Plague Land (45 page)

I nodded. ‘Yes, Mother. I do.’

‘The baby was a sickly child.’ She sighed. ‘But he was a boy, and that’s all Henry cared about. We needed three to be secure of a de Lacy succession, so I agreed to bear him one last son. You were our spare, Oswald. Our extra boy, in case your older brothers died. And, as luck would have it, that is exactly what happened. Henry was right all along. The de Lacy family has needed you.’

‘But I’m not a de Lacy, am I? That person lies in a grave marked Thomas Starvecrow.’

‘You’ve been raised as a de Lacy. That’s good enough.’

‘I’m not sure it is.’

‘I couldn’t have borne any more children, Oswald, so it’s good enough for me. I didn’t care you weren’t my own child. You were the third son we needed. That
I
needed. Now Henry would finally leave me alone. He had enough whores around the village to keep him company.’ She waved her hand at me crossly. ‘Don’t pretend to be shocked. I was pleased to be rid of his sweating and grunting.’ Then she looked to the ceiling and appeared to be holding back a tear. ‘But why did so many of his bastards live? When so many of my own poor children had to die?’

‘I’m sorry, Mother. I don’t know.’

She took a deep breath and sighed. ‘They say a woman’s womb needs to be kept warm with hot seed, Oswald, but I was quite ready for mine to cool. Can you understand that?’

I nodded.

‘The wheel of fortune always turns against a woman in the end. Particularly in childbirth. If Henry had known our son was dead, he would have had me in calf again by the next spring. Don’t you see? My body couldn’t have taken it. I’m not a breeding heifer.’

I looked into her face. It was lined and pale, but she must have been beautiful once. She took her hand away and gulped from the pewter cup. It left a deposit of grey foam on her upper lip.

‘I’ll return to the monastery tomorrow,’ I told her. ‘The abbey is short of brothers, so there’ll be no problem.’

She wiped her hand across her mouth. ‘No you won’t. You are needed to run the estate.’

‘But I thought you would want me to go, Mother.’

‘Don’t be so foolish. You will remain here as Lord of Somershill and Versey. I command it.’

‘But—’

Now I caught a wildness in her eye. ‘By the bones of St Anselm! Stop arguing with me.’ Hector began a steady growl from the corner of the room. ‘Why on earth would I want you to leave?’

I went to answer, but Mother wasn’t waiting for my reply. ‘Listen to me, Oswald. You have made a slow start to your duties. But your work on the estate has not been without merit.’

‘I’m not sure that’s true.’

‘Nonsense. You are a clever boy and will prove useful to the family. I’m sure of it. Look how you solved the mystery of those murders. Nobody else had the wherewithal.’

I blushed a little at these words, as Mother was rarely generous with her compliments.

‘And you have added the Versey estate to our own. That is something my husband never managed.’

‘That was just luck, Mother.’

‘But it is good to be lucky, Oswald. At least the wheel of fortune is turning in somebody’s favour.’

‘But what about Clemence?’

She snorted. ‘Clemence will keep her peace and let you remain here as lord. I’ve made it plain that it’s not in her interests to disobey me. She would bring dishonour on the whole family.’

‘But she might tell somebody.’

‘She thinks she’s so clever, but she has to be forced to think ahead. If you were swapped as a baby, then why not her as well? She could be the daughter of the farmhand and the dairymaid. She would turn the de Lacys into a laughing stock. Her scheming would rebound upon her before she could turn the milk sour.’

‘I’ll speak to her, Mother.’

‘It’s up to you, Oswald. But don’t expect a warm welcome.’

I knocked at the door to the library, the room that Clemence had now taken over as her private chamber, despite its previous life as an exclusively male domain. She called for me to enter, but didn’t look up – preferring to keep at the destruction of the stitching on a tapestry that would never hang. Humbert held her yarn and watched me impassively.

‘I understand you are to stay,’ she said. ‘And that I am to thank you for trying to save my life.’

‘There is no need to thank me, Clemence. Unless you mean it.’

Now she looked up at me uncomfortably and seemed about to say something, but the words stuck in her throat. Instead she returned to her needlework, stabbing her finger and drawing blood. ‘Look what you’ve made me do,’ she said crossly.

‘I wanted to make you an offer,’ I said, as she sucked the blood from her finger.

‘What sort of offer?’

‘I know you cannot be Lady of Somershill. But return to Versey. I won’t stand in your way.’

She kept her eyes focussed on the cloth in her lap. ‘I thought the earl instructed you to manage my estate.’

‘You could do it instead. As long as we kept the arrangement to ourselves.’

‘And when my child is born? Whose estate is it then?’

‘Your child?’

Now she looked up and flashed a smile. ‘Yes, Oswald. You were correct when you guessed I was carrying a child. My son will be both a true de Caburn and a true de Lacy. What do you say to that?’

I couldn’t be sure if she was telling the truth or merely taunting me. But I no longer cared. ‘Then your son shall inherit both estates upon reaching maturity. What do
you
say to that?’

I would tell you I received an embrace at the generosity of my noble offer, but the reality was rather more muted. In fact, it was subdued enough to be described as a sigh. ‘Thank you, Oswald. But you shouldn’t make such a promise.’

‘Why not?’

‘When you marry you will change your mind. At least Mirabel will expect it for your children.’

‘Mirabel?’

She cocked her head slightly and eyed me curiously. ‘Yes, Oswald. You told me you loved the girl. I assumed you still wished to marry her.’

My mouth hung open.

‘Goodness me. You hadn’t worked it out, had you?’ Now she laughed. ‘And Mother calls you our great investigator.’

‘Worked what out?’

‘My father is not your father. Which means Mirabel is not your sister.’

I stood up to leave. ‘Please excuse me, Clemence.’

Now an odd expression crossed her face. Neither a sneer nor a scornful grimace, it could only be described as a tender smile – though her mouth was unable to hold this unfamiliar pose for longer than a moment. ‘Go quickly, Oswald,’ she whispered.

‘I will.’

The rain had fallen upon many secrets in the last few days, causing them to spring up like dandelions in a field of grain. We had cut their heads or trampled them down, but secrets have deep roots and will always grow again – only the next time they will set their seeds.

So, while I had the chance, it was time to lead my life. I rode to Mirabel’s cottage, hoping to tell her the good news, but dismounting from Tempest I found the place to be eerily quiet. No smoke seeped out through the thatch of the roof, and the door was closed, though the day was warm. I called out Mirabel’s name and tried to push the door open, but the wood was unyielding to my touch and soon I realised that it was jammed fast with a peg.

In the distance somebody shouted to get my attention. I turned, hoping to see Mirabel’s sweet face, but instead it was old Eleanor, who was seated in the garden of the neighbouring cottage with her swollen leg resting on a stool. Her mute grandson was beside her, still bashing mindlessly at his cartwheel.

‘Where is Mirabel Turner?’ I asked.

‘She’s Mirabel Carpenter now, sire. She married young Nicholas.’

‘When?’

‘Two days ago.’

‘And where are they now?’

‘Up country, sire.’ Eleanor laughed. ‘Said she’d never come back.’

Epilogue

Somershill Manor, November 1350

My life has taken many turns in the last year. I am now Lord Somershill – the keeper of more than a thousand acres in Kent. The owner of a village whose inhabitants owe me servitude. And the master of a grand house complete with hunting forests, cellars, and a stable of fine horses. Mother was correct – the wheel of fortune has turned in my favour. I have been blessed, considering I am the bastard son of a lowly priest and a poor spinner.

But the wheel has also turned against me – for sometimes, when I think of Brother Peter, Mirabel, or the Starvecrow sisters, an orb of pain spins in my stomach and rises into my chest. It is hot and biting, and eats away at my heart, making me miserable, if I will allow it. It is then that I find my work on the estate most appealing, for against all expectations, I have come to enjoy my duties. There is solace to be found in routine. And I believe I will make a good lord.

Still, for all the times I have tried to forget the murders and put such troubles from my mind, there remained one stone in this story that I could not leave unturned. My curious nature would not allow me to do so.

A crypt lies beneath the Somershill chapel, where the skeletons of the de Lacy family lie for eternity. However, there was one de Lacy not residing in this crypt. A boy whom Brother Peter had told me was buried in the village churchyard, with the name Thomas Starvecrow scratched into a square of stone above his grave.

At full moon, this September just gone, I rode Tempest to the churchyard and searched for Thomas’s grave – for I had to know if Peter’s story were true. He had told me so many lies.

The moon lit my path, but the weeds amongst the headstones had grown long while the parish waited for the bishop to send a new priest. Pushing aside the cornflowers and fleabane, I found the headstone at last, hidden in the corner of the churchyard, amongst the graves of the many other Starvecrows.

I then dug into the soil, hoping nobody would discover me at my grave-robbing, and after a short while I found the simple wooden box that Peter had described to me. I pulled this coffin from the earth, waited until the moon had passed a cloud, and then prized open the lid – looking inside to see a ragged length of cloth wrapped about a thing that was the size of a tiny infant.

And then I felt guilty for disturbing the remains of a child. A poor boy whose place I had taken. I went to replace the lid, but curiosity once again got the better of me. Reaching into the coffin, I carefully pulled back the cloth, but my fingers did not find the tiny, fragile skeleton I had expected.

Instead they touched something that was cold, hard and unyielding.

The missing wooden effigy of the Christ child.

Glossary

Braies

The medieval version of underpants for men. A loose undergarment – usually made from a length of linen that was wound about the legs and bottom and then tied at the waist with a belt.

Chief Tithing-Man

Medieval law enforcement was controlled at a local level by groups of men organised into groups known as tithings. Formed of roughly ten to twenty men, each man was responsible for the actions and good behaviour of the other men in his group. The Chief Tithing-Man managed this tithing, and answered for their conduct to the constable.

Childwyte Fine

A fine levied in the manorial court against female villeins who gave birth to illegitimate children.

Constable

The constable reported crimes to the bailiff at the Hundreds Court.

Coroner

A local government official whose duty was to protect the financial interest of the crown in criminal proceedings. Any death that was considered unnatural had to be reported to the coroner.