Plague Land (3 page)

And what realistic chance had a hue and cry of finding the true murderer anyway? I had witnessed such search parties before. Usually nothing more than noisy mobs who rounded up the nearest misfit and hanged the poor soul, whether proved guilty or not.

Alison Starvecrow was dead. Nothing would change that.

It was a mistake to let Cornwall have his way, however. To slap him foolishly on the back, as if we might become friends. ‘Very well, Father John,’ I said. ‘I suggest you organise some prayer.’

He bristled at my touch. ‘I was planning to,’ he said.

Chapter Two

It was August 1349 when the Plague finally knocked at the door of our remote Benedictine monastery. We had thought it would not find us. Not after a year of stepping its feet upon English soil.

But plague does not move like a man. It is a poppy seed that blows on the wind and carries to every corner of the field.

The first of our order to die was not a lay monk, nor even an old priest in the infirmary, it was the abbot himself. The other brothers whispered that it was a rightful punishment, since the abbot was not a devout man. But in my opinion his end was as commonplace and ordinary as any peasant’s death. He had not been singled out by God in any way. Instead he had allowed himself to become infected by stupidity, in sending for new gowns from London – even though we had been warned to keep our monastery sealed from the outside world. The abbot blessed the garment and claimed it could not taint him, but the contagion is said to linger in clothing for weeks and seems not to obey holy instruction. Within days he was lying in his bed complaining of a stiffness to his limbs, while scratching at a strange mark upon his leg. It could almost be described as a bite, but once it grew into a black pustule Peter banned me from the room.

And then, as a fever took hold of the abbot, Brother Peter washed his body in vinegar and rose water, but would not bleed him, though the man begged. And just as we had heard would happen, the buboes swelled in the abbot’s armpits and groin until they were the size of duck eggs. Such was the blackness of his sores and the vileness of his appearance that I felt compelled to sneak into his dank bedchamber and take a look, despite the warning to stay away.

The abbot lived only until the next morning, even with Peter’s best efforts to save his life. And then our brotherhood was without its leader and did not know how to act, for the Pestilence would now surely pick us off one by one in our small and isolated confinement of stone. Monasteries were a favourite haunt of the Plague, and many of our communities had been destroyed completely by its speedy appetite.

We talked of abandoning the abbey, if only for a few months, though some brothers spoke soundly against this plan. It would be God’s will who survived and who did not. Those without the strength to face this test of faith were weak and heretical.

But Peter did not want me to endure this examination. Not by his God. He knew my faith would be found lacking. So he suggested I run away and only return to the abbey when the danger of the Plague had receded – a sin that would be forgiven by the other brothers because of my youth and the standing of my family.

My plans to flee were only interrupted by the receipt of a letter. Left at the gate by a messenger who rode away in terror – as if the Plague might swoop down from the walls of the monastery and catch him in its claw. Opening the roll I found it to be from my own mother, with the news that both my father and my two older brothers were dead. All three of them had contracted the Pestilence in Rochester and had died within days of each other.

I felt faint at these words and had to ask Brother Peter to read the remaining part of the letter. But, if I had expected sadness and sympathy from Mother, I was to be disappointed. This was purely a factual and instructional missive.

I was not to take holy orders as planned. I was not to become a Benedictine. Instead I was to return home immediately. For it seemed, at the age of eighteen and against all expectations I was now Lord Somershill – the keeper of more than a thousand acres in Kent. The owner of a village, whose inhabitants owed me servitude. And the master of a grand house complete with hunting forests, cellars, and a stable of fine horses.

It was an extraordinary turn of fate. But bittersweet. I had no deep fondness for my father and brothers, but it still grieved me to think of their lives so shortened. And I also knew of the burdens that the role of lord carried. The keeping of countless documents. The accounts, custumals and tenurial surveys. The fines, appeals and squabbles of the manorial court. The collection of the king’s taxes, and the provision of men to fight the king’s wars. The work had whittled my father into little more than a stub-end of a man. Hardened, pugnacious and difficult to please.

In truth, the news terrified me.

Confiding my fears in Brother Peter I even suggested, momentarily, that I might answer Mother’s letter and decline the offer, proposing that there might be some distant cousin more suitable for the role than I. But Brother Peter would not hear a word of such cowardice. He urged me to consider the good to be done with my new powers. The wounds that might be healed. The injustices that might be remedied. And if this prospect did not appeal to me, then to consider how this news provided me with an excuse to leave the abbey legitimately.

I set out for Somershill the next day. I didn’t have to persuade Brother Peter to join me.

When I returned from visiting the location of Alison’s corpse, Mother had recovered from her fainting fit and was waiting anxiously in the great hall to speak with me. Her usually pale face was now flushed with anticipation. A strand of wiry hair had escaped from its netted crespine and was now hanging between her veil and her cheek. She would normally have poked this away, since she didn’t consider it polite for a married woman to show her hair outside the bedchamber, but her adherence to manners had been forgotten in the expectation of some rare drama.

She was therefore rather irritated when I passed on the very briefest of details concerning Alison Starvecrow before retiring to the library to speak with Brother Peter. Mother went to follow me into the room, but hesitated at the threshold, remembering women had been banished from the library by my father – and though the man had been dead for nearly nine months, she still found it difficult to defy him.

I shut the heavy door behind me, not only to keep out Mother’s prying eyes, but also to guard against the ears of my sister. Clemence was a keen eavesdropper, particularly eager to scrape up any morsel of tittle-tattle regarding Brother Peter – a man for whom she kept a special vial of spite. She continually pestered me to send Peter back to the monastery now that the Plague had receded, saying that he ate too much food and was a drain on our cellar. But I would not part with Peter. Not yet. He was my only friend.

I found Peter at his work, illuminating some text on a square of vellum he had brought with him from the monastery. It had been a hasty departure some eight months previously, and I soon discovered many unexpected items had found their way into our cart, though Peter insisted they were borrowed, not stolen.

That afternoon he worked beneath the large window, catching the evening sun before it abandoned the room. I peered over his shoulder to see that he was illustrating the patterns on a large letter ‘P’ that edged ever further across the page, leaving little room for any text. A thorny creeper twisted up the ascender of the letter, while a boil-faced demon peeped through the bowl. Armed with a fork, this demon was waiting to stab the wretched peasant who begged for mercy at his feet.

Peter had been a scribe before infirmarer, so his work was detailed and skilful – but of late it had become increasingly macabre, dominated by gape-faced corpses or mobs of hooded skeletons. I had hoped his spirits might improve with the longer days, but his mood remained as stormy and unpredictable as the summer.

‘I’m designing a text on the Great Mortality, Oswald,’ he said as I gently touched his arm. ‘It’s in English. I want children to understand the dangers of contagion.’

‘And you think they don’t?’

He banged the small trestle table. ‘It’s not a corrupted atmosphere that spreads the danger. They must understand that.’ He cleared his throat, embarrassed at his sudden outburst. ‘It’s close contact, Oswald,’ he said, more softly this time. ‘Even touching the clothes of the sick is dangerous.’

I stepped back from his shoulder and sat down on a nearby bench, noticing he was already paying special attention to the tapestry on the wall opposite.

‘I’ve come to ask what you know of the dog heads,’ I said. ‘Have you heard of such creatures?’

Peter put down his quill and let out a rare chuckle. ‘The wicked men of the Orient. Flesh-eating creatures with the body of a man and the head of a wolf? What do you want to know about them for?’

‘Cornwall’s convinced this murder is the work of such a monster.’

The smile left Peter’s face. ‘What murder?’

‘Surely you heard the commotion early this morning? John of Cornwall and some men came to the house with the news.’ But I had forgotten. Peter rarely roused himself from bed these days before mid-morning. ‘The dead girl was called Alison Starvecrow. They found her body in the forest.’

‘But murdered? Are you sure?’

‘Yes. Do you know her?’

Peter crossed himself. ‘No. Though I believe she called at the house a few days ago. The afternoon I was reading to your mother in the solar.’

‘Alison Starvecrow called here? Why?’

‘I don’t know, Oswald. She wanted to speak to my lady.’

‘What about?’

He shrugged. ‘Your mother wouldn’t see her. You know how contrary the woman can be.’ He paused, pulling at the mole on his neck and twisting its fleshy outcrop of skin between his fingers. ‘Who discovered the girl’s body?’

‘It was Gower. His pigs unearthed her beside the road to Burrsfield.’

‘And she didn’t die of the Plague? I’ve heard of new cases in Rye. There is always a second, even a third wave in such a contagion.’

I shook my head. ‘Her throat was definitely cut.’

He sighed and made for the tapestry, lifting back the image of an embroidered sea-serpent to reveal an alcove where a glass bottle and a solitary pewter mug were hidden. ‘A murder. After all this misery. I sometimes wonder what Our Lord will throw at us next?’ He held his hand up to me. ‘And no, Oswald. I don’t want to hear your opinions on the Almighty. Not today.’

He poured himself a mug of liquid that smelt strongly like brandy. Noticing the look of disapproval upon my face, he said, ‘I keep it here in case of unpleasant surprises. The brothers didn’t need it.’ He downed the first cup, and quickly poured another. ‘Have you raised the hue and cry?’

‘No. John of Cornwall wants us all to pray for deliverance. He says the dog heads not only murdered this girl, but also carry the Plague. So we are all in danger.’

‘Who cares what John of Cornwall says? He’s nothing but a lowly parish priest.’ He came over to me and took my hand. ‘You are Lord Somershill. Not he.’

I pulled my hand away. ‘It’s not that easy, Brother. The men listen to him.’

‘But Oswald. There is no such creature as a dog head. I’m surprised you even allowed Cornwall to propose such a notion.’

‘He’s a priest. I didn’t expect him to blame a monster.’

Peter snorted. The brandy was taking effect. ‘There’s always a monster to blame. According to men such as him. No doubt he will use this opportunity to sell more of his relics and indulgences. The man is no better than a common pardoner.’

‘What should I do then, Brother?’

Peter caught my arm. ‘Find the true murderer, of course.’

‘But—’

‘Show some courage. Investigate the crime.’ He began to dig his fingers into my skin. ‘God has given you Somershill, Oswald. So you might be a better lord than your father. A man who would have ignored this crime. Just because the victim was a poor village girl.’

I looked at my feet to avoid his stare, and remained silent.

Peter leant over and peered into my face. ‘Is it not convenient? Is that your problem?’

‘You don’t understand, Brother,’ I muttered, as sullenly as a spoilt child.

‘Understand what?’

I continued to avoid his eyes. ‘My crops are rotting. The hedges need scything, and de Caburn won’t return my sheep.’

He banged his pewter cup onto the bench beside him, sending a good quantity of the precious liquid into the air. ‘I see. Not only are you a coward, you are also indolent!’ I would have argued this accusation was difficult to suffer from a man about to spend an afternoon with a bottle of brandy, but before I had the chance to disagree, he renewed his attack.