Plague Land (38 page)

‘Why are you clearing the pots, Mirabel? That’s Ada’s job.’

‘Your mother wants me to do it, sire.’ As she curtsied, the piss swayed dangerously close to the rim. ‘I’ve never seen as much water produced in one night.’ Then she thought better of this implied criticism. ‘Though, of course I’ve never tended to such a grand lady as your mother. I imagine a noble woman produces more piss than a peasant.’

I suspected Mother of filling the pot to the rim with ale just to make the task more difficult. But I didn’t share this thought with Mirabel. ‘Take it to the moat and then come straight back. I need to speak with you.’ She bowed her head and I saw how thick and dark her eyelashes were against the buttermilk of her skin.

I stood in the porch and watched as she walked away. The morning sun threw shadows across the patches in her dress. She was poor, but why should that deter me? I was the lord of two estates now. I was my own master. Why shouldn’t I be happy?

As soon as she returned I took her hand. ‘Mirabel?’ I felt nervous and slightly ridiculous, being no practised seducer or exponent of courtly love. I encased her small hands in my long and awkward fingers and hoped my voice would remain steady.

‘Yes, sire. What is it?’

I coughed. ‘I wanted to know what you thought of me, Mirabel?’

Her hands trembled a little. ‘I admire you very much, sire. You saved me from Lord Versey and Father John. I’m very grateful to you.’

I squeezed her hands a little tighter, causing her to look away. ‘But do you feel anything else?’ She bit her lip and withdrew her hands. I had embarrassed her.

‘Because I love you,’ I blurted out like a fool. Unfortunately my declaration did not seem to please her. In fact she looked concerned enough to run away, had I not taken her hands again and held them more firmly.

‘I think you’re the most beautiful girl in the world.’

She looked at me suspiciously. ‘Do you, sire? Or do you just want to lie with me?’

‘No, no. Please don’t think that. My love for you is pure and untainted.’ I hoped nobody was listening to this performance, since I must have sounded as genuine as a potions seller at the fair.

‘Then what are you suggesting, sire?’

‘I would like you to marry me, Mirabel,’ I said quickly.

She laughed. ‘Marriage?’

‘Yes.’

She laughed again, emitting a strange whooping noise through her nose.

‘I don’t believe you’ll have a better offer,’ I said, slightly offended at her reaction.

She bit her lip and screwed up her eyes. ‘But sire. I don’t see how we can marry. I’m the daughter of a tenant farmer. You’re a lord.’

‘Which means I can do as I please.’

‘But surely my lady has arranged a union for you?’

‘Yes. But I rejected her choice.’

‘Won’t the earl want you to marry one of his daughters?’

‘He hasn’t mentioned it.’

‘But it isn’t usual for a lord to marry a servant.’ She tried to pull her hands away again, but I wouldn’t relax my hold. The amusement over, an ugly grimace now made lines across her brow.

I wanted her beautiful face to return. I wanted to convince and reassure her – so, speaking softly, I drew her towards me. ‘Two years ago I was due to become a Benedictine, but then the Plague changed everything. It seemed like the end of the world, but now I’m glad of it. It means I’m free to marry you.’

‘But I’m betrothed to Nicholas Carpenter, sire.’

I thought of the tall red-haired boy. Sometimes he came to the house to mend a door or patch a rotten roof truss in the chapel. I would not employ him again.‘Tell Nicholas you’re no longer betrothed.’

‘But I think my father made certain promises to the—’

I dropped her hands petulantly. ‘Will you marry me? Yes or no?’

She looked about as if a jester might pop out from behind a wall and announce it was fools’ day. Her voice was apprehensive. ‘Yes, sire. I do wish to marry you. I’m just afraid it won’t be possible.’

‘I will make it possible. We shall be married as soon as I can sober up Brother Peter.’

She relaxed a little. ‘Really?’

‘I promise.’

‘And it will be witnessed by your family? And the whole village? I don’t want one of those weddings that nobody believes took place.’

‘Yes. Then you will be Mirabel de Lacy. No longer cleaning out my mother’s piss pots.’

She laughed again, but this time it was a pleasant peal of giggles, and we kissed. Her lips were warm and full – but most pleasant was the feeling of her breasts against my body. I wanted to slip my hand inside her tunic to hold these firm globes of soft flesh, but stopped myself – knowing it would sully the gallantry of the moment.

Even so. I wish I had.

In the afternoon of that same day, two familiar faces came into sight as I was trying, yet again, to saddle Tempest. It was Clemence and her servant Humbert. Thankfully Clemence was not in the humble cart in which she had left for the convent, but was riding a pony. Humbert held the pony’s reins as if he were Sir Lancelot and she were Guinevere.

I ran to Clemence and she allowed herself, briefly, to be pleased. Her face softened into a smile that suddenly reminded me of Richard, our dead brother. The spread of her mouth and the dimples that dented her cheeks were exactly his. Tears formed in my eyes.

‘I hope you’re not crying because I’ve returned, little brother,’ she said. The face hardened again and my glimpse of Richard was lost.

‘I’m just pleased to see you.’ She nodded in acceptance of this obvious truth. ‘You heard the news?’ I said.

‘That de Caburn is dead?’

I nodded.

She shared a sly smile with Humbert. ‘Of course the good news reached me, you foolish boy. Why do you think I’m back?’ Then her face clouded. ‘How’s Mother?’

‘Never mind Mother. How are you?’

Her face darkened further. ‘We won’t speak of it, Oswald.’

‘But—’

‘No.’

Humbert inhaled loudly and glared at me as if to underline Clemence’s command. Then suddenly my sister smiled and the tension dissipated. I helped her from her pony and for the briefest of moments she hugged me.

I ran ahead to tell Mother of Clemence’s return, only to be confronted by her angry face on the stairs to the solar.

‘Where’s that girl?’ Mother was carrying a piss pot, though this one was not as full as the pot Mirabel had been assigned earlier. ‘I’ve had to use your father’s old chamber pot, and you know how I like to have my own. The girl is useless.’

‘Mirabel has returned home for a day.’

‘I did not excuse her. You should get on your horse and retrieve the wilful slattern, Oswald.’

‘Forget that for now, Mother. Clemence has returned.’

‘Clemence?’ Mother seemed confused, as if I had just mentioned a rarely seen cousin.

‘Your daughter.’

‘What’s she doing here?’

‘She’s returned from the convent, Mother.’

‘Has she taken holy orders?’

‘No.’ I now felt exasperated. Her memory could not be so mercurial. ‘She was forced to visit the hospital there. After de Caburn attacked her. Remember?’

She pulled a face. ‘Oh yes. That. Clemence should return to Versey now she’s killed her husband. I don’t want her disturbing my peace here.’

‘Clemence didn’t kill her husband, Mother.’

She laughed. ‘No. Of course not. It was that beast you burnt in the village.’ She sighed. ‘It’s such a shame I missed it. Did any demons escape from his skull? I’m told they dislike smoke and will burst out through the eyes.’

I groaned, took the piss pot from her, and led her to the hall – where she and Clemence embraced as warmly as two lead dolls.

I found Brother Peter in the chapel, standing on a stool and cleaning the Madonna and child with a small brush. The whole place seemed cleaner, with dust removed from the painted panels and the altar chalices arranged into ascending sizes.

‘See how much life there is in her eyes,’ Peter said, when he realised I was standing behind him. The Virgin’s eyes still looked dead to me. ‘It’s disgraceful that Our Lady was allowed to become so dirty. She watches over us all, Oswald. She is able to forgive.’ The words hung in the air.

‘I need you to bless a marriage,’ I said.

Peter stepped down from the stool and replaced the brush behind his belt, alongside other cleaning rags. He looked more like Ada than a monk.

‘Who’s getting married?’

‘I am.’

He hesitated. ‘To whom?’

‘To Mirabel,’ I said with all the confidence I could muster. I would not apologise for my choice of bride.

‘Does your mother agree to this?’ His eyebrows tensed as if he did not believe me.

‘Are you saying I cannot choose my own wife? When I am lord here?’

‘No, Oswald. Of course I’m not.’ He bowed his head to me. ‘I was just questioning the wisdom of such a marriage, that’s all.’

‘Do not speak to me of wisdom.’

He bowed again. ‘Very well, Oswald. When do you wish the ceremony to take place?’

In my haste I had given the matter no thought. But I did not want Peter to see this oversight. ‘The day after tomorrow,’ I said with authority. ‘After that, you will return to the abbey.’

He opened his mouth to object, but shut it again. No amount of cleaning the chapel would cleanse his sin. It was better if we parted. He knew that, as well as I.

‘Oswald,’ he said softly, as I reached the door. I stopped, but did not turn to look at him. ‘Do you love the girl?’

‘Of course I do.’

‘Then I am truly happy for you.’

As soon as Clemence was refreshed, I asked to speak to her alone, but Mother suddenly became difficult about allowing us some privacy. ‘Am I no longer the lady of this hall?’ she said. ‘Your father would not have sent me to my bedchamber like a naughty child, when family matters were being considered.’

Clemence rolled her eyes. ‘Father never allowed you to stay at any important discussion.’ Then she glanced up to the squint from the solar. ‘Not that it stopped you listening anyway.’

‘Do you see how my peace is disturbed, Oswald?’ said Mother, pointing at Clemence. ‘How my own daughter agitates my humours.’

I took Clemence’s arm and suggested we take a walk in the orchard, allowing Mother to take her Melissa Water and then rest for the afternoon. After feigning a sudden headache, Mother announced she would no more walk around the orchard with us, than she would sleep in a plague pit. And it wouldn’t matter how many times we might try to persuade her to join us, she would not change her mind.

The afternoon was warm and cloudy, and the air was heavy with water. As we walked between the apple trees, the house moved in and out of the mist – its windows seeming like the eyes of the Colossus. We were shadowed by Humbert, who kept a steady twenty paces behind us at all times.

‘Does he think I’m going to attack you?’ I asked, looking over my shoulder to watch his pond-like eyes staring back at me blankly.

She picked a ripening apple from a tree. ‘He’s protective of me. That’s all. I find it reassuring. He’s sworn never to leave my side.’

‘You will allow that?’

‘Of course.’ She bit into the apple and a little of the pink juice dripped down her chin. ‘He has the strength of a bull.’

‘But the temper of a lamb.’

She wiped the droplet of juice with her forefinger and put it to her lips. ‘I have enough courage for the two of us.’

We walked on and I took her arm. For once she did not reject me. ‘Do you know how de Caburn died?’ I asked.

She smiled. ‘I do. He was attacked at the throat and laid upon the Virgin Mary.’ She suddenly took a little skip. ‘And it’s no more than he deserved.’