Plague Land (40 page)

Running my finger down the column I soon came to the one name I had hoped not to see. ‘Mirabel, daughter of Betty the ale-wife.’ There could be no doubt. Her name was just above ‘Alison and Matilda, daughters of Adeline Starvecrow’.

I sat down on the bench and once again my stomach rolled. ‘Get Mother down here,’ I said to Clemence, and for once she did not argue with me.

When Mother eventually descended to the hall, she had been crying and appeared more sheepish and discomfited than I had ever seen her. ‘I’m sorry, Oswald,’ she whimpered. ‘I didn’t want you to look at it.’

‘I’m sure you didn’t.’

Clemence tapped me on the shoulder. ‘You understand now that you cannot marry this girl because she is your sister.’

I looked away and said nothing, but Mother took my silence as agreement and went to grab the document. ‘Let’s forget this nonsense, Oswald. We’ll find you such a lovely girl to marry. Every bit as fetching as this silly Mirabel. These village wenches don’t age well, you know. Show me a pretty foal and I’ll show you an ugly—’

I seized her hand as she leant over. ‘Thank you, Mother. But I’ll keep hold of this list for now.’

Mother trembled. ‘There’s no need, Oswald.’

‘But I intend to study it a little further. For I see some words written here in a different hand.’

‘I’ll keep it safe. You mustn’t torment yourself.’

She tried again to wrest the document away from me, but I would not let go. ‘Do you see these words, Mother?’ I pointed to the parchment. ‘This is your hand, I believe.’

She screwed up her eyes and rubbed her temples. ‘I can’t see anything, Oswald. My eyesight is as poor as a mole’s.’

‘Then perhaps you remember writing these words?’ She remained silent. ‘Do you?’

She trembled. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘Really? You don’t remember crossing out the names of Alison and Matilda Starvecrow?’

She let go of the parchment and backed away towards the stairs to the solar. ‘I’m feeling quite disturbed, Oswald. There seems to be a noxious vapour in this room.’

‘Yes, there is. It’s you, Mother.’

She quickly shot up the stone steps, but I followed and shouted at her from the bottom of the stairwell. ‘
Lupae
.
Meretrices
. She-wolves. Whores. Those are the hateful words, Mother! To write against the names of two murdered girls.’

As a door slammed in the distance, I turned to face Clemence, who regarded me with her arms crossed. ‘You can’t expect Mother to like his bastards.’

I put my head in my hands. ‘Just go away, Clemence. Leave me alone.’

She sighed. ‘You’ll get over it, Oswald. There will be other girls.’

I looked up again at her. ‘Will there?’

For a fleeting moment, Clemence’s expression changed. I think she might even have felt sympathy for me.

But then her old demeanour returned.

A face pickled in its own acid.

Chapter Twenty-Two

I crept into the chapel and sat on a small bench in the corner. The Virgin looked down upon me with her newly cleaned eyes. The serenity of her face and the velvet silence of the chamber wrapped me in a moment of peace, before Brother Peter shuffled into the chapel cleaning a silver chalice with a linen rag. He was so engrossed in his polishing that he didn’t notice me at first.

I watched him for a while. His hair was now as white as the face of a barn owl, and his skin hung loosely from his skull. They say drink makes you fat to begin with, but eventually it sucks the flesh from your bones. It was true in Peter’s case. He had been a corpulent man in younger years, but now he was little more than a breathing skeleton. I should have hated him for ever after his sins against Leofwin, but as he whispered words of prayer, I suddenly wanted to seek solace in his embrace. I coughed to let him know I was there.

‘Hello, Oswald,’ he said rather tentatively. ‘I hadn’t expected to see you until tomorrow. How are your wedding plans progressing?’

‘They’re not.’

‘I see. Have you spoken to your mother?’

‘The marriage is cancelled, Brother. I’m surprised you haven’t heard. Mirabel is my half-sister.’

‘What?’ He seemed more surprised by this revelation than I had expected. Part of me had assumed he would already know the secret, after some revelation in the confessional. ‘Who told you such a tale?’ he asked.

‘Mother and Clemence.’

Peter huffed. ‘Those two harpies.’

‘They have a list, written by my father.’

‘What sort of list?’

‘An inventory of his bastards.’

Peter sat down next to me with a thud, dropping the silver chalice into his lap as if it were nothing more than a piece of everyday stoneware. ‘Have you seen this list?’

‘Yes. It’s written in Father’s hand. With the title
Filios Meos
.’

‘How many names were on it?’

‘I counted twelve.’

Then he laughed. ‘The arrogance of the man. Writing a list of his progeny for posterity. Who did he think he was? King David of Israel?’

‘I suspect he wanted to stop any unfortunate unions.’ I sighed. ‘Such as the one I had proposed.’

‘But you love this girl, Oswald.’

‘What good is that?’

Brother Peter puffed. ‘Don’t let this ridiculous piece of paper ruin your happiness. There’s no proof she’s your sister.’

I snorted in disbelief. ‘You can’t give me such advice, Brother. Think of the repercussions? Think of the
sin
.’

‘But I don’t believe in the list, Oswald. The girl’s mother was an ale-wife. Mirabel could be the child of any number of men from this village. Your father liked to think he could sire a nation, but his seed did not plant itself into every womb in Somershill. There were other men capable.’

‘But what if she
is
my sister? Think of our children. Look at Leofwin. Son of his own mother and grandfather. I couldn’t risk begetting such a poor creature.’

‘Nothing is certain, Oswald.’

‘Not certain, Brother? How would God suffer such ambivalence to His word?’

‘I’m just being rational, Oswald. And do not quote the word of God back to me. Not when you are such an unbeliever.’

‘But think of the words of Leviticus. Do not have relations with your half-sister, whether she is your father’s daughter or your mother’s daughter.’

‘I only want you to be happy, Oswald.’ The silver chalice then slipped from his lap and fell to the floor, making an ugly chime before rolling across the flagstones, circling, and coming to rest above the tombstone of my grandfather.

Peter quickly picked it up from the floor, before it offended any further member of my dead family. ‘I didn’t mean to upset you, Oswald. I’m sorry.’

‘Then keep your vile suggestions to yourself!’

I rode to the village to speak to Mirabel, before my resolve softened and I began to countenance Peter’s idea. Reaching her humble cottage, my heart sank down into my stomach and the urge to run away was strong. I tied my troublesome horse Tempest to a post and crept towards Mirabel’s door and spied at her through a crack.

She was sewing a gown. It was not an ornate dress, but still beautiful – there could be no doubt it was for our wedding. As she pierced and drew the needle through the cloth, she sang a song. Its tune was melodic and mournful.

Bird on a briar, bird on a briar,

We come from love, and love we crave,

Blissful bird, have pity on me,

Or dig, love, dig for me my grave.

I knocked at the door and she jumped up to greet me – but the grimness of my face soon betrayed my purpose in coming here. I did not possess the courage to share the true reason for my change of heart with Mirabel, but instead I gave her to believe our difference in station was to blame, and that she would be happier married to a village boy such as Nicholas Carpenter.

Mirabel took the news stoically, as if she had been expecting such an outcome all along – which only made me feel even more ashamed to have meddled in her life.

But if I wanted a regretful tear, she did not oblige. The door was shut firmly after me, and walking away I noticed a tall, red-haired boy sitting in a nearby tree. It was Nicholas Carpenter, and after I passed beneath his branch I’m certain he spat.

I was both heartbroken and morose, but had no time for the indulgence of self-pity, so following an afternoon of solitude in my bedchamber I resumed my duties. The barley and the rye were harvested, and the sheep were shorn. In the orchards, the plums were beginning to ripen in spite of the weather, though the apples were still green and hard. There were tithes to collect and rents to demand. I must soon hold a manorial court, and see to the administration of my estate. Both of my estates.

And there was still the issue of Cornwall’s trial. After all the terrible events of this summer, I would secure his conviction. Though, in truth, I still felt I lacked enough evidence against the man.

I travelled to Versey to question two of de Caburn’s servants about the night of their master’s murder – though they added little to those facts already known. De Caburn had received a letter, said to have been written by Clemence, requesting he visit her at the convent. Both claimed to have overheard their master discussing the letter with John of Cornwall, but there was some disagreement between the two of them as to the existence of a messenger. One servant claimed not to have seen anybody, whereas the other servant, the dirty man who slept by the fire, claimed to have let a mounted envoy cross the bridge.

The only detail on which they could both agree was the extensive mutilation they had witnessed upon de Caburn’s corpse. Particularly about his face and hands – where the skin had been scored and flayed so badly it was difficult at first to identify the man. It interested me to hear that they had also noticed a strange odour to the corpse. Not ‘cooked’, as Mirabel’s young brother had told me before. They described the smell as ‘burnt’.

I recorded all my findings onto a roll of parchment and analysed them nightly. But, for all my scrutiny, I could not read their story.

During this time plans were made for Clemence and Mother to move to Versey Castle. After months of their bitter company, I was pleased to be rid of them. Mother claimed the dampness of Versey would thicken her lungs and blacken her bile, but Clemence was glad to be leaving Somershill. Her only complaint was having to take Mother as her companion. Brother Peter still remained. I kept meaning to demand his departure for the abbey, but somehow I never quite got around to it.

I rode out one morning to Versey to oversee the preparations for the move of the de Lacy women, and took a diversion to Joan Bath’s cottage. It was a visit I had been putting off, as we had not met since the burning – but I wanted to return Leofwin’s silver knife to his mother. It would not go to the abbey as Brother Peter had proposed. I did not care to see it sold to finance more vestments and chalices.

I arrived just as Joan was slaughtering her pig. Her apron and skirts were covered in blood, as were her strong arms. Two blood-soaked boys hovered in the background, staring with wonderment at the pale entrails of the gutted beast.

Joan was as pleased as ever to see me. ‘What do you want? I’ve some butchery to attend to.’

‘Isn’t it a little early in the year to be slaughtering your sow?’

She shook her head. ‘Her last litter was too small. I’m swapping her meat for two ewes.’ She wiped her hands on her apron. ‘I’m moving the family to my father’s cottage next week. Will you let me all his fields?’

‘That’s a lot of land for one woman.’

‘Not if she has a herd of sheep.’

‘As long as you can pay the rent.’