by S. D. Sykes
‘No,’ I said. ‘Hans was never the murderer. We were wrong about that.’ I corrected myself. ‘I was wrong about that.’
Sandro frowned. ‘Are you sure?’
‘It’s not possible, Sandro,’ I said. ‘Hans was already dead when the last murder took place.’
‘So, how did he die?’
‘It was plague.’
‘Mother Maria,’ he said solemnly, crossing himself before he asked the next, inevitable question. ‘But if Hans is not the killer, then who is it?’
I hesitated to answer this, embarrassed at this admission. ‘I’m not sure,’ I said at length.
Sandro narrowed his eyes, but knew better than to press me further. ‘So, where is Godfrey’s wife?’ he asked instead. ‘Did you save her?’
‘No, Sandro,’ I said. ‘She died of plague as well.’
My valet stared at me for a while, his mouth hanging open, until we heard Simon crying. Sandro raised his jaw and looked towards the wooden crib. ‘The infant is still alive then?’
When I nodded, Sandro marched over to the crib, bent down to examine the child and then lifted him out. Simon rewarded Sandro with the broadest of grins – far brighter than he had ever bestowed upon me in our five days together. But then again, Sandro always delighted babies – even those who had only just avoided the kiss of death.
My valet looked over his shoulder at me. ‘This poor boy stinks,’ he said accusingly. ‘What have you been doing to him, Master Oswald?’
‘There isn’t any swaddling,’ I said defensively. ‘Nor any food.’
‘Then it’s good that I came to find you,’ he replied, placing Simon back in the crib and then patting the large scrip that hung over his shoulder. ‘I have some bread, cheese and ham.’ He flashed a smile. ‘And some dried figs. I know you like them, Master Oswald.’
The thought of the food was appealing, but I still felt uncomfortable about Sandro’s presence here. ‘You put yourself in danger coming to this cottage,’ I said. ‘For all you know, there could still be plague here.’
‘But there isn’t,’ he said adamantly.
‘You don’t know that.’
He sucked in his cheeks. ‘When did Godfrey’s wife die?’
‘As soon as I got here.’ I paused. ‘It was five days ago, I think. Though I’ve lost track of time.’
He clapped his hands together. ‘There! You see. That’s long enough. This house is safe.’
I wanted to be angry with Sandro for coming to find me, but it was so difficult. He had undoubtedly taken risks in leaving the castle, but he had also shown courage and loyalty, so this was no time for chastisements. Instead, I watched in gratitude, if not relief, as Sandro tended to Simon, making a far better job of the child’s care than I had managed. Firstly he tore some linen from his own chemise and then made a temporary napkin for Simon. Once the child was comfortable, Sandro then washed his hands thoroughly in the basin of cold water before he dished up the food from his scrip onto two wooden plates.
I was so hungry that I shoved the bread into my mouth greedily, before taking a little more time to savour the cheese and figs. Sandro, by contrast, fed the baby with delicate precision, first chewing the cheese, dropping it onto his finger, before pushing the pulp into the infant’s mouth. Simon was even hungrier than ever, and accepted this dinner without complaint, leaving his mouth hanging open between helpings, in eager anticipation of the next finger of food.
‘I did as you asked,’ Sandro told me, as Simon eventually began to tire. His tiny eyes closing. ‘I climbed down the well and found the tunnel.’
‘Does it lead outside the castle, as Edwin of Eden told me?’
Sandro nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘though it’s very narrow and dark.’ He pulled a face. ‘And foxes shit in there.’
‘Foxes?’ I asked with surprise. ‘Are you sure about that?’
‘Yes. I trod in some,’ he said. ‘It was disgusting. I couldn’t get it off my boot.’
I changed the subject. ‘How is everybody in the castle? Are they well?’
He looked up. ‘Lady Emma spoke to me.’
‘She did?’ I said. ‘That’s wonderful news.’
He stiffened, realising that he had probably overplayed this story. ‘Well. She sings to me, anyway.’ His face relaxed into a smile. ‘Sometimes she even holds my hand and lets me sing with her. But only if we sing the same song.’ He paused and his face darkened. ‘Until that terrible woman Lady Isobel appears, of course. And then I am chased away.’
‘What do you sing with Emma?’
He paused, before looking down at his hands with an air of sadness. ‘It is The Fool’s song,’ he said. ‘That poor man.’
‘I thought that Lady Emma hated that song,’ I said. ‘It always used to upset her.’
‘I know,’ he said. ‘That’s what’s so strange, Master Oswald. She didn’t like The Fool’s song when he was alive, but now she likes to sing it. All the time. Over and over.’
The Fool’s song. Here it was again – threaded through this story like a running stitch. I rose to my feet. ‘We need to get back to the castle, Sandro,’ I said.
‘Now?’
‘Yes. Immediately.’
He looked at me in surprise. ‘Perhaps we should let this child rest first?’ Simon was now sleeping in Sandro’s arms, a thin bubble of spit on his tiny, contented lips.
‘No,’ I said. ‘I need to get back. As soon as possible.’
Sandro bustled about the cottage before our departure, pulling a tapestry from the wall to make a shawl for the child and swaddling him tightly like a long sausage. While he did this, I picked up the letter that I’d written and placed on the table – my last testament, ready for the person whom I had imagined would find my dead body. When Sandro wasn’t looking, I read through the words of this letter for one last time, before I scrubbed them from the parchment with a dampened cloth. I would not die here. I would not be buried in the frosted soil next to Abigail and Hans. Instead, I would return to my wife and son at Castle Eden and we would outlive the Plague.
As we closed the door to this cottage, I reflected on the last five days of my life. To begin with I had feared that I’d wasted my time in coming here to seek out Hans. I had left my wife and child at Castle Eden with a murderer, whilst I chased the wrong suspect to this lonely place. There had been rewards for this mistake, however – for if I had stayed at Castle Eden then Simon would have died in this remote cottage, since there was little chance that somebody else would have found him. Not only this, my investigation would have stalled, perhaps forever. I would never have discovered that Hans was innocent of the three murders, and I never would have learnt the true nature of Godfrey’s secretive work.
But, I have to say, that these were not the revelations that finally shone a light into the dark heart of this mystery. Instead, it was the night I had spent with Simon, clutching his ailing body to mine, in the hope that we would both survive until the morning. As I endlessly paced about the cottage that night, I had been convinced that we were both succumbing to the same disease that had taken Simon’s mother. My sights had been restricted, like a warhorse in an iron chamfron, for I had never considered that we might be suffering from a different affliction – a sweating sickness, or even marsh fever. In my ignorance, I had only seen one killer.
Chapter Twenty-nine
As we neared the walls of Castle Eden, I felt overwhelmed with the anticipation of seeing my wife and child again. Even though I felt weak after the last five days in the cottage, this excitement drove my feet forward with energy. I was even eager to see my mother again, though I suspected that this feeling would not last for long – not once we had spent some time in one another’s company.
As Sandro and I approached the gates, ready to request readmittance to the castle, I put my hand on my valet’s shoulder and asked him to listen to me carefully for one moment. ‘I don’t want to tell anybody else the truth about Hans,’ I said. ‘I want them to continue to believe
that he was the killer.’
Sandro narrowed his eyes. ‘Why’s that, Master Oswald?’
‘Just trust me, Sandro,’ I said. ‘I will explain my reasons later.’
‘But what about Monna Filomena?’ he asked, flicking the hair from his eyes. ‘Should we tell her?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Nobody must know. Not even Filomena.’
He wrinkled his nose in disapproval, but bowed his head to me anyway. ‘If that’s what you want, Master Oswald,’ he said warily.
‘It is, Sandro. So please do as I say.’
After this short discussion, we shouted for attention at the gate, until we heard the clinking sound of the rolling chain as the portcullis was raised. Filomena was the first to emerge from the door in the gate, running to greet me, before showering my face with kisses – not seeming to notice the infant in my arms. The other guests and servants were less enthusiastic about my return, however, as they had bunched at the gate, and were watching us from a safe distance. I noticed immediately that my mother was among their number.
‘Oswald,’ said Filomena as she wrapped her arms about my chest. ‘I thought you were dead.’ She only stepped back when Simon began to mewl. ‘Who’s this?’ she asked, with a look of astonishment on her face.
‘He’s Godfrey’s son, Simon.’ I pulled back the tapestry shawl so that Filomena could see him properly – suddenly feeling like a peddler presenting a basket of apples to a prospective buyer.
She drew back. ‘Why do you have him?’
‘His mother is dead,’ I said.
She hesitated. ‘Was Abigail murdered by Hans, then?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘She died.’
Her face froze. ‘Mother Maria. Was it the Plague?’
‘Yes,’ I admitted, with some hesitation of my own. ‘But this child is free of sickness.’
She frowned at me and drew back. ‘Are you certain about that, Oswald?’
I could understand her fear. Who couldn’t? But she had to trust me. ‘I am certain, Filomena,’ I said. ‘I wouldn’t have brought this child back here otherwise. You must know that I wouldn’t take any such chances. Not when it comes to you and Hugh.’
She regarded me for a moment, before she lifted Simon from my arms and held him to her own chest. There was something so touching about her act of acceptance, but the moment was spoilt when Edwin of Eden pushed himself to the front of the group who were still lingering by the gate.
‘We can’t allow you back in here, de Lacy,’ he announced. ‘You could be carrying plague.’
I turned to Filomena. ‘Who let that man out of his bedchamber?’ I said, in exasperation.
‘It was Sir Robert,’ she whispered. ‘When you didn’t return, he allowed Edwin to leave his room.’
I took a deep breath and then turned back to address Edwin and his entourage, who were now gathered about him like a troupe of watchful monkeys. ‘I’m free of plague,’ I said loudly. ‘And so is the child.’
Edwin visibly winced. ‘What child? What are you talking about?’
‘This child,’ I said, pointing at the baby in Filomena’s arms. ‘Godfrey’s son, Simon.’
‘Godfrey didn’t have a son,’ he said, remembering to puff out his chest and address the others about him. ‘Everybody knows that.’
‘Godfrey did have a wife and a son, Edwin. As you well know.’
‘You can’t just turn up here with such a story,’ he blustered. ‘Where’s your evidence for this claim?’
‘It is here,’ I said, pulling Godfrey’s letter from my scrip and waving it in the air. ‘I will show it to anybody who cares to look.’
‘What is that?’ asked Old Simon, now having the courage to break free from the others. ‘I can’t see what you’re holding, Lord Somershill.’
‘This is written by Godfrey to the Archbishop of Canterbury, Father,’ I told him. ‘It confirms that Godfrey married a woman named Abigail Franklin, and that he was the father of this boy.’ I paused and then pointed at Edwin. ‘This man has already seen another of these letters. Godfrey wrote them to protect his son’s interests, in the event of his death. When Edwin of Eden saw the first of these letters, he made sure to destroy it.’
‘That’s nonsense,’ said Edwin, his face now ashen. ‘Why would I do such a thing?’
I waved the folded parchment again. ‘Because both letters prove that you have no claim to this estate.’
Old Simon turned to Edwin. ‘Is this true, Nephew?’ he asked. ‘Do you know anything about these letters?’
‘Of course not, Uncle,’ he replied. ‘It’s a lie,’ he said. ‘You mustn’t believe de Lacy’s nonsense. That letter he’s holding is nothing more than a piece of mischief. A forgery.’
‘But perhaps I should have a look at it anyway,’ said Old Simon, stepping towards me. ‘Don’t forget that I taught Godfrey to write, Edwin. So I’m familiar with your brother’s handwriting. I could easily tell if it were genuine or not.’
Edwin put out an arm to block his path. ‘But Uncle,’ he said. ‘Even if Godfrey wrote such a letter, we still have no evidence that this infant is his son. For all we know, de Lacy might have found this urchin in a plague house, and is now trying to pass him off as Godfrey’s child.’
The old man regarded his nephew with a bewildered frown. ‘I suppose that’s possible, Edwin,’ he said. ‘But why would Lord Somershill do such a thing? What would he hope to gain by this deception?’
This argument silenced Edwin, but not for long. ‘But what if de Lacy and this child carry the Plague? Think about that, Uncle.’ Edwin then turned his attention back to the guests. ‘Let’s not forget that this man has been outside of the castle for many days. He has had every opportunity to catch the disease. I say that it’s not safe to allow him back inside.’ He paused for effect. ‘I say that we keep him out,’ he shouted rousingly. I couldn’t help but notice that my mother nodded at this suggestion.
‘We do not carry the Plague,’ I shouted back.
‘So you say,’ said Edwin. ‘But why should we believe you?’
‘Be quiet, you stupid man,’ hissed Filomena. ‘Do you think my husband would return here, if he was suffering from the Pestilence? He knows the dangers of this sickness better than any of you. Shame on you for not welcoming him back.’ As I scanned the faces of the other guests, I noticed that Mother wouldn’t meet my gaze, finally ashamed that she had not taken my part in all this.
It was Lyndham’s turn to speak up. ‘Did you find the Dutchman, de Lacy?’
‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I did.’
‘And where is he now?’
‘He’s dead.’
Lyndham looked at me carefully. ‘Dead? How did he die?’
It was now de Groot who addressed me. ‘You killed him, didn’t you, Lord Somershill? You executed Hans without a trial!’
‘No,’ I said firmly. ‘He died of plague.’
‘That’s not possible,’ answered de Groot, his face now agonised. ‘I don’t believe you.’
‘It’s true, de Groot. He caught the sickness in a tavern and then he infected Godfrey’s wife.’
De Groot held his hand to his mouth, before he turned on his heels, pushed past the other guests and then ran back inside the castle, yowling like a cow that’s been separated from her calf.
‘You see,’ shouted Edwin, hoping to exploit the alarm that had been created by de Groot’s dramatic exit. ‘De Lacy admits it. He has been in contact with the Plague. You all heard him say so himself.’ Once again he turned around to address the other guests – now holding out his arms to them like a priest at mass. ‘We cannot allow this man to come back inside the castle now. He could kill every one of us.’
The injustice of this inquisition was beginning to sting. I was tired, dirty and very, very hungry. ‘Filomena is right,’ I told them. ‘I would not have returned to Castle Eden if I posed a risk to any of you. I have a child with me. He is Godfrey’s son and the true Lord Eden, so I demand that you admit us back inside the cast
le.’
My plea was met with a cold, frosty silence, and I was contemplating having to return to Godfrey’s cottage when Lyndham broke ranks, striding towards me with his hand held forward to take mine. ‘Welcome back, Lord Somershill,’ he said, as he then embraced me. ‘I apologise for this disgraceful reception. You had the courage to hunt down Hans. And the courage to rescue this child. And I, for one, am very pleased to see your face again.’
‘Get away from him, Lyndham,’ shouted Edwin. ‘De Lacy is infected with the Pestilence.’ When Lyndham pointedly ignored this instruction, Edwin added, ‘I’m warning you, Lyndham. If you don’t get away from him, then you cannot come back inside my castle either.’
Lyndham turned back to face Edwin, and folded his arms. ‘But it’s not your castle, is it?’
‘What do you mean by that?’ said Edwin. ‘Of course it is. I am Lord Eden.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Lyndham, as he arched an eyebrow. ‘It seems that this child here owns that title. Not you.’
Edwin was now shaking with rage. ‘De Lacy is tricking you all about this letter and this child,’ he shouted. ‘I am Lord Eden. The boy is an impostor.’
He turned again to his fellow guests for support, but this time he found that they had deserted his cause. Lyndham’s gesture had turned the tide in my favour at last, and slowly they crept forward to welcome me – all thanks to this tall knight and his handsome face. I couldn’t help but smile at this, for the fickleness of my fellow man never fails to surprise me. No longer a plague-stricken pariah, I was now a returning hero.
I was neither of these characters, however – as they would soon discover. I was not a hero or a pariah. I was a nemesis. The agent of the killer’s downfall.
Chapter Thirty
We changed into clean clothes whilst still outside the castle walls, before wrapping Simon in a new blanket and then discarding our tunics, hose and surcoats beside the wall of the graveyard. I would burn these garments later in the spring – in case they were infected by the seeds of plague. As I did this, I looked over towards the chapel and thought of Annora and her small, forgotten body. And then, I’m ashamed to say that I deliberately turned my mind from her. After the last few days, I had no compassion left to give. When I burnt my clothes in the spring, I would also bury her within this graveyard.
