The next morning we buried Old Simon, alongside the two other freshly dug graves beside the chapel. Alice Cross had played her part thus far, and told the others that Old Simon had died of a seizure after climbing the steps to Godfrey’s library. It was not so far from the truth, after all.
As we stood about the grave that morning, the wind swept in off the sea and drove through us, penetrating even the thickest cloaks and the sturdiest boots. The women and children had remained inside the castle for this burial, for it was the grimmest and darkest of winter days. The tide was in and wrathful clouds advanced across the sky towards us like a fleet of invading ships. There was not even the weakest shard of sunlight to lift our mood.
Now that our resident priest had died, I was forced to perform the service of committal myself. Amongst our dwindling number, I was the only man with anything resembling a religious education. While I worked my way through the final words of petition, Sandro and Lyndham kept their eyes on the nearby forest. We had seen movement between the trees the previous night. People skulking on the outskirts of the castle. Fires burning and dogs howling. It seemed we were not the only souls to be seeking sanctuary from the Plague at this far end of the island. I don’t know if these people had any desire to storm the castle, as Godfrey had feared, but had they carried out any such plan, then they might have been surprised to find the dangers that still lay within these walls.
We retreated inside as soon as the coffin was covered with soil, before we lowered the portcullis and locked the gate. And then Sandro and I set to work, for there was no time to waste. Firstly I asked my valet to fetch the bucket of birch oil that we had found outside the castle walls, on the dawn after The Fool’s murder. Since then, I had kept this bucket in the cellar, with the instructions that it was not to be touched. Sandro carried it to the castle dungeon, where he left it just inside the door to the unlocked cell.
The second part of my plan was a little trickier to carry out, because I needed Filomena’s help for this, and I had not yet taken her into my confidence. I found my wife in the kitchen, holding baby Simon in one arm and stirring a cauldron of porridge with the other. Hugh was behind her, turning the bare roasting spit at speed and clearly causing the elderly cook a great deal of anxiety. I picked my son up in my arms and kissed his head. ‘What are you doing there?’ I asked him gently.
‘Roasting a lion,’ he said proudly.
‘I’m sure it will be very tasty,’ I said. ‘But a lion needs to be turned very slowly.’
‘Why’s that?’ asked Hugh.
I paused. ‘Because he is very large and very fierce.’
‘But he’s dead,’ said Hugh, looking at me as if I were stupid. I certainly didn’t have Sandro’s way with children.
‘But how can you be sure?’ I said. ‘If you turn the lion too quickly, then he might wake up again.’
Hugh regarded me for a moment, before his face dissolved into an excited giggle and he struggled from my arms, returning to the spit, where he duly engaged the turning handle with more restraint. This still annoyed the cook, however, so I asked the woman to leave us alone.
Filomena eyed me with suspicion, rightly guessing that I had sought her out with an ulterior motive. ‘What is it, Oswald?’ she asked.
‘I need you to distract Lady Isobel for a while.’
She continued to stir the porridge. ‘Why?’
‘I need Sandro to speak to Lady Emma on her own. But her stepmother watches her like a hawk.’
She stopped stirring. ‘And what do you want with Lady Emma?’
‘Can I tell you later?’
She looked up at me, and raised one of her eyebrows.
At this moment, Simon woke up and began to grizzle – which immediately prompted Hugh into making the same noise, only louder.
‘I don’t think that I have the time to help you,’ said Filomena, brusquely. ‘My hands are full with these two children.’
I picked Hugh up, though he squirmed like a piglet to reach Filomena. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Go to Lady Isobel now and ask for some help with the baby.’
Filomena laughed at this. ‘Lady Isobel has no interest in children.’
‘Then think of something else,’ I said. ‘I don’t know. Tell her that you want to know about the latest fashions in London.’
Filomena laughed again – this time with even greater disdain. ‘Is that all you think women want to talk about, Oswald?’ she said. ‘Children and fashion?’
‘Please, Filomena. I really need your help with this.’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Very well then,’ I said, putting Hugh to the floor and wandering back towards the door. ‘I suppose that I could always ask my mother to help me.’
She put down the spoon and glared. ‘No no. I will do it, Oswald,’ she said. ‘Just give me a moment to think of a story.’
* * *
Filomena was as good as her word. I don’t know what excuse she dreamt up to get Lady Isobel out of her chamber, but it worked – for soon Sandro peeped around the door of their apartment to find Lady Emma alone. I hung back in case I scared the girl, but she seemed happy enough to take Sandro’s hand and follow him out into the inner ward. Once there, Sandro encouraged her to start singing her favourite song, the pair of them skipping around in a circle like two mummers in a play. Their voices were soft to begin with, but as Sandro led her to the dungeon, Lady Emma’s voice rang out at great volume.
‘These castle walls are cold, ’tis true,
They freeze with winter ice and snow,
But a man can always warm his pole,
Inside a tight and furry hole.
I know I’m not the only man,
Who longs for comfort from the cold,
I’ve heard the creeping feet at night,
Looking for a new delight.
If ever there was consolation,
To this frozen isolation,
It is found, in every guise,
Between a woman’s warming thighs.’
I followed at a distance, before taking my place in a corner of this dark cell, as the words of The Fool’s song resounded from the walls. Predictably, it was not long before Lady Isobel appeared at the door, her beautiful face contorted with rage.
‘Stop that, Emma,’ she shouted, marching into the room and grabbing the girl by the sleeve. She went to shake Emma violently, but froze when she saw my face in the lantern light. ‘Lord Somershill?’ she said. ‘What on earth are you doing in here?’ For a moment she seemed lost for words, until her stepdaughter began to sing again, and then Lady Isobel found her voice. She screamed, demanding that the girl be quiet, before she slapped Emma soundly across the face.
Sandro gasped at this and pushed Lady Isobel away from her stepdaughter.
Lady Isobel squealed in disgust at Sandro’s touch, as if somebody had thrown the contents of a chamber pot at her. ‘Get this filthy Venetian rat away from me!’
At this insult, Sandro turned to Lady Emma, and together they began the song again, even louder this time.
‘I know I’m not the only man,
Who longs for comfort from the cold . . .’
Lady Isobel placed her hands over her ears. ‘Stop singing that song. Stop it!’ But the song resounded about the dungeon, achieving a new level of volume that must have reached the whole castle.
‘. . . I’ve heard the creeping feet at night,
Looking for a new delight.’
She made another attempt to grasp the child, but Emma dodged her stepmother with ease, laughing wildly at her escape. Sandro and Emma then danced about her, until the woman screamed at the very top of her voice for them to stop.
‘If ever there was consolation,
To this frozen isolation,
It is found, in every guise,
Between a woman’s warming thighs.’
We were not alone for long. The bait had worked. The bird had sung and its mate had answered.