Plague Land (11 page)

The landing was soft, my bones were not broken, and I couldn’t help but laugh out loud. After all the misery of this year it was a release to be joyful, if only for a few moments. But I wasn’t the only person to have found this spectacle amusing. Drawing myself up onto my elbows I realised a girl was watching me from behind a tree. She held my horse by his reins, while he nuzzled her hand as tamely as a pet lamb.

‘Are you injured, sire?’ Her face was beautiful. Her eyes dark brown and her skin the colour of honey – not in the least like the pale-skinned maids my mother had picked for both my brothers to marry.

‘I slipped from my horse’s back,’ I said unnecessarily, as no doubt she had seen the whole episode. ‘But I’m not harmed.’ I made an attempt to jump up from the bracken athletically to impress her, but only slipped back and landed on my elbow. She disguised a snigger and tiptoed forward to offer me her hand, which I reluctantly declined in the spirit of chivalry. Instead I stumbled inelegantly to my feet.

As she passed me Tempest’s reins, I couldn’t help but notice the shape of her body beneath her loose tunic. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked her.

She caught me looking at the sway of her breasts and quickly covered her chest with her arms. ‘Mirabel.’

‘Mirabel. A creature of wondrous beauty
.
’ I don’t know how such foolish words slipped out. Mirabel looked at her feet. ‘Sorry. I didn’t want to embarrass you,’ I said. ‘I was simply translating your name from its Latin origin
Mirabilis
. It means—’

‘Thank you, sire. I don’t know any Latin.’

‘Would you like to learn? I could teach you some basic words.’

‘I can’t read.’

An uncomfortable silence followed my awkward suggestion.

‘Your horse seems a little lame in his front leg, sire,’ she said, to change the subject.

‘Tempest just pretends to be lame. It’s because he doesn’t like me very much.’

Her smile returned a little. ‘Pick him some dandelion and meadowsweet. Then he’ll like you.’

‘I’ll try that. Thank you.’ She curtsied to me and then slipped away towards the trees.

‘Where do you live, Mirabel?’ I called after her.

‘In Somershill, sire.’

‘Whereabouts?’

But she had disappeared.

Distracted by my daydreams, I didn’t see Brother Peter until passing Tempest back to Piers in front of the stable. Peter was digging by the wall – a defence that had once run in a square about the old castle. Now its crumbling stone only remained along the north border – the other three sides having been demolished and used for building the new house. Before I was sent to the monastery I used to climb along this high crenellated wall and throw apples into the moat on the other side. In those days the moat had still been full of water – but now it was clogged with willow and bulrushes. No longer a line of defence, it had become a drain for the house – full of effluent, animal bones, and rotting kitchen waste.

I watched Peter drive a spade into the earth. The ground was soft from the recent rain. He pulled at a clump of thistles and threw their clod of roots to one side.

‘What are you planting?’ I asked him.

‘Herbs. My stocks of medicine are low.’

‘Are you going to grow any meadowsweet or dandelions?’

Peter looked at me quizzically. ‘This will be a herb garden, Oswald. Not a patch of weeds. Why are you asking such foolish questions? ‘

‘It was just something I heard. I wanted Tempest to like me.’

Peter stopped work and leant upon his spade. ‘Are you feeling unwell? You look a little flushed. And what’s that scratch on your face?’

I waved the question away. ‘Have you heard Matilda Starvecrow is missing and probably dead?’

He returned to his digging. ‘Yes. Your mother gave me the sad news this morning. I understand you raised the hue and cry.’

I nodded. ‘For what good it did me.’

‘So nothing was discovered?’

‘We didn’t find any dog heads, if that’s what you mean?’

Peter frowned and struck the soil again with his spade. ‘I need more lavender, and parsley. There’s some lovage by the barn, but I haven’t found any sweet cicely. There must be some on this estate. Perhaps I’ll look down by the pond.’

‘I’ve taken a woman called Joan Bath into custody,’ I told him. ‘It was she who scratched me.’

Peter looked up again. ‘Into custody for what?’

‘For the murders of course.’ He drove the spade deeply into the soil and then folded his arms. ‘Joan has good reason to want the girls dead,’ I continued, despite the look of doubt that was creeping across his face. ‘Her father had planned to marry one or other of the Starvecrow sisters.’

‘What of it?’

‘In the event of such a marriage, Joan stood to lose her claim to his land.’

Peter now grimaced. ‘It seems a rather circumstantial argument. What proof do you have?’

‘I found Old Ralph bound and gagged in Joan’s house. She meant to kill him. Her own father.’

‘But does that mean she murdered the Starvecrows?’

‘I think it does.’

Peter cocked his head to one side. ‘Maybe.’ He then resumed his digging, although this time he was just scratching at the surface of mud. ‘Joan is the village whore, Oswald. Did you know that?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s unlikely to receive a fair trial.’

‘If she murdered two girls, then she deserves to hang.’

‘If . . .’ He looked up from his digging and fixed me with a glare. ‘It’s convenient you’ve solved the mystery so speedily.’

‘I thought you’d be pleased. You told me to investigate.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘I’m pleased you’re making an effort. Of course. But you must not rush to conclusions, Oswald.’

‘I’m not.’

He dropped the spade and took my arm. ‘I’ve known the Bath family for many years. Joan is a sinner, but she has been sinned against. By those closest to her.’ Then he whispered, ‘I cannot reveal the secrets of the confessional, but you must believe me in this regard.’

I shook his arm away. If we were discussing convenience, then nothing was more convenient to sway an argument than a priest alluding to a secret he had heard in confession. ‘What manner of sins?’

He frowned. ‘I cannot say, Oswald. I am bound by my oaths.’

‘Then don’t drop such hints.’

‘I merely want you to think the matter through. To make some allowances for the woman’s behaviour. The crime against her father might have nothing to do with the murders of the Starvecrow sisters.’

‘Why do you care so much? What is the village whore to you?’

Now he pointed his finger into my face. ‘That’s enough, Oswald! Christ taught us to love our neighbour, even if she is a harlot. Have you forgotten everything you were taught at the monastery?’

I shrank away from him. ‘I still think Joan is guilty,’ I said softly.

‘You
think
?’ He snorted. ‘What good is that? You must be
sure
if you are to send a person to the gallows.’

We didn’t speak for a few moments and I considered leaving, but it upset me to argue with Peter – so I took the beads from my pouch and held them out on my palm, hoping to appease him by seeking his opinion. ‘What do you think of these, Brother?’ I asked.

Peter screwed up his eyes to look closer. His near sight was poor. ‘They’re red coral. Where did you get them?’

‘I found them under Matilda’s bed.’

He took a single bead in his hand and held it to the light.

‘Have you seen such beads before?’ I asked.

‘Yes. On a paternoster rosary.’

‘Could it belong to Cornwall then?’

‘Why do you ask that?’

‘He was acting strangely in the Starvecrow cottage. As if he had lost something.’

Peter frowned. ‘I doubt it. Only a bishop or baron would own such an item. Coral paternosters are very valuable.’

‘Did our abbot own one?’

‘No. I don’t believe so.’

‘I just thought I’d seen it before.’

Peter smiled. ‘I expect you saw a similar rosary when the Bishop of Rochester visited.’

I shrugged. ‘Do you think Cornwall could have stolen it?’

A shadow now crossed Peter’s face. ‘More reckless accusations, Oswald? We might not like Cornwall, but the man is still a priest.’

‘Then what were prized beads doing under the bed of a peasant girl?’

‘Perhaps Matilda is your thief?’

‘But who would she have stolen them from? I doubt she knew any archbishops or barons.’

I held out my hand for Peter to return the bead, but instead he closed his fingers about it. ‘I’ve heard Brother Thomas still lives,’ he told me. ‘He’s staying in Cowden before he returns to the abbey. I could take the beads to him and ask his opinion? He is an expert in devotional jewellery.’

I hesitated, feeling strangely reluctant to pass over the remaining nine beads. They were such perfect little spheres of red and I suddenly felt covetous of their beauty and value.

But I was being foolish. ‘Of course, Brother. Ask Thomas. It would be helpful.’

I gave him the beads, which he dropped into a pouch. ‘And will you think again regarding Joan Bath?’ he asked me, as he tied the pouch to his belt.

I sighed. ‘I don’t know.’

‘Please, Oswald.’

‘But I’m sure she’s guilty.’

The next morning I visited Old Ralph, to see if it were possible to rouse a little more sense from the man. He was being cared for by his sister-in-law, Mary Cadebridge – a local woman known for her good deeds and willingness to embrace any opportunity to improve her standing with the Almighty.

Gilbert often told the tale of how Mary had welcomed a group of wandering flagellants into her home when news of the Plague first reached Somershill. She hoped their devotion to pain might dust her family with the grace of God. But the flagellants were not part of the famed group from Flanders. And instead of reflecting her in their piety, they turned out to be a group of swindlers, who made off with her supply of wine and the virginity of her daughter.

When I informed Gilbert that Old Ralph was staying at Mary’s house, he raised a rare smile. ‘Mary used to deny they were even related,’ he told me. ‘Though the man was married to her own sister.’ Then he chuckled. ‘If Ralph doesn’t die of being tied up by his own daughter, then he’ll die of being prayed to death.’

Mary’s cottage was grander and more neatly kept than many others in the village, but the noise of Ralph’s moaning and the wailing of Mary’s newly born grandson reminded me of the Bankside stews I had once seen on a visit to Southwark cathedral. Noisy brothels that clustered along the banks of the Thames and paid such good rents to the Bishop of Winchester.

I knocked at Mary’s door and enquired after Ralph, but was told he still ran a fever and was too unwell to speak to anybody but God himself. Mary assured me she was praying for his soul and was certain he would either be delivered back into the fold of his family by the next morning, or transported into the next life surrounded by those he loved. Mary then cursed Joan for subjecting her own father to such degradations, and hoped to see the witch hanging by the throat at the very earliest opportunity.

Walking away from Mary’s house I began to wonder if Mary herself stood to inherit the possession of Old Ralph’s land in the event of his death, with Joan removed from the line. She seemed suddenly so interested in justice for her brother-in-law – a man she had previously refused to acknowledge.

My next port of call was the gaol house. I would tell you this building was an impenetrable fortress modelled upon the White Tower itself, but a modest room with bars at the window was a more appropriate way to describe it. It did at least have a gaoler, Henry Smith, though, as his name suggests, he also worked the village forge. I believe he had secured the position as some-time keeper by offering my father a deal on the manufacture of the studded doors.