Plague Land (8 page)

‘Look at these,’ I said, opening my palm to Cornwall. He leant forward to take a bead, but I pulled away my hand and looked at him quizzically. Suddenly I had the suspicion that the rest of the beads were in his pocket.

‘I’ll keep them safe,’ I said. ‘The sheriff will want to see them.’

He snorted. ‘The sheriff?’

‘Yes. This time we will raise the hue and cry.’

‘But—’

I put my hand on his arm. ‘You are Chief Tithing-Man, are you not?’

‘Yes, sire.’

‘Then gather the men outside the manor house. Without delay.’

The men came mostly on small ponies, but Cornwall arrived in their midst on a fine destrier, and my first thought was to wonder how a priest could afford such a war horse? Not wanting to be overshadowed by the man, I foolishly asked our stableboy Piers to saddle up my father’s black stallion, a horse named Tempest – the most capricious and unpredictable mount in the stable. Piers baulked at my request, as nobody had ridden Tempest since Father’s death and I was the least likely member of the household to end his spell of freedom from duty. I was fortunate therefore that the horse was in an amiable mood that particular morning and did not buck me off in front of the men.

Drawing the crowd together, I informed them we were not only searching for a murderer, but also Matilda’s body. I then described the stone-faced woman from the Starvecrow cottage, asking if anybody knew her identity. My request for information was met with vehement shakings of the head and exaggerated shrugs. When a young boy tried to raise his hand to answer my question, he was soundly shoved by his neighbour.

It was a mistake not to press the boy further, but Cornwall’s horse was now pawing at the ground as if trained to cause a diversion. With the attention of the group now wandering from me and settling upon the priest, I cantered grandly around the men before setting out across the meadows towards the forest. It wasn’t long before Cornwall chose to ride ahead of me. Digging my heels into Tempest, I tried to regain my position, but suddenly my horse lost interest, and soon I was riding alongside the old men on their small mules and ponies. As we reached the forest path I even kept pace for a while with an ancient man on a donkey, who told me he had only joined the search party since he refused to stay at home and listen to the wittering of the women.

As we spread out amongst the coppiced chestnuts, Cornwall contradicted my instructions to the men at every turn – and soon it seemed we were not looking for a murderer, nor even a body. Instead the men spent most of the morning searching for the signs of evil, though Cornwall was none too specific in his description of what these might be. Not that this lack of clarity concerned the men, as they were utterly taken in by Cornwall’s story – his premise only further supported by the small group who claimed to have heard the howls of dogs the previous night, their calls advancing and retreating about the village like the roll of thunder. It was scarcely possible to argue with these tales, since the men were so convinced by their authenticity that each had a more dramatic account to tell than the last.

Gower had slept with the fire alight and an axe by his bed. He had barricaded the door to his house with a bench and a trestle table. When John Penrice claimed to have taken the very same measures, Gower then boasted he had even corralled his stinking pigs into his home, to keep them safe. The smell and effluent of these creatures within a small cottage must have been astounding, and demonstrated the true evil of Cornwall’s fairy tale. Gower still had a small child alive, and this poor boy had spent the night in the company of pigs, merely because his father had been hoodwinked into believing that dog-headed devils were roaming our estate.

When I questioned their stories further, it seemed more than coincidence to me that these were the same men who had also been drinking late at the tavern. Though they protested heartily, I doubted a single one of them had heard the milk-souring howls they claimed to have. More likely it was the screech of an owl or the squeal of a fox.

When we had failed to find any evidence of Cornwall’s evil in the forest, I took the opportunity to repeat my more practical instructions to the men. Look for anything out of the ordinary. A hiding place. Newly made tracks or newly turned soil. Blood-stained clothing.

The curl of a sneer crept across Cornwall’s face as he listened to my words, but I was determined to give reason and logic a chance to solve this crime. Why should his wild superstition and delusions have all the answers? My approach was far more likely to produce a perpetrator than his mad visions of devilry. I just needed time to convince the men.

At first it seemed I might be succeeding. They began a methodical search, keeping their eyes to the forest floor and their mouths shut. But when a young boy stumbled across a tree adorned with the skulls of small animals, my work was immediately undone.

Cornwall rounded up the men to look upon the boy’s discovery. ‘It is an altar to Satan,’ he announced.

The bones were weathered and I was able to pull a clump of fur from a fox tail that hung from a branch.

‘Don’t touch it, sire,’ said Cornwall. ‘The Devil has cursed this place.’ I groaned. Anybody could see this shrine was nothing more than a pathetic attempt to pray to the full range of deities – from the gods of the wood to the God of Israel. It had been here a long time and was, in all likelihood, the work of a desperate soul during the days when the Plague had flooded through this valley like the waters of a winter storm. I noticed Cornwall failed to draw anybody’s attention to the crudely formed crucifix of stones that also lay beneath the tree.

After this unfortunate discovery, I suggested we split the group into two. Cornwall would continue to search the forest, whereas I would take a band of men towards the next village, Burrsfield. Cornwall claimed he needed the larger of our two groups, since he might come across a pack of dog heads at any moment and need the men to defend him with pikes or crossbows. Surely his words of prayer and the sight of his crucifix would be of more assistance in this situation, I suggested? He could scarcely argue, but suddenly there were more volunteers to go with me than were prepared to stay with him.

Despite this unexpected and sudden enthusiasm I picked only five men – a group whose company I found agreeable.

As we parted, the rain clouds opened and droplets of water quickly pierced the canopy of leaves, so that even with our hoods raised, we were soon wet to our skins. The summer had been like this for many days. The sunshine was ever short-lived, building to a bout of intense humidity and then followed by a storm. The forest still smelt of fungus and leaf mould, when it should have been sweetly scented with elderflower and honeysuckle. The dew ponds were overflowing and the mud of the tracks was thick and sticky.

The place felt as sinister and dank as the crypt of the abbey, and we hurried to be away from its shaded menace.

On reaching Burrsfield, I dismounted quickly and led Tempest to the stream, when a well-dressed man with a well-supplied belly limped across the path to greet me. He bowed to me awkwardly given his crooked leg and I recognised him as Geoffrey Wallwork, a local yeoman farmer who rented eighty acres from me. We exchanged greetings, and when I explained our purpose, he was insistent we join him for a warming bowl of pottage. Given the dampness of my clothes and the dejection that had suddenly descended on the men, I accepted his offer.

Wallwork’s home was set back from the village by the length of two strips, and was a grander house than any of his neighbours’, with jetties forming an overhang above the small windows of the ground floor. There was no reason to increase the space in the upper chambers in this way, since the constriction of city life was not suffered in this small village – so Wallwork could only have added the projecting overhangs to show off his wealth. I noticed that these follies only existed along the frontage of the house in order to be fully admired from the road. At the back of the house, the walls were flat from the ground to the roof.

Entering the hall I remembered having been here as a young child. The air was dark and smoky, and laced with the salty-sweet odour of the hams that hung from the high beams of the open hall, hoping to catch the smoke that rose from the open hearth and then seeped through the roof tiles. Wallwork called a girl from the shadows and she set up a trestle table and a bench for us next to the fire pit. While I warmed myself, my men were sent to the other end of the house to be seen to by a servant in the makeshift porch that served as the Wallworks’ kitchen.

‘Do you remember my daughter Abigail?’ asked Wallwork as the girl laid two pewter bowls upon the table.

The girl was as fat and pink as her father. She smiled at me coyly and swept back her loose hair.‘Good day to you, sire,’ she said, bending low to pour me a drink – her large breasts wobbling like two bowls of freshly curdled cheese.

‘Abigail was to marry John Mortimer, weren’t you, dear girl,’ said Wallwork, taking the girl’s arm and leading her into a patch of light, so I might view her beauty to greater effect. ‘It was a very good match. He rented a good number of acres near Westford. But of course Abigail is able to read, and we farm eighty acres, so he would have been equally blessed.’

The girl repeated the unnerving grin at me. Wallwork continued. ‘The unfortunate fellow died last year and poor Abigail is left without a marriage prospect. In the prime of her life. Healthy as a heifer in a bull field, aren’t you, dear girl.’ Abigail giggled and curtsied to her father.

‘There’s not a man around here worthy of her,’ he continued, his face beginning to redden. ‘Of course I’ve had many suitors at the door. But I tell them to go back to their families with their offers of marriage. I shall only find the best husband for my precious girl. And she’s the only child I have left, sire.’

‘We’ve all lost so many of our loved ones,’ I said, and then quickly changed the subject. ‘Now, Wallwork. I need to know. Have you had any trouble in the village? Has anybody raised your suspicions?’

‘Is this to do with the Starvecrow murders?’ I nodded. ‘So you think the murderer might have come from Burrsfield?’

‘It’s possible. But it could equally have been a stranger, or a traveller.’

‘There haven’t been any strangers here lately, sire. We don’t trust a soul we don’t know. Not since the Plague.’ Then a smile spread across his pink face. ‘It was the pilgrims who carried it here, you know. On their way to Rochester to pray for salvation. A lot of good that did them!’

The irony tickled him, but when I didn’t laugh, he stopped promptly. ‘I’m sorry, sire. I just think they would have fared better by staying at home.’

He then leant forward to speak to me quietly, even though the room was empty apart from his daughter. ‘Now, if you ask me, those Starvecrow girls were probably done in by a
certain person
in Old Ralph’s family.’

‘Which
certain person
?’

‘Most likely Joan Bath,’ cut in Abigail. ‘She’s an old biddy bitch and no mistaking.’

Wallwork coughed. ‘Thank you, Abigail.’ Then he laughed again and slapped my leg. ‘These young girls? Full of earthiness.’ I think he may even have winked at me. I stood up instinctively.

‘Please, sire. Sit down. Abigail will get you some pottage, won’t you, girl? And bring the silver spoons. Lord Somershill would like to see them.’

‘I’m quite happy with this horn spoon, thank you, Wallwork.’

‘But my silver spoons bear the leopard’s head hallmark, sire. They are the best quality.’

I sat down again, but further along the bench. ‘I’d like to know what makes you suspect this woman,’ I said. ‘I recognise her name.’

‘There’s plenty who know her name,’ said Abigail, but Wallwork glared at her before she had a chance to continue.

‘Go and get the spoons, girl,’ he said, though she still didn’t move.

Wallwork then edged towards me, but shifting away from him any further along the bench would have meant falling off the end. ‘The Starvecrow girls were left orphaned,’ he told me. ‘After the Pestilence. But they have some hogs and possession of the land near a stream. Nothing like my family of course.’ He puffed out his chest. ‘I have eighteen hogs and four dozen ewes.’

‘Joan Bath?’

Wallwork laughed. ‘Of course, sire. Joan Bath is Old Ralph’s daughter. You must know him? He’s a tenant of yours in Somershill.’ I nodded, though it was doubtful I could pick him out from the young Johns or old Geoffreys. ‘She was married to John Bath.’

Abigail laughed. ‘Though not for long. She quickly did for him.’

Wallwork glared at his daughter again. ‘He died of the flux, girl. There’s no proof Joan killed him. Now go and get that pottage and those silver spoons!’ As Abigail reluctantly sloped out of the room, Wallwork smiled at me. ‘Young girls will get such ideas into their heads.’ He patted my knee. ‘She needs company, sire.’