Plague Land (31 page)

‘So why have you returned? If you were made such a good offer by Lord Versey?’ More silence. A couple of women crossed themselves. The boy kissed his crucifix.

‘Answer Lord Somershill,’ said Gilbert, looking at them in turn. ‘Come on. Satan cut your tongues, has he?’

The ploughman coughed. ‘Lord Versey is dead, sire. Killed by the dog heads.’

‘What are you talking about?’ I asked. A general uproar broke out, and it became impossible to make sense of what anybody was saying.

I dragged the boy forward. He, at least, seemed able to speak the truth. ‘De Caburn is dead. Are you sure?’

The boy shivered. ‘I saw his body myself, sire. Hanging over the Virgin’s shrine at Versey. We all went to look at it.’ The others nodded and expanded on the story with garbled details and calls to the Almighty.

I told them to be quiet. ‘What did his body look like?’ I asked the boy.

‘He was naked, sire. His throat was all mangled by the dog heads.’ The boy’s eyes were wide. ‘But it wasn’t just his throat. They’d chewed away at his face and his hands as well. And he smelt strange.’

‘Dead bodies always smell strange.’

‘No, sire. He smelt sort of . . . cooked.’ Once again cries to the Almighty rang out.

‘Cooked?’

The boy’s uncle intervened. ‘Tom has a bit of an imagination, my lord. I think it was just the scent of evil myself.’

Sensing this strand of conversation would inevitably lead into the direction of dog heads, I quickly grabbed the boy again. ‘When was the body found?’

‘Yesterday morning, sire. Elfric saw him first. He was going to the shrine to pray.’

I looked at Elfric, a youth whose eyes pointed in different directions, so it was a wonder he could see anything at all. ‘And when was the last time Lord Versey was seen alive?’

‘Don’t know, sire,’ said the boy. ‘Lord Versey was always in his castle.’

‘I saw him riding out alone the afternoon before,’ said young Ralph. ‘He was headed out on the road to Burrsfield.’

‘Do you know where he was going?’ I asked. They all shrugged. It was a foolish question anyway. De Caburn was hardly likely to share his diary of engagements with a group of villagers.

‘And where’s Father John?’ I asked, suddenly remembering Cornwall. The boy was about to reply, but the ploughman interrupted him. ‘He didn’t want us to return to Somershill, sire. Thought we should stay and finish the harvest at Versey.’

‘And why didn’t you?’

The ploughman shifted on his feet, seeming more uncomfortable than ever. I looked about at the other faces, but nobody would answer my question.

‘Why didn’t you stay at Versey?’ I said again. The ploughman muttered something inaudible. ‘Speak up, please,’ I told him.

‘We weren’t sure who’d pay us. Now Lord Versey is dead.’

‘And not just that, sire,’ said Hilda. ‘Versey is cursed.’

‘Last week Somershill was cursed, if you remember!’ I said.

‘Oh no. It’s much worse there,’ said Hilda. ‘Oh yes. First the girl went missing and then Lord Versey was murdered.’

‘Which girl went missing?’

‘My sister, sire,’ said the boy. ‘Mirabel Turner.’

‘No. She is—’

But then somebody caught my eye. The tall, red-haired youth who had followed Mirabel in church with jealous eyes. At mention of her name, his face hung and his eyes studied the ground, and suddenly I felt angry. It was not for him to grieve over Mirabel. She belonged to me.

I should have told the whole village that Mirabel was still alive. Instead I asked her brother to accompany me back to the house, telling the rest of them to meet me later in the fields.

For once, there was no discussion.

Chapter Seventeen

The colour returned to Mirabel’s face as she grasped her small brother and spun him about. It was such a joyful embrace that it provoked Mother to break up their reunion rudely, and demand the girl take their noisiness elsewhere. When they left the room, I realised Mirabel had been in the process of emptying Mother’s piss pot.

‘She’s not your maid,’ I said. ‘I keep telling you that.’

Mother shrugged nonchalantly. ‘Well. She’s certainly not my houseguest, Oswald. She must earn her keep if she wants to stay here.’

‘I want her to recuperate.’

Mother pulled a comb through her long, wiry hair and laughed. ‘Recuperate? That girl is as greedy as a horse. If she stays much longer, she’ll eat the whole winter store.’

‘Don’t speak about Mirabel that way. She’ll stay here as long as I say so.’

Mother pulled a face and returned to combing her hair. Her tresses were still black and sleek about the back of her head, but the hair on the top of her head was white and bushy. Suddenly she reminded me of a badger.

‘De Caburn has been found dead,’ I told her.

She dropped the comb. ‘Really?’

‘He was murdered.’

She puckered her mouth into an oval pout and gasped. ‘Goodness me. What a piece of luck.’

‘Mother!’

‘But that makes Clemence a widow. And a rich one at that.’ She flapped her hands in excitement. ‘She won’t want to dawdle about in that convent now. We should send Piers to tell her the good news.’

‘De Caburn was murdered,’ I repeated, ‘I would hardly call it good news.’

Mother raised an eyebrow. ‘Really, Oswald?’

‘Yes, Mother. He was draped over a shrine to the Virgin Mary.’

Now she smirked. ‘So you’re not in the slightest bit pleased de Caburn is dead?’ I didn’t reply. ‘Even though we’ve barricaded ourselves against the man for the last three days. A man who stole our village and attacked your sister.’

‘Very well,’ I conceded. ‘I won’t mourn his death.’

She returned to combing her hair. ‘How this tale has turned? De Caburn a victim of the Cynocephalus.’

I raised my eyes to the ceiling.

She ignored me. ‘Perhaps these dog heads are not the agents of Satan, as Cornwall says. Perhaps they fight on the side of the angels? Picking out the evil and depraved among us.’

‘Alison and Matilda were hardly depraved and evil.’

‘Meretrices. Lupae.’ This excursion into Latin took me by surprise. ‘They were she-wolves, Oswald. Whores.’

‘Says who?’

‘I know about such matters.’ She picked at the teeth of her comb. ‘Evil must be punished. Sin must be castigated.’

‘What evil? What sin? They were just young girls.’

She waved my question away. ‘It must be God’s will to punish them. The dog heads are doing His work.’I shook my head at this stupidity, which caused her to snort. ‘Who is committing these murders then, Oswald? Tell me that.’ I hesitated. ‘See. You don’t have an answer.’

‘But—’

‘Or when you do, it’s wrong. First it was that Bath woman. Then you told me it was Father John and de Caburn. But how does your theory stand now? With de Caburn murdered himself?’

I sighed and sat down beside her. ‘I’m not sure, Mother. But I shall ride out to Versey later and arrest Cornwall. He’s involved in this somehow.’

She smiled and stroked my arm. ‘Don’t disturb yourself, Oswald. There won’t be any more killings. I’m certain of it.’

‘I wish we could be sure.’

‘No, no. We can be absolutely certain. I’ve been studying the signs.’ She lifted her piss pot and twirled around the contents like a pan of soup. ‘There’s no blood in my water. See.’

Declining the opportunity to study my mother’s excreta, I left.

I had planned to take a party immediately to Versey, but put off my departure until the next morning so that we could take advantage of the fine weather and begin the harvest. But this delay was my next great mistake.

As I reached the fields that morning, the men were already working. A strong sun picked out the bristles of the wheat ears, while a soft wind swept over the field, moving the crop in gentle waves. It was a cheering sight for once. But then I saw my workers, and my cheerfulness was stubbed out.

I remembered the swathes of men who used to work the fields at this time of year. To my childish eyes they had always seemed like giants with scythes and pitchforks, working their way steadily across the field like an army of miner beetles. There were no giants today. Only the odds and ends of the village. The leftovers of the Plague.

Taking a scythe, I began to cut. My clumsy attempts at cutting the stalks appeared amusing to my reeve and a couple of his cronies, but I carried on anyway. My labour was needed, even if I was inefficient.

Further down the field a flock of woodlarks rose into the sky and flew back over us. I could hear the beat of their wings as they circled overhead, and then swooped down towards a copse of hazel at the edge of the field. The women put down their tools and pointed at the sky.

‘Why have they stopped working?’ I asked Featherby.

‘They don’t like disturbing the birds, sire. They think it’s—’

‘A bad omen?’

‘That’s right, sire. They do.’ I went back to my scything and remained silent on the matter.

We worked for another hour or so, until my back hurt so badly I thought I might never stand up straight again. Tall weeds grew amongst the wheat, threatening a harvest of dandelion and dock rather than grain.

And as we worked we disturbed many more flocks of birds, causing the women to stop over and over again to pray – to deflect the bad luck that was certainly coming our way. There would be bad luck, that was guaranteed, looking at the quality of our pickings. It would come to those who didn’t have enough food to eat this winter.

But I should have paid greater attention to the omens, and not dismissed them as fanciful wanderings. For, as we were sitting to eat some bread, there was a sudden commotion on the horizon. A thundering of horses’ hooves. A billowing of brightly coloured cloth, and the call of a group of men.

The women jumped up and instinctively drew themselves into a circle – the older shielding the younger within.

‘It’s the earl’s men,’ said Featherby. ‘I wonder what they want?’

‘Piers must have delivered my letter.’

‘Sire?’

‘I wrote to the earl about—’ I changed my mind about revealing any more to my reeve, though he loomed over me intently for an answer. ‘It’s no matter.’

Four young squires cantered towards me in the livery of Earl Stephen. Their horses were fine destriers, with coats as smooth as glass and legs so long a man could stand beneath their stomach barrel and not have to stoop. The young men in our group gasped at these magnificent beasts, but I knew better than to be impressed by such a spectacle. In my experience the most elegant of horse was likely to carry the most debased of man, and nothing here was going to change my opinion. The faces circling me were conceited and proud – carved from cruelty and privilege.

‘Are you Oswald de Lacy?’ the nearest squire asked. He rounded his horse, and it nearly knocked me over, though it was no accident.

‘Yes,’ I answered, trying to remain upright. ‘I’m grateful for your visit, but we’re no longer under attack.’

The squire swung a leg over his horse and dismounted. ‘What attack?’

‘I wrote a letter to the earl. But the problem is solved. You may return now.’

He eyed me suspiciously. ‘I don’t know anything about a letter.’

‘I thought perhaps you—’

His black hair was as gleaming as the coat of his horse, and his face was cleanly shaven. There was something familiar about him that nagged at me. ‘I have a warrant for your arrest,’ he said.

‘My arrest? What for?’ The other three riders closed in around me.

‘The murder of Walter de Caburn. Lord Versey.’

At last I recognised his face. His name was Godfrey, and once, when we were young boys, he had hidden a slug in my boots to amuse everybody at a family wedding. The smirk across his face caused me to recall the cold slime of the slug’s body as it flattened against my toes and stuck to my woollen stockings. I had squealed until my father beat me.