behind the cart, like a party of mourners following a coffin to the graveyard.
At that moment, I couldn’t remember feeling more miserable. My feet were squelching inside my boots. The cold air was causing Hugh to cough and Mother was groaning loudly at every step. Only Filomena kept going without complaint – but her silent forbearance was perhaps the hardest torment to bear. Guilt welled inside me as I watched her small frame bent forward like an old woman’s. This was not the life I had imagined for my wife, when I brought her here from Venice. I turned my eyes back to the path, for I could not surrender to these thoughts.
‘I think we should stop for a while,’ said Filomena, once we had climbed out of the low hollow onto some higher ground, moving quickly past the gallows, where the body of a man hung limply from the gibbet. ‘When the fog lifts, we can see where we’re going.’ This was an appealing idea, but I feared that if we stopped now, we might never start again. Night would fall soon, and then the air that was currently cold would turn into a freezing miasma.
‘We must carry on,’ I said.
‘But Hugh is exhausted,’ she argued. ‘And your mother cannot keep up.’
‘Don’t worry about me,’ said Mother, suddenly looming through the mists like an effigy above a tomb. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my legs. I’m as fit as a young woman.’ As she said this, she leant against the side of the cart and her knees nearly buckled beneath her.
Filomena looked at me sharply and took a deep breath, and I wondered if an argument would follow – but instead, my wife pulled me to one side and whispered, ‘Are you certain that you know where we’re going, Oswald?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘There’s only one road across this island, and we’re definitely on it.’
She regarded me for a moment – unsure whether to argue, before she set off again, her head lowered once more against the elements. We followed behind her, making slow progress along this track until something caught my attention in the distance. It was a light, glimmering thinly through the gloom.
‘Can you see that?’ I asked Filomena, as I pointed ahead. ‘I think Godfrey has lit a beacon for us.’
This was a welcome thought, so we pressed on, gathering speed with each step. Even the stubborn pony seemed excited by the promise of an end to this journey. But, as we neared the flames, we realised that this was no beacon. Instead it was a fire, devouring the wooden carcass of a small cottage.
We left Hugh with Mother and Sandro at the cart, and then Filomena and I cautiously approached the fire, stepping forward until the heat prevented us from getting any nearer. We stopped to stare into the flames, like two children gazing at the spectacle of the midsummer bone fire. I was so transfixed by the sight, that it took me a while to notice the figure watching us from the other side of the burning cottage. He wore rough clothes and his face was hidden by a rag wrapped about his mouth and nose. When I called out to him, he lifted a bucket from the ground and then quickly retreated into the fog.
‘Who was that?’ Filomena asked me.
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘And what is that smell?’ She sniffed at the air. ‘It smells like . . .’ She paused for a moment and clasped my arm. ‘Like the oil that fishermen use in Venice. To paint the boats.’
I had smelt it too. A sharp and choking scent. ‘I think it’s birch bark oil,’ I said, now realising what had been inside the mysterious man’s bucket. ‘It was probably used to start the fire.’
Filomena nodded, but continued to sniff at the air. ‘But there’s another smell, Oswald,’ she said. ‘Something I don’t recognise.’
I did recognise it. In fact, I knew this perfume of old. It was pungent and sickening. A scent that clings to the nostrils for moments, but to the memory forever. ‘Come on, Filomena,’ I said. ‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘Why? What’s the matter?’
I tried to pull her away from the fire, but she resisted me. ‘No, Oswald. Tell me what it is.’
‘I don’t know,’ I said.
‘Yes you do,’ she replied. We had been married for over two years now, and she knew when I was lying. ‘I won’t leave here until you tell me the truth.’
I looked at the determined expression on her face and surrendered. ‘There are bodies in the fire,’ I said. ‘That’s what you can smell.’
‘What?’ she said, wrinkling her nose in disgust. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘Look closer, Filomena,’ I said, pointing into th
e heart of the flames, where the wooden struts of the cottage were now collapsing onto the remains of three people. Two were adults, but one was a child, perhaps not much older than Hugh. Their corpses were scorched and blackened, but they were still identifiable as human.
‘Mother Maria!’ She looked away and crossed herself. ‘Why would anybody do this? Only heathens burn their dead.’
‘I think they died of plague,’ I said with a sigh.
She stepped back. ‘But you said plague was behind us, Oswald. That’s why we came to this island.’
‘Please, Filomena. Let’s argue about this later.’ I took her arm again. Now, more than ever, we needed to reach our safe haven.
She didn’t need any further encouragement to leave. We hurried back to the cart, and refused to answer any of Sandro and Mother’s questions, as we concentrated on persuading the pony to move off again. But, just as the pony agreed to budge, we heard the sound of approaching hooves through the fog. I took out my sword instinctively, and asked Sandro to do the same.
‘Who’s there?’ I called out, fearing it was the masked man from the fire again. He circled us on his horse, a tall palfrey, its flanks covered with a richly decorated caparison. This was not the roughly dressed peasant I’d seen before. This was a nobleman – robed in the livery of his estate. When he lifted back the hood of his cloak, I recognised his face straight away – though his hair was unkempt and his red beard had grown as long as a hermit’s.
‘Godfrey,’ I said, dropping the sword to my side. ‘Thank goodness.’
‘What are you doing here, Oswald?’ he said, his face knotted into an angry grimace. ‘This is a plague house.’
‘You knew about this?’ I said.
‘Yes. I gave orders for this cottage to be burnt down.’
‘But the dead were inside, Godfrey,’ I said. Mother gasped at my words, and I could see Sandro crossing himself out of the corner of my eye.
