Plague Land (14 page)

Humbert now stood in my way, and as I attempted to push him aside, I found his chest to be surprisingly firm, when I had expected him to wobble like marrow jelly. When Humbert still refused to move, Clemence reluctantly waved for him to let me pass.

‘I’ve heard a distorted story from Mother,’ I said, when our eyes were finally able to meet. ‘I need to clarify a matter with you.’

She curled her lip and returned to sweeping the horse’s glossy flank with her iron curry comb. ‘What sort of story?’

‘That you are to marry Walter de Caburn.’

‘And why should that be distorted?’

‘It’s true then?’

She put down the comb. ‘Yes, it’s true. We are to marry by St Swithin’s day.’

I felt a swell of nausea rising in my stomach. ‘You can’t marry de Caburn, Clemence. I can’t believe you would even contemplate it.’

She laughed. ‘Why ever not?’

‘He’s a monster. I forbid it.’

‘You’re in no position to forbid me anything.’

‘With all respect, Lady Clemence, you will need the permission of your brother to marry.’ We turned to see Brother Peter standing at the door. In his arms he held a bunch of coltsfoot and elderflowers. ‘I’ve collected these herbs to treat Merrion,’ he said, passing the greenery to Humbert. ‘It should clear the beast’s cumbersome airways.’

‘Take your witch’s weeds away,’ said Clemence, grabbing the herbs from Humbert’s large hands and throwing them to the floor. ‘That is twice you have exceeded your rank with me, Priest. I will not tolerate it again.’

‘Brother Peter is correct, Clemence,’ I said. ‘You do need my permission to marry, and I won’t give it.’

‘You can’t refuse me,’ said Clemence, now gritting her teeth. The horse began to twitch and fidget and she struggled to hold onto his tether. ‘I will marry Walter, whether or not you give me permission.’

‘Then you’ll receive no dowry,’ I said. ‘Think of the shame that would cause you.’

Clemence pulled Merrion down and whispered soothingly into his ear. ‘What is shame any more? Who is to care what I do?’

‘The world has not changed so very much,’ said Brother Peter. ‘The king’s court still listens to gossip and scandal. The Pestilence did not destroy protocol and etiquette.’

Clemence turned on him. ‘What do you know about such things? You’re nothing but a farmhand with a set of rosary beads and a book of herbs. What would you know about protocol and etiquette?’

‘Brother Peter was infirmarer at the abbey, Clemence. He has a respected position,’ I said.

Clemence laughed. ‘Respected? By whom?’

‘By me.’

She pointed a finger. ‘You may refuse me, little brother, but it doesn’t matter. I don’t need your permission. Nor your dowry.’

‘I’m not sure de Caburn would agree.’

She laughed again. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. Walter expected such a reaction from you and is happy to marry me with neither.’ She took a stool from the side and stood on it to mount Merrion.

‘Hold his tether,’ she instructed Humbert, as she lifted her skirts and climbed into the saddle. ‘I shall be visiting Walter at Versey Castle. Don’t try to stop me.’ Clemence pulled at the reins and Merrion shied fretfully, almost flattening Brother Peter against the wall of the stable. She then dug in her heels and was gone, galloping across the field with her cloak waving behind her like a battle standard. Humbert gazed after her, until she had become just a dot on the horizon, before turning back to the house pathetically, like a swan that has lost his mate.

Brother Peter took my arm. ‘You must stop this marriage, Oswald. It’s a dangerous union.’

‘I agree. Look at the fate of de Caburn’s last two wives. Why should Clemence fare any better?’

Peter shook his head as if I were the most dull-witted boy in his class of novices. ‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘What do you mean then?’

‘De Caburn wishes to marry your sister and is not demanding a dowry. Does that sound likely?’

‘Perhaps he loves her?’

‘And perhaps the Devil drinks holy water?’

Peter picked up the elderflowers and coltsfoot Clemence had thrown about the stable floor, and crammed their wilted stalks and blossom in amongst the hay of Merrion’s horsebox. ‘The horse should eat these herbs. His lungs are laboured,’ he muttered into his cowl. He then cleared his throat and turned to address me. ‘De Caburn is marrying Clemence for her land, Oswald. That’s why he doesn’t require a dowry.’

‘She doesn’t have any land.’

‘Not presently.’

‘I don’t follow you.’

Peter raised his eyes to the heavens. ‘Clemence has no land now, but there is only one de Lacy between your sister and the Somershill estate. And that person is you.’

I stepped back. ‘Clemence doesn’t appear to care for me, Brother. But I don’t think she would wish me dead.’

He shook his head and waved his hand in irritation. ‘No, no. I don’t see Clemence behind such a scheme.’

‘Then what are you suggesting?’

‘I have no doubt Clemence believes de Caburn to be in love with her. And even if she doesn’t hold out such hopes, it is at least a marriage. And you know how she craves to be a married woman. If only to escape the persistent goading she receives from your mother.’

‘You mean I should be worried about de Caburn?’

‘Of course that’s what I mean!’

‘But he wouldn’t dare to harm me.’

Peter shook his head. ‘Don’t be so sure, Oswald. I took confession in his parish when there on abbey business. I heard of de Caburn’s sins from his own tenants and villeins.’ He took my hand and whispered. ‘You were right to call the man a monster.’

‘So what should I do then?’ I will admit to feeling irritated. Peter was right to bring this matter to my attention, but I can’t say I felt grateful. ‘Isn’t running the Somershill estate and solving the murder of the Starvecrow sisters enough?’ I said, a little sullenly.

Peter waved my childishness away. ‘Never mind the murders for the time being. It’s more important that you stop this marriage.’

‘And how am I supposed to stop Clemence? You know what she’s like.’

Peter sighed and beckoned me to leave the stables with him. ‘I don’t know.’ He closed the door behind us. ‘But I’ll think of something.’

There was a troublesome logic to Peter’s argument. I didn’t really know de Caburn. I sometimes raised a hand to him across a field, or shared a bench with him at a Michaelmas day feast. I only knew enough not to trust him. My father would not even sell him a sheep.

Peter and I walked back towards the house, through a wet meadow of tufted vetch and creeping buttercup. A blackbird sang to us, and honeybees buzzed about the flower heads with their industrious drone. I wondered at how animals and plants carry on with their lives, undeterred by the troubles of mankind.

Peter remained silent for most of our walk and then suddenly clapped his hands together. ‘You must write to de Caburn immediately, Oswald.’

‘And say what? That we have uncovered his wicked plot?’

‘No, of course not.’ He drew me close to whisper, even though the only spies would have been a slippery grass snake or a garrulous robin. ‘Tell de Caburn you have arranged for Clemence to marry somebody else. It’s a contract you cannot break.’

‘Who? De Caburn will insist upon knowing a name.’

‘Yes, you’re right,’ he said. ‘Forget that idea.’ But there was only the briefest of pauses before the next scheme came rolling off his tongue. ‘I know. You must tell de Caburn there is a codicil in your father’s will.’ His voice was quickening with agitated excitement. ‘Yes, yes. This will work. In the event of your death, the estate will not accede to Clemence if she is married. Tell him it was your father’s dying wish.’

‘Is such a codicil possible?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘So what use is it then?’

Peter waved his hand at me in frustration. ‘I’m not an expert in law, Oswald. But neither is Walter de Caburn. He will not marry your sister without the sniff of personal gain.’

‘But he’ll consult a man of law and find out it’s a lie.’

‘Of course he will. But he won’t find one still alive in these parts. He would need to go to the ecclesiastical courts in Canterbury, and that would mean delaying the wedding.’ When I shrugged at this suggestion, he shook me. ‘It will buy us some time to persuade Clemence to change her mind.’

‘I don’t think it will work.’

‘I disagree. Clemence will tell everybody they are to marry by St Swithin’s. But if de Caburn postpones the ceremony, it will humiliate Clemence. Your sister is a very proud woman, and we may find she refuses de Caburn a second time, once he has discovered our little story has no credence. It is at least worth a try.’

‘But a letter seems rather weak, Brother.’

He caught me by the arm. ‘What do you suggest then, Oswald? Riding to Versey and facing the man? He would kill you on the spot.’

‘De Caburn wouldn’t dare do something so foolish.’

Peter shook me again. ‘Don’t be so naïve. He might not cut you down with his own sword, but he would certainly poison you or even push you into his moat and then pretend it was an accident.’ I went to answer, but Peter shook me a third time and I hadn’t the wind to tell him how ridiculous his theory sounded.

Instead I turned from him like a scolded dog, but he gently pulled me back. Seeing he had caused offence, he suddenly stroked my forehead and pushed the hair from my eyes. ‘I’m sorry, Oswald. I shouldn’t have done that.’

‘No. You shouldn’t have. I am your lord as well, Brother.’

He bowed his head. ‘But you will write to de Caburn?’

I sighed. ‘Yes. Very well.’

Chapter Nine

The following morning I rose early with the intention of giving this promised letter to Piers to take to Versey. It had been written the night before – but not by me, rather by Peter. He had not even trusted me to put my own quill to the parchment. I cannot deny this had annoyed me – and now walking towards the stable with the rolled letter in my hand I suddenly had the impulse to disobey my tutor. I had seen off Cornwall by myself. Why shouldn’t I do the same with de Caburn? I was not some skulking priest from the monastery. I was Lord Somershill.

My father would not have sent a feeble letter.

On reaching the stables, I ordered Piers to saddle Tempest. When he asked me where I was going, I told him to mind his own business.

What arrogance. And what stupidity!

Versey Castle is a half-day’s ride from Somershill, through the hunting forests of the high weald. I’ve heard it said that bears and ferocious cats once lived in these wooded hills, but by 1350 there was nothing more dangerous in these glades than the shadows. Even the bandits kept away from its paths, as there was nobody to rob but poor charcoal makers or weary drovers. Even so, I did not linger at any point, not even to take a piss.

Riding in towards Versey from the north-west, the castle appeared to be surrounded by its own moat, although on nearing the place it became clear the masons had simply made use of the river Guise as it flowed along the bottom of this remote valley. The water moved languidly at this point in the river’s path towards the Medway, but still it moved – unlike the green and stinking pools that encircled many moated manor houses.

The Normans had built Versey to daunt and dishearten, but its position for farming was less favoured, with its steep valleys and cold clay soil. It was often said de Caburn coveted my flatter pastures with my barley and wheat – as his tenants had to be content raising sinewy cattle that barely produced enough milk to feed their own calves.

The river Guise also gave rise to mists and fogs, which enveloped the castle and had beset the family with congested lungs and heavy coughs. It was Mother’s oft-repeated opinion that the de Caburns should relocate the hall to a nearby hill, where their humours would be less assaulted by the damp of the river. But the de Caburns were knights, and Versey was built for soldiers. We might have scorned their coughs and colds, but they mocked our small endeavours and lack of battle glory. I’ve heard it said they laughed at us and called us farmers.

I dropped my pace to a slow trot as I reached the castle, and now found my resolve weakening. I had practised my codicil story repeatedly, but suddenly was unable to convince myself that it rang true. De Caburn was not Cornwall. What was I doing here? The man could assault me with more dangerous weapons than a priest’s blustering rhetoric and the swing of his cloak.