Plague Land (24 page)

I might have wanted to hide away in the kitchen, but I was not welcome there. Not only was my presence distracting for the servants, but Gilbert had not forgiven me regarding the grave in the forest. He threw me hostile glances and crossed himself repeatedly until I left the chamber and went instead to wait by the gatehouse, in the hope that Brother Peter would miraculously return in time for the wedding.

The shadow of the headless body hung over me like a pall, and it was impossible to uphold the pretence of joy at Clemence’s union that Mother had firmly instructed me to maintain. My previous night’s sleep had once again been disturbed by the same nightmare. The filthy cottage. The knife at my skin. The rosary over my face. I wished Peter would return. I was tired and frightened and felt bereft without him.

De Caburn finally made an appearance at Somershill around noon, though he had been drinking heavily and had not changed his tunic for a clean over-kirtle, despite this being his wedding day. At the arrival of his noisy party, I slipped into the cellar to avoid seeing him and his unpleasant friends – one of whom was certainly the man with the battle-scarred skin. I did not see his face, but knew him to be the same person – since the low boom of his voice rattled the bottles on the cellar shelves.

De Caburn and his entourage did not stay long at the manor, as Mother soon shooed them away to the village with warnings of the bad luck they would bring upon the marriage should they see the bride before the ceremony.

I am told they gladly left and went straight to the village tavern.

When absolutely certain they were gone, I wandered into the garden. The rain had ceased for a while, although the sky was still as grey as a muddy puddle. And then, on an impulse, I picked some roses for Clemence from the Damask bush – an old rose that grew against the warm wall of the chapel. Mother said it came from Persia and had been sold to my grandfather by a crusader, who swapped it for enough money to buy a new pair of shoes. Each year we thought the rare and precious rose might die, but then its ancient fist of wood gave forth a new crop of green shoots, which sprouted up as vigorously as if the bush were only just planted.

I reached for one of its crimson blooms, and though the petals were dotted with rain drops, its scent was as heady as ever. Picking a number of stems, I ran to give them to my sister as she passed through the great hall. She took the posy from me with some grace, but then threw it back and cursed. A thorn had pierced her finger and blood had seeped onto her gown.

As the rain continued to pour, Clemence de Lacy was married to Walter de Caburn in the porch of St Giles church, as was the custom. The ceremony was hastily conducted in front of the whole village by Father John of Cornwall, the priest with little Latin. Thankfully the earl did not attend.

When the vows were finished, the village onlookers made their customary exclamations in praise of the beauty of the bride and the dignity of her new husband. But their words were a sham. The rain had leached Clemence’s rouge into pink stripes. And de Caburn, far from being a chivalrous knight, looked more like a guttersnipe who had stolen a barrel of ale and drunk it all himself. For my own part, it was impossible to feel any joy at this union, and as petals were thrown into the newlyweds’ path, I stepped back to avoid catching Clemence’s eye.

The Peverils were even more disgusted by the appearance of my sister and her new husband than they had been by the missing tile. But at least the bedraggled bride and groom diverted attention from Cornwall’s Latin – though it was clear he had been practising, since his rendition of the vows was more passable than the mass I had attended. Nevertheless, it was still a hopeless cobble of incorrect vocabulary and poorly declined nouns. I noted Aunt Hillary’s exasperated puffs at each of his grammatical errors.

With the ceremony and blessing completed, there was just one more obligation to fulfil before we could finally think about the wedding feast. A progress to the well of St Blaise, to take holy waters with the bride.

The well was only a short walk from the church, but I still heard de Caburn protesting, especially as the visit involved drinking something as dreary as spring water. But Mother stood her ground with him. The de Lacys always took the well water after a marriage. Indeed, she had sent Gilbert to the well that same morning to cover the shrine in flowers. When de Caburn continued to complain, Mother pointed her finger at her new son-in-law and advised him to think of his heirs. If Clemence drank the waters of the well she would produce a son within the year. It seemed this promise, if nothing else, persuaded de Caburn that the visit was worth the effort.

We progressed up the woodland path towards the spring, and then gathered about the entrance to the well – waiting for Clemence and de Caburn to descend the stone steps, take the first cup and then invite the other women of the estate to join them in drinking the miraculous waters. They were gone only a few moments before we heard a high-pitched scream, followed by the sight of Clemence bursting from the cave, accompanied by her new husband and Mother.

‘What’s the matter?’ I grabbed Mother’s arm, but for once the woman was speechless.

I pushed through and ran down the steps towards the well, but found nothing immediately terrifying. I wondered whether Clemence had been spooked by her own reflection, as I had been at my last visit, so I leant over the large basin and looked into the water, but saw only my own face. It was the same as last time – my own blond hair and pale blue eyes looked back at me.

But then something caught my eye, for my likeness was not the only inhabitant of this water. There was something else lurking beneath the surface. I looked closer. But it was not a smooth stone, nor even a pilgrim’s ampulla. It was a globe of blackened flesh, surrounded by a halo of floating golden hair.

My heart thumped, but this time I did not back against the wall. Instead I took a few deep breaths before putting my arm into the trough and trying to lift the head out by its hair. The hair was fine and slippery and difficult to grasp, and when I did pull it from the water, it came away in a mat, leaving the rest of her skull behind.

I felt sick.

Now I could hear Mother shouting for me at the top of the steps, so I called for her to stay where she was. I then plunged my hands into the water a second time, and now scooped out the whole of the head. Large maggots had burrowed into the slit across her neck and wriggled in my hands.

I quickly wrapped the head in my cloak and turned to find Gilbert’s face behind me. His face was as grey as the walls of the cave.

‘It’s Matilda, isn’t it?’ he said.

I nodded.

‘At least we can bury the girl now.’

Leaving the well we found Mother and a noisy crowd had gathered at the top of the stairs. Cornwall pushed his way through their shocked faces. ‘So, the beast has attacked again.’

I ignored the statement and told the villagers to step back and let me pass. But instead they pressed forward.

‘Sire. Is it true you have the head of Matilda Starvecrow?’ Cornwall asked me, pointing at the small package that I cradled in my arms.

‘Yes, it is. Now let me through.’ Nobody moved.

‘This is a bad omen,’ said Mother. ‘Clemence’s marriage is cursed.’

‘Be quiet,’ I said, hoping Clemence had not heard her own mother’s words. Thankfully my sister was slumped under a tree a few yards away, whilst being fanned by Ada. De Caburn and his friends were gathered not far from her and seemed to have found the whole incident amusing. The battle-scarred man caught my eye and waved.

‘It’s not a curse,’ I said quickly. ‘Matilda’s head was left here by her murderer.’

‘The head wasn’t in the well this morning,’ said Gilbert. ‘When I put flowers on the shrine.’

‘Has anybody else been up here since?’ I said, looking about me.

Most shook their heads, but a boy found his tongue. ‘We’ve all been at the church, sire. Except for Old Ralph.’

‘And his daughter,’ said a woman, with breasts the size of whole cheeses.

‘Old Ralph has advanced gangrene in his arm,’ I told them, ‘and Joan Bath is locked in the village gaol. Neither of them could have put Matilda’s head here.’

‘Then you agree this is the work of the dog heads?’ said Cornwall, keen to re-establish his place at the centre of this drama.

I was sorely tempted to reply to this statement, but remembered my promise to Brother Peter. Instead I held my hands up to address the crowd. ‘You should all proceed to the wedding feast.’ There was a slight movement at the mention of food, but nobody seemed eager to leave apart from the Peverils. I soon saw their fine clothes disappearing through the trees.

‘We must bury this head immediately,’ said Cornwall. ‘Though not in the churchyard.’

‘Why not?’

Cornwall crossed himself solemnly. ‘Because we do not have her whole body.’

‘I don’t see why that should–’

‘Lord Somershill and I know where the rest is,’ Gilbert suddenly announced. ‘We found it yesterday.’ I glared at my servant and rolled my eyes to show him my displeasure at making this revelation.

Cornwall turned to look at me. He was momentarily confused rather than accusatory.

‘Is this true, Oswald?’ said Mother.

I sighed. ‘Yes. It is. We found a headless body buried in the forest.’ A wave of dismay ran through the crowd. ‘We believed it was the corpse of Matilda. Unfortunately we now have the head to prove it.’

Mother went to say something, but Cornwall spoke over her. A vein throbbed at his temple. ‘Then the girl should have been buried yesterday, sire. Why did you not summon me?’

I hesitated, knowing any response would be greeted with scorn – so was grateful when Gilbert stepped in to answer Cornwall’s question. He must have felt guilty for previously blurting out our secret. ‘Lord Somershill asked me to fetch you, Father John. But it was late last night and I decided not to rouse you.’

‘Why ever not?’ Cornwall turned on my servant.

‘You had the wedding mass to say today, Father. I thought the burial of a headless corpse might upset your humours.’

Cornwall glowered. ‘It is not for you to decide such matters. I am perfectly capable of conducting a funeral and a wedding within a day.’

I quickly intervened. ‘Gilbert behaved correctly, Father. Such news would have disrupted my sister’s wedding.’

Cornwall sucked his teeth and then I would say he almost smiled. ‘Instead it has been disrupted by a head in a holy well.’

The crowd broke up slowly after I had sent Gilbert and two other men to exhume the other part of Matilda’s body. Avoiding any further confrontation with Cornwall, I quickly took Matilda’s head to the gaol house for Joan Bath to look upon. I had hoped such a grisly sight might shock the woman into some form of confession, or even to reveal her accomplices. But she simply repeated her denials, before crouching in the corner of the cell with her hands over her face.

Leaving Matilda’s head at the gaol house, I belatedly made my way back to the great hall at Somershill for the wedding celebration, but was met by a glum scene. The bride and groom had already left for Versey Castle. The Peverils had also departed in haste, believing Matilda to have been killed by the Plague. And the tile had once again fallen from the roof so that the roasting pig was being doused in rainwater.

Mother sat alone on the dais, gnawing at a bone. Behind her, in a dark corner, sat Humbert, holding a square of my sister’s embroidery to his cheek and looking as bereft as an orphan at his parents’ grave.

Mother waved a rib at me. ‘Have some pork, Oswald. It’s rather fatty, but it shouldn’t affect your phlegm. As long as you eat some onions afterward.’

I dipped a pewter cup into a barrel of ale, picked off a piece of bone and sat next to Mother, attempting to ignore the way she was dislodging pig meat from her teeth with a strand of her own hair.

‘Well, I’m glad that’s over,’ she said.

‘So am I.’

‘But the wedding went well, don’t you think, Oswald?’

I choked on the rib. ‘Apart from finding the head of a murdered girl.’

She laughed. ‘Oh, that. There were
two
men murdered at my wedding feast. And my cousin lost an eye.’

‘In that case, Mother, Clemence’s wedding was a great success.’

Having finished with the wedding feast, I made my way back to the gaol house with the intention of examining both parts of Matilda’s corpse before she was buried – to ensure, if nothing else, that we were making a correct match between her head and body. But on reaching my destination, I was met by the shamefaced gaoler Henry Smith, who informed me that Matilda was now being buried. Demanding to know on whose authority he had released the corpse, Henry admitted that it was Cornwall’s.