CHAPTER 1 April 1316
The sky did not weep that morning.
A grey curtain enveloped the sodden landscape, behind which the sun fought to cast its warmth. The cowslips lay sad, battling to flower. Yellow should signal spring and regrowth; the feeling that the year will be brighter. In past years, they were as bright as the sun, screaming to be noticed as they lined well-worn paths as if to accompany travellers on their journeys. They would offer happy homes to joyful bees. But this year the rain hammered at any petals that had the temerity to challenge it and they drooped and wilted before succumbing to rot with a sigh. A lonely bee could sometimes be seen searching for the flowers’ opening to no avail.
The early frost had begun to fade as Matilda peered outdoors. She opened the door wider and leaned forward to grab some rosemary. A lone sprig would suffice for remembrance.
Closing the door did little to battle the cold and damp. Nothing had been truly dry for weeks and Galeran lay rigid in his winding sheet, waiting patiently. Maerwynn, a family friend and well known to the villagers, had helped lay him out and now sat on the chair at his side, watching Matilda with sympathy.
Matilda nodded. The candles had gone out but there was no need to relight them now. There were no more prayers left to say. They would make no difference, anyway. Silently, she sank to sit at Maerwynn’s feet. There was nought to do but wait. Maerwynn sang softly and stroked Matilda’s hair. Matilda sighed and stared into nothingness.
The rancid stench of death lingered in the house.
Nearly an hour passed before a rap on the door broke Maerwynn’s song, demanding their attention. It opened immediately and Roger poked his head through the gap. ‘I have him,’ he said. ‘He was in his cups but I didn’t let him refuse.’
He paused as Matilda got to her feet. ‘I am indebted to you,’ she said.
Matilda believed herself blessed to have Roger as her neighbour. Although he worked the land from dawn to dusk, he still found time to offer aid whenever he saw a need – usually before anyone asked. His weathered face was lined with forty summers or more of laughter and kindness, but now his eyes were filled with sorrow. It was his loss, too; Galeran was as a son to him.
‘I’ll take him to the church,’ said Roger. ‘While the priest is readying himself, I’ll go fetch Howard – he can help me carry Galeran.’
The mention of Galeran’s name stung Matilda. She opened her mouth as if to object but Roger held up his hand. ‘A cart won’t move through the mud. Thom is a fine horse but he needs to be fresh for working later. We can’t risk tiring him.’
‘It’ll not tire him to go such a short distance,’ Matilda said peevishly.
‘But it will tire him to work for all who ask the lend of him. And today it will be hard to say no. I’ll return shortly.’
Matilda opened her mouth to argue but swiftly closed it, realising Roger was right. She wasn’t in a fit mind to say no to anyone. And they would ask. Someone would ask. There was always work a horse would make easier, but it would be up to Matilda to find the extra feed Thom would need, and there was little enough as it was.
Roger retreated and closed the door gently.
‘Sit,’ said Maerwynn. ‘Save your strength.’
Matilda nodded and returned to sit at Maerwynn’s feet. ‘I thought we’d have to bury him without church,’ she said.
‘There’s always a priest to be bought,’ Maerwynn said in a matter-of-fact tone. ‘He’ll be rubbing his hands now, contemplating the profit he will make today.’
Matilda’s eyes widened. She hadn’t thought of payment.
As if reading her mind, Maerwynn continued, ‘That is not for you to fret about. Roger will make an arrangement.’
‘I shall be heavily indebted.’
‘And there will be a time for you to repay your debt – but not today.’
She would repay her debt – if she lived long enough. When the rains began last spring, they’d all grumbled good-heartedly, relieved that the late hard frosts and their accompanying flurries of sleet and hailstones had ceased. Last year’s piercing winds had brought in their wake a hot dry summer that baked the chalk ground bone-hard. They were still ploughing in October, struggling to save what they could of the meagre harvest. People went hungry to feed their oxen and horses, and to pay for new ploughboards and buy ale for the ploughmen. But there had been bad harvests before. They’d manage somehow.
The grain couldn’t ripen and good bread had become scarce. A luxury. Prices had been high before but the villagers hadn’t known they were blessed. Scarcity drove the costs of even the most basic things to a level beyond the means of many. From spring to midsummer, prices had risen until they’d doubled or more. The King’s orders to hold prices down had no power when hungry traders refused to listen.
No one had expected the rain to fall for so long when it finally arrived that autumn.
Matilda dreaded ever having to go to market again. Following the long path that avoided the steep climb of Giant’s Grave Hill, it rose and dipped as if by a whim. All looked so much bleaker from higher ground. The downs looked grey and brown – not green as they should have; the colours had been washed away by the rain and only the harsh and tangled gorse seemed to survive. The trees in the forest drooped, bringing her heart down. Instead of feeling the bounce of new life beneath her steps, she had to drag her feet through mud and flint. And she watched her feet not simply to save herself from a fall, but also because the longer she looked across the downs, the sadder the land seemed to grow.
Even the costs of pots and urns had risen as everyone sought to dry what they could indoors. And salt – they fought over what they bought from passing pedlars. There was hardly enough to preserve all the meat. Roger had told Matilda that he’d seen beasts left to litter the fields when he walked with the sheep. His flock was small compared to many – some owned hundreds of sheep. Usually, the dry higher land kept them safe from foot rot, but not anymore. They cast their beady eyes on passers-by as if to let them know that they owned the land. But all the flocks were fast shrinking. And more and more were being claimed by the rivers that surrounded their lands. With rising waters sheep would tumble in when they sought a drink, weighed down by their heavy coats to their fast-flowing death. Things hadn’t got so bad in their village – yet. But when people passed through, the villagers measured them according to the size of their bellies and thanked God when they moved on.
And as if hunger weren’t enough, as if the constant growl of their bellies and the cries of children tugging at their heartstrings was somehow insufficient, pestilence had followed close behind. Maerwynn had wept when she delivered the first dead child. By the fifth she was thanking God for taking it early.
Galeran had succumbed to the pestilence. Others had, too. A few left fearfully under cover of night, taking what money and valuables they could to pay their way, but there was nowhere to run from this. Father Luke had been one such. He’d emptied the church’s coffers and disappeared three weeks ago. No one knew where. No one now cared.
Maerwynn stood and poured two cups of ale, handing one to Matilda. ‘Drink,’ she said. ‘Roger will soon return.’
Obediently, Matilda drank deeply. As she set the cup on the floor, the door opened and Roger entered, followed by a sullen-looking Howard. His straw-coloured hair poked out from below his hat in all directions, topping a pale face, the skin of which stretched to accommodate the fat that filled his cheeks. He must have been the last fat man in the county. Somehow, Howard always had enough to eat, but never enough to share. And his last meal usually adorned his clothes. Since he’d become reeve to Lord Robert de Ayermin’s estate, he’d swollen with further self-importance. Matilda shuddered. He’d been full of sunshine when they were children and used to follow her about like a puppy. Then when he realised she was promised to Galeran, and that was a promise she intended to keep, resentment extinguished the sunshine.
‘My sorrow for your loss. May Galeran enjoy eternal life,’ Howard said, unconvincingly.
Matilda didn’t bother to respond. ‘Shall we leave now?’ she asked Roger.
Roger signalled Howard who looked over at Galeran’s corpse, an expression of distaste crossing his face. ‘Lift his feet,’ he said to Howard, ‘and I’ll take the other end. Matilda, you and Maerwynn can follow us.’
Howard shrugged. ‘Very well. ‘Tis from the goodness of my heart that I act as your labouring man.’
Huffing and puffing, Howard did as he’d been instructed and he and Roger left the house. As Matilda stepped outside, she saw her neighbours standing with heads bowed. There but for the grace of God …
Slowly, they made their way to the church at the edge of the village of Oare. It was only a few minutes’ walk, but it felt like the longest walk Matilda had ever taken. Howard huffed and puffed, letting Roger bear most of Galeran’s weight. The mud squelched beneath their feet and splattered up their straining legs despite their efforts to seek drier ground – there was none.
Matilda gasped as Roger stumbled, nearly dropping Galeran. No! That would be an indignity too great to bear. Galeran would be covered in mud the moment he hit the ground. Roger gave a determined gasp and regained his footing, turning to offer Matilda a woeful glance.
None of the villagers had followed them. Matilda turned and looked back. She’d expected no more. In days past, the whole village would have been present at a funeral. It wouldn’t have mattered if they liked the family, or even if they were friendly with them. But there’d been too many of late – and it was common knowledge that Galeran had died from a pestilence. A pestilence that Matilda might be carrying within. She sighed; it would be done soon.
Maerwynn slipped her arm around Matilda’s waist as if she could read her thoughts. She had been such a comfort these last days. But that was what Maerwynn was – a comfort for all the villagers in their times of trial. She was a short, stocky woman, some years older than Matilda and they’d become friends as soon as Maerwynn had arrived in the village five years ago. No one knew what lay in her past or from which family she came, but as time went on, people stopped asking the questions she answered only with a smile. It wasn’t important. She was one of them now.
‘Make haste,’ called out the young priest Roger had summoned as soon as they were within earshot. He stood at the door of the church, hopping from foot to foot, impatiently. ‘I have to return for another burial in Marlborough, before this day is done.’ He belched and flushed bright red.
Roger and Howard pushed past the priest and delivered Galeran into the church. In a haze, Matilda followed and stood huddled with the others as the priest muttered unintelligibly. She grabbed Roger’s sleeve. ‘Who will dig the grave?’ she whispered.
‘It’s done,’ said Roger in a low voice, patting her hand.
Then Maerwynn tugged at her arm. ‘Come,’ she said. ‘We’re going to bury him now.’
A moment later Matilda was standing next to a shallow grave, watching as Howard and Roger lowered Galeran into it with as much reverence as they could muster. She tossed in the rosemary. The priest muttered quickly, and within what seemed only moments Roger was shovelling mud on top of Galeran’s corpse. Matilda glanced round. To her surprise, she saw Adam standing a few yards away, head bowed. He seemed so young to be a squire – it wasn’t so long ago that Galeran had climbed a tree to help him down when he’d frozen with fear at the top, so entranced by the shiny red apples above that he hadn’t realised how high he was until he looked down. Lord Robert wasn’t present, but he didn’t need to be with Howard as his representative.
A young woman approached Adam and leaned towards him to whisper in his ear. Matilda’s eyes widened. Lady Adelaide?
She realised Roger had said something. ‘I’m sorry – what did you say?’ she asked.
‘The priest is leaving,’ Roger said.
Matilda nodded and turned away as the priest walked towards her, hand held out in front of him.
Maerwynn shuffled closer and put an arm around Matilda’s shoulders. ‘It’s right to weep,’ she said.
‘I have no tears left,’ said Matilda. Lest she sounded dismissive, she offered Maerwynn a wan smile. ‘I think I need some sleep.’
Maerwynn nodded. ‘We can go back now if you wish.’
Roger was still attempting to move mud. Howard had disappeared from sight, eager to relinquish the task he clearly believed to be below his station. Matilda looked towards Adam and he offered her a brief wave before walking away. Lady Adelaide was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps Matilda had imagined her being there.
Maerwynn pulled at Matilda’s arm and they slowly walked back towards her house. ‘I know what you’re fretting about,’ said Maerwynn briskly.
‘And that is?’ Matilda offered without really caring.
‘There isn’t enough food to share. No one will think badly of you.’
‘Roger brought me some cheese yesterday. And I have saved a morsel of bread.’
‘You must eat it.’
‘Will you share it with me? It’s no more than a token but at least us two can eat in Galeran’s honour,’ Matilda said, although she thought it odd to mark Galeran’s death with the human necessity that had killed him.
‘No one expects a wake meal in these times. There is no shame,’ said Maerwynn firmly. She halted and took Matilda’s hand, her voice softening. ‘You don’t want to be alone? I will sit with you awhile, but then I must attend to Beth. She nears her confinement. And you should rest.’
They reached the house and Matilda put her hand on the door. She paused. ‘The cuckoo didn’t sing,’ she said. ‘Did you hear a cuckoo?’
Maerwynn shook her head. ‘He’ll only sing when fair weather is coming.’
‘In other years he would sing today.’
‘This is not like other years.’
‘There’ll be no cuckoo king this year,’ mused Matilda. Maerwynn laughed. ‘We have more to worry about than cuckoos. Come, let’s go inside.’
Matilda smiled for the first time that day. She opened the door and waved Maerwynn ahead of her.
The sky did not weep that morning. And neither did Matilda.
