Plague Land (44 page)

‘It wasn’t deliberate. My lady made an unannounced visit and assumed the fat baby at Adeline’s breast was her own son. It was easy for Lady Somershill to dismiss the sickly little boy in the other cradle as the son of a tenant. With each further visit it became harder and harder for Adeline to reverse her deception.’

‘She could have tried.’

‘She hoped to nurse the de Lacy boy back to health and return him to his place.’ The cat jumped down from his lap and stretched her front legs, flexing her claws and then slithering away into the steam and out through the kitchen door.

Peter now spoke to the flagstones. ‘One day Adeline came to see me at Somershill. She was agitated because the de Lacy boy could not be woken. I returned with her to the cottage, but he was dead already.’

‘So what did you do with his body?’

‘We buried him, of course. As Thomas Starvecrow.’

I pulled a face, but he shook his head at me. ‘I made him a small coffin and we carved a headstone. He was not treated poorly. And you should not be disdainful, Oswald. You’ve been raised and educated in his place. You’re a lord. Be thankful for it.’

‘But I’m not a true lord, am I?’

‘Does that matter? At least some good has come of this tragedy.’

I sat up a little. ‘Don’t imagine these revelations will prompt me to treat you as my own father.’

‘But I thought you might—’

‘You’re a murderer, Brother. De Caburn might have deserved his death. But you killed two innocent girls.’

He began to twist the silver flask in his hands. ‘Those girls weren’t so innocent, Oswald. They would have revealed your true identity, had you refused to help them.’

‘They were too young to marry such a man as Old Ralph. I would have helped them.’

Peter pointed a shaking finger at me. ‘But it would have ended in your downfall. The sisters could not be trusted. Such secrets are like dry leaves in a drought. They easily ignite.’

‘So you murdered them. Just in case?’

‘I did it to shield you. I thought only Alison knew our secret. But after you visited Matilda, I realised Adeline had told both her daughters.’

I thought back to my brief meeting with my half-sister all those weeks ago. ‘Father, father. Eye of a lover. It was
you
Matilda spoke about.’ I looked at Peter. ‘But it wasn’t a father I shared with Alison and Matilda, was it? It was a mother.’

‘I’m so sorry.’

I put my head in my hands. ‘I don’t understand you, Brother. You encouraged me to investigate. Why?’

He snorted. ‘Because I expected some standards from you, Oswald. Otherwise what had been the point of your education?’

I nearly laughed at this answer. ‘So you were anxious for me to investigate a murder that you, yourself, committed?’

‘I didn’t imagine you would get anywhere. I just wanted you to try.’

‘And Joan Bath? Why fight her cause?’

‘I’m not a monster, Oswald. The woman was innocent.’ He puffed out his lips and blew. ‘She reminded me of Adeline. A poor woman, struggling to survive.’

‘So you were being compassionate?’ Now I did laugh at him. ‘Is that what you’re saying?’

Peter took a deep breath and then drained the last few drops of the bottle of brandy from the flask, shaking it as if it might emit a further supply. When nothing was forthcoming he stood up and began to search amongst the jars and spice pots, moving them aside like a child looking for a lost penny. ‘There must be something else to drink around here. I’m sure Ada keeps a bottle of Madeira for cooking.’

‘The Madeira is for the table.’ The voice was new to our conversation, but not unknown.

‘Who’s there?’ said Peter.

A figure materialised through the steam.

Peter gasped to see her face. ‘Lady Clemence. How long have you been standing by the door?’

‘Long enough to hear that a priest killed my husband. And that my real brother is dead.’

I scrambled to my feet. ‘I didn’t know any of this, Clemence. I swear to you.’

‘That doesn’t change anything.’

‘You shouldn’t listen at doors,’ said Peter, ‘my lady.’

‘Then don’t leave them open,’ snapped Clemence. She swept away the veil of vaporous water with her hand. ‘But, no matter. Once the truth is known, I’ll be head of this family and you’ll be sent straight to the gallows.’

Peter took a step forward. ‘I don’t think so, my lady.’

She laughed. ‘More insolence?’

Peter threw his silver flask at Clemence. ‘You meddlesome little bitch.’

She ducked, but lost her balance and fell over, only for Peter to catch her. But this was no act of chivalry. Pulling a knife from the folds of his habit, Peter held it to Clemence’s throat – the blade soon piercing her skin.

‘Let her go, Brother,’ I said. ‘Please.’

‘Why? She means to destroy you.’

‘Peter. Don’t kill anybody else.’

He met my eye. ‘I’m damned already, Oswald. I may as well burn in Hell for four murders as three.’ The blade dug in deeper and a bead of blood fell from Clemence’s throat onto the velvet of her gown. The vein in her neck now pulsated like the chest of a trapped hare.

I tried to appeal to Peter again. ‘Remember your vows, Brother. The commandments. Please. Just let Clemence go.’

He only sneered. ‘She’d never do the same for you, Oswald. She despises you.’

‘That doesn’t matter to me. I still care for her.’

Peter twisted the knife a little further, and though Clemence tried to scream, she emitted no sound whatsoever. ‘Don’t waste your time caring for this old goat,’ he told me. ‘Her soul is as barren as her womb.’ A pool of water emerged from beneath Clemence’s gown and spread across the floor.

‘But she’s not barren, Brother,’ I said quickly. ‘She carries a child.’ Clemence’s eyes widened at my lie and her mouth fell open.

Peter flinched. ‘What?’

‘If you murder Clemence, then you also kill an innocent.’

He began to tremble. ‘I don’t care about her unborn child. What sort of fiend would it be anyway?’ He took the knife from her throat and now waved it about in the air. ‘Conceived by this She-devil and de Caburn.’

But Peter did care. My words had distracted him, giving me just an instant to act. Running at Clemence, I was able to throw her to the floor, before attempting to wrest the knife from Peter’s hand. But the priest remained stronger than me, and he threw me off.

Sweat trickled down his face as he brandished the knife. ‘You fool, Oswald. You should let me kill her.’

‘No, Brother.’

‘She will destroy you.’

‘I don’t care.’

Peter stared at me without blinking. I saw both sorrow and fear in his gaze. Even regret?

But if regret existed, Peter didn’t get the opportunity to express it. For a pan of boiling water was cast upon his face, burning the skin from his bone. He shrieked in pain, held his hands to his eyes and then fell to his knees, before coiling himself into a ball on the floor. I turned to see Clemence still holding the pan. Her face was white with shock. The pan slipped from her hand and she then ran from the kitchen, calling wildly for Humbert.

I crouched over Peter. This man who was my father. As he screamed and convulsed in pain, I tried to calm him. But my words of compassion were too weakly made, and when he held his chest and fought violently for his breath, I found some cold ale in the cook’s barrel and tried to douse his face with its cooling liquid. This soothed him a little, but by now he was barely conscious and seemed, by his heaving and wheezing, to be on the point of death. When Humbert ran into the kitchen only moments later, I ordered the boy to lift Peter’s body to the chapel, where the priest could pray, one last time, for forgiveness.

We laid Peter before the altar on the flagstones of the chapel floor. When he was settled, I left the chapel to find some brandy to ease his journey.

This was my last mistake.

I was gone for only a few minutes, but on my return I discovered Humbert wandering around the chapel and staring at the floor as if he had lost a ring.

‘Where’s Brother Peter?’ I said.

The boy studied his hands and didn’t answer.

‘Where is he?’

Now he blushed and looked ready to cry.

I ran to the chapel door and looked out across the fields, but there was no disappearing monk to be seen in any direction. I went back inside and shook Humbert. ‘What happened?’

Humbert sobbed, but I was able to gather through the boy’s tears that Peter had begged for a cup of holy water from the font near the chapel door. Humbert had turned his back for only a few short moments, and then Peter was gone.

We had fallen victim to yet more of Peter’s lies. He had shown me the tunnel from the library and claimed he knew of no others. But they existed. There could be no other explanation for his sudden and miraculous evaporation.

I walked about the chapel, pressing flagstones or poking at carvings in the wall, but found nothing. I then told Humbert and Gilbert to guard the periphery of the house to intercept Peter as he made his escape from the other end of whichever tunnel he had used. Nothing was seen however, not even after hours of keeping watch.

Then I came to the wearied conclusion that Peter was in the forest by now, hiding in a cave or under a tree. Trying to treat the burns to his hands and face. To save his own life.

A small part of me felt sorry for him.

Then I remembered my two dead sisters, and I hoped he would die.

Chapter Twenty-Five

A day later Mother called me to her bedchamber. She had been closeted in this room for hours with Clemence, so I was expecting to face a double denunciation. But I entered to find Mother alone, apart from her dog Hector, who lay across the bolster as if it were his own bed.

Mother beckoned me to sit beside her on the bench. She looked exhausted and grey, and, for once, not about to discharge a torrent of chatter.

‘I suppose Clemence has told you everything,’ I said.

‘About what, Oswald?’

‘That I am not your son and that Brother Peter committed the murders.’

She suddenly coloured. ‘Well, I was very surprised to hear about Brother Peter. I was most convinced by the Cynocephali story.’ She pulled a sooty bone from her pocket. ‘I even bought a saint’s finger from John of Cornwall, and paid him to sing a mass for the family.’ She tossed the bone to Hector. ‘I would demand my money back. If the man would answer to English.’

‘I’ve let Cornwall go. He’s left the parish.’

She huffed. ‘So I’ll never get my money back.’

‘Forget Cornwall.’ I leant towards her to make sure of looking into her eyes. ‘I’m not your son, Mother. Do you understand that?’

‘Of course I do, Oswald.’ Hector jumped off the bed with his prize, running into a corner with it.

I sighed. Had Mother been drinking? There was a large pewter mug on the chest, half full of some noxious-smelling brew. ‘Mother, I understand this must be a shock for you but—’

She put her hand on mine and her face took on an expression I had not seen before, nor since. ‘You must think I’m very stupid, Oswald. Do you imagine a woman cannot identify her own baby? The child she has carried for nine months, and then given birth to?’

I hesitated to answer. ‘I don’t know.’

‘When I visited your nursemaid . . .’ she paused. ‘Isabel was it?’

‘Adeline.’

‘Adeline. Of course. Yes, as soon as I went into that cottage I knew the girl had swapped her baby for mine. You might have formed this impression of me, but I’m not a comprehensive fool.’

‘So, why didn’t you say something, Mother?

She laughed and squeezed my hand. ‘Because I’m a practical woman, Oswald. My own baby, your namesake, nearly killed me in labour. I was forty in the year of your birth, and my womb was exhausted from decades of childbearing. Only three of my previous eight children had survived. And after Oswald was born I was confined to my bed for many months . . .’ She squeezed my hand again. ‘But you know the story, don’t you?’