Plague Land (21 page)

I offered to bring Brother Peter, assuring Old Ralph that Peter was skilled at amputation and could even administer a potion to ensure he wouldn’t feel his own arm being sawn off. But Ralph insisted he could cure the arm himself with a herbal concoction. Apparently it had worked on such a wound before. No matter how much I tried to convince him this was impossible, he would not believe me that a limb simply does not recover from gangrene. On all my subsequent visits, he would delight in showing me how well this ointment was working, only for me to see how a little more of his arm had been eaten away. With the date for the Hundreds court still more than two weeks away, I could only hope the man would survive long enough to be a witness.

The mood in the village was unclear with regards to Joan. There were a few goodwives pleased their husband’s nocturnal activities with the local whore were curtailed. On the other hand, there was also a group of widowers who were missing Joan and her services. Two of the men started a fight needlessly at the hay harvest and had to be separated by Featherby. I thought back to my days amongst the novices and remembered what it is to have too many men cooped together without the company of women. They are like a cage of cock robins. Too eager for a fight. So, when I heard rumours that Joan had resumed trading at her new address, aided and abetted by Henry the gaoler, I did nothing to investigate.

On the Sunday before the marriage, I had decided to take communion at St Giles rather than at our own chapel. Not only did I need some respite from my mother, but in truth I was also hoping to see Mirabel again. And there was the question of Cornwall. I had also been avoiding the man since his visit to my sickbed and this weakness would not have gone unnoticed. Cornwall currently held the advantage in our quarrel, and I needed to wrest it back.

With the wedding only days away, Mother’s hysteria had been building relentlessly. The blue cloth for Clemence’s dress had been ‘too muddy’ in its tone, the ale for the feast was ‘too cloudy’, and the hogs ‘too melancholy’. This was an unlikely problem, but still Mother insisted she could predict how a pig would taste just from looking at the expression on its face. There was no arguing with her.

Clemence, for her part, was less tolerant of Mother’s quirks than ever, and had stabbed her fingers more than usual with her embroidery needle. Her tapestry was blotted with bloodstains. We had all noticed de Caburn’s absence from the house, but dared not mention it to Clemence. The man was making no effort at all to court his wife-to-be. In fact, since the betrothal ceremony, he had not paid a single visit to Somershill. Not that it concerned me. I was quite happy to meet my tormentor as little as possible.

As I left for mass that morning, Brother Peter came running out after me. I wished then I had ridden, since he would never have caught up with me. His words of wisdom and constant fussing over my welfare were becoming suffocating.

‘There’s no need for you to join me,’ I said. ‘You’ve said mass already this morning.’

He ran along to keep up with me. ‘It will be interesting for me. I want to hear Cornwall’s sermon.’

‘I don’t. But it will give me the chance to sleep.’

Brother Peter laughed. ‘I doubt it. The man is said to nearly blow the roof from the nave.’

As we entered the village, I once again regretted the lack of a horse. We must have cut a strange sight. A young lord, accompanied by a red-faced priest who could barely keep pace. The villagers bowed or curtsied as we passed, but it seemed more of a wearied reflex than a genuine act of respect. I looked about for Mirabel amongst their downcast and worn-out faces, but her lovely eyes were nowhere to be seen. Instead, a thin trail of brown-clothed people made their way towards St Giles, hobbling forward like a gang of captive soldiers.

I joined their meagre group and stepped inside the church. From the exterior it was a building of simple proportions with a square tower and plain glass in the arched windows. But inside it was gaudily decorated with icons, tapestries, and carvings.

‘Look at this place,’ I whispered to Brother Peter. A trestle table to the side of the altar was now laid with a selection of skulls, squares of cloth, and shrivelled pieces of skin.

Peter nodded. ‘Cornwall has turned your church into a market stall.’

I took my place in the front bench, facing the rood screen, and watched Cornwall prepare for his mass. The man was every inch a performer, wearing a new yellow chasuble that could have been made for the part of Gabriel himself in a miracle play. He moved about his stage deliberately, as if every step he took were coated in significance.

As the poor prayed, crossed themselves and came to the rood screen for communion, Peter and I listened with increasing bafflement to the mass. Cornwall clearly had little grasp of Latin, and the further he mumbled his way through the liturgy, the worse it became. At one point I even stifled a laugh as he repeated the same invented words over and over again to accompany the blessing of the bread and wine. Hearing my snigger, Cornwall turned to look at me, his eyes meeting mine with the affection of a poisoned dart. Yet, throughout the mass, the other communicants carried on their devotions, ignorant of the gibberish accompanying their worship. Only the childless wooden Virgin seemed to notice – her sad face more troubled than ever.

When the mass was over we were treated to Cornwall’s popular sermon, broadcast to the congregation in common English. Cornwall was clearly much more comfortable with this part of proceedings, stepping into the nave and wandering amongst us. With his ornate and copiously folded chasuble trailing along the floor and the large crucifix around his neck, he looked ready to perform the next act of his show.

For the second time that morning he fixed me with a stare, then announced his sermon would address the sin of bearing false witness. Hushed anticipation spread throughout the congregation.

Cornwall strolled between the benches. ‘There are those among us who would lie to serve their own ends.’ The anticipation in the church began to harden into fear. Were the sinners about to be named? I looked about me and saw prayers being hastily muttered. Chests being crossed. Brother Peter snorted, folded his arms, and deliberately looked out of the window.

‘Is it you, Henry?’ An oily-faced boy trembled in his seat. ‘Or is it you, Catherine?’

An older woman shook her head vigorously. ‘No, Father John. I am a true witness. I pray hourly to the heavenly saints. And I sleep with this lock of the Virgin’s hair in my hand.’ She showed Cornwall a coil of dark-coloured hair, which he inspected like a length of cloth at the market, before dropping it back into her lap. By the contemptuous expression on his face, this relic had not been one of his own sales.

Moving off again, he raised his voice. ‘There is one among us who has come face to face with the Devil, but denies it. He knows where this Devil lurks, but will not name that place. Should we forgive that sin?’ He loomed over a young girl, who shook in her seat. ‘Should we?’

The girl didn’t dare to look up and whispered something into her lap.

‘That’s correct, Ruth,’ said Cornwall. ‘We should seek the truth, and only then forgive.’ Now he spoke softly. ‘But perhaps also, we should understand why this person refuses to admit he’s seen the Devil.’

‘Is he in league with Lucifer?’ said Mary Cadebridge – the woman who had first volunteered to take in Old Ralph.

‘A question indeed, good wife,’ said Cornwall, striding back towards the chancel. He turned to face us, raising the folds of his chasuble to resemble a great swan, before roaring as loudly as I have ever heard a person address a congregation. ‘It might explain why he will not lead us to them! Why he repeatedly denies they exist!’

I went to speak, but Brother Peter held me back. ‘Keep your peace, Oswald. Say nothing.’

Cornwall dropped his arms and strolled over to me. ‘Sire? Is there a truth you would like to impart?’ His voice was as smooth and deceiving as a spoon of boiling treacle.

‘Don’t be provoked,’ whispered Peter. ‘He will use your words against you.’

My heart thumped so heavily it might be punching its way out of my chest. I had seen the Devil in the forest. It wasn’t a hallucination. I wanted to confess. But before having the chance to say a word, Peter had taken me by the arm and was pushing me towards the door.

‘Lord Somershill has seen the dog heads, but denies them,’ said Cornwall, standing in our way. ‘Why doesn’t he answer the charge?’

‘Get out of the way,’ said Peter. ‘This boy is your lord.’

Cornwall raised his wings once more. ‘If the boy won’t answer me, then he must answer to the Lord of us all. The Lord redeemer. The King of Heaven.’

Peter whispered into my ear, ‘Move. Now!’

At our last confrontation in this church it had been Cornwall who left in humiliation, but now it was my turn. As I was swept through the door by Peter, I caught sight of Mirabel at last. She smiled at me sadly and then looked to her feet.

We stumbled out into the bright sunlight and put a good distance between ourselves and St Giles before stopping. Peter was red in the face and breathing heavily. ‘Why does that man feel emboldened to speak to you in such a way, Oswald? He is nothing but a country parson.’

I slumped down in some long grass. Wearied and defeated. ‘I think it has something to do with the earl.’

‘What?’

‘The earl has taken sides with de Caburn.’

Peter frowned – the sunlight catching the deep lines across his forehead. ‘How do you know this?’

‘The earl has written to de Caburn and given his blessing to the wedding. Cornwall knows I’m in a weak position.’ I sighed. ‘Everybody is against me now.’

Peter sat down beside me. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this before?’

I laid my head on his shoulder. ‘I thought you would become angry again.’

‘Of course I wouldn’t. Though you should have told me, Oswald.’

I picked a blade of grass and pulled my fingers along the stalk to release the seeds. ‘I want to give up the estate, Brother. Let Clemence and de Caburn have it.’

‘Don’t be so foolish.’

‘But I could go back to the monastery with you. Take my vows and return to the infirmary. It would be easier than this.’

Peter patted my head. ‘No, Oswald. We will fight them.’

‘I don’t want to.’

‘Of course you do.’

‘But—’

‘Somershill is yours.’

Chapter Twelve

I walked to the river alone and watched the heron fishing for trout. A corncrake made its rasping call from a nearby hayfield, as the bees worked tirelessly at the foxgloves and comfrey. What a simple life such creatures lived. There were no lords or villeins. No churches or courts of law. No arranged marriages and bastard children. I considered diving into that river and breathing in its watery air until it turned me into a fish. Then I could swim away and hide for ever under the lily pads.Recognising my bout of self-pity for what it was, I straightened up and made for the house.

Returning to Somershill, a curious sight awaited me. Brother Peter was saddling up a horse at the same time as Mother was trying to unsaddle the creature. A tug of war was taking place between the two of them, which made me smile for the first time that day. The horse was a tired old pony that we had more or less abandoned to the field.

Mother saw me and dropped her side of the saddle. ‘Brother Peter is returning to the abbey. You have to stop him.’

‘I’m making a short visit, that’s all, my lady,’ said Peter, now tying the strap of the saddle underneath the horse’s flank. The pony, for all of her breed’s supposed placidity, was shying away from Peter. She had been happier eating clover and buttercups in the field.

‘Tell him he can’t go,’ said Mother. ‘It’s only a week to Clemence’s wedding. He must be here to conduct the ceremony.’

Peter patted the pony. ‘I’m sure John of Cornwall will be delighted to perform the ceremony if I’m not back in time.’

Mother threw up her hands. ‘Father John? No thank you. That man knows as much Latin as this pony.’ It seemed we were not the only ones to have noticed Cornwall’s linguistic shortcomings.

I turned to Peter. ‘Why are you going to the abbey so suddenly? Have you received a letter from the other brothers?’

Mother interrupted. ‘He’s free to go after the marriage. But I can’t have the Ayres and Peverils listening to Cornwall’s nonsense. They might think the marriage isn’t legal.’

‘I’ll return within the week, I promise. Please stand aside, my lady. So I may mount this beast.’ Peter tried to get a foothold in the stirrup, but missed.