S D Sykes [Sykes - The Bone Fire

Also by S D Sykes

The Butcher Bird

Plague Land

City of Masks

The Bone Fire

S D Sykes

www.hodder.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2019 by Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company

Copyright S D Sykes 2019

The right of S D Sykes to be identified as the Author of the

Work has been asserted by her in accordance with

the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

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All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance

to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library

eBook ISBN 978 1 473 68001 2

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Cito, longe, tarde

Fly quickly, go far, return slowly

The counsel of Hippocrates, at the first news of plague

For Mum

Contents

December 1361

To the finder of this letter,

If you are reading this, then I am dead. Taken by plague. If your nose does not lead you directly to my body, then look in the chamber beyond the curtain for this is where I shall go to die. I would ask you to bury me, as this will give comfort to my family, but I shall not condemn you for taking the other option. These are wretched, savage times, and I know why the fires blaze and the bones burn.

If you have the heart to place my body in the soil, then wrap me in my cloak and bury me alongside the other graves in the ground behind this cottage. Elsewhere the soil is hard and icy, and will not yield to the spade.

If you are well yourself, then I beg you to take this letter to Castle Eden, as my wife must know my fate. She will not thank you for this news, but she will reward you for your service. You may look upon my decaying, corrupted body and see a poor man who has died in this lonely place, but you should know this. My name was once Oswald de Lacy, Lord of the Somershill estate.

Chapter One

Our party left Somershill in the November of 1361, as soon as we heard that plague had crossed the river Darent. There were five of us myself, my wife, son, and mother, and just a single servant, my valet, a boy named Sandro. I chose the plainest cart and the sturdiest pony from my stables, and we left with enough food and drink for the whole winter, or so we hoped. I expected every last grain of barley and every last cup of wine to be consumed before we returned to Somershill in the spring for we were retreating from the world. Heading to a place that was far away and difficult to reach. Somewhere that plague could not find us.

We made good speed on our first day. The roads were dry and empty as we headed south, and we found rooms easily enough at an inn near Battle Abbey. But our luck ran out on the following day as we reached the coast at Tenterden. It was here that the weather turned against us. A spiteful wind had arisen in the English Channel, and then gathered malice as it crossed the vast salt marsh between us and the open sea. We were heading for an island within this marsh a stretch of land that rises from the waters like the long back of a sleeping sea monster. The Isle of Eden cannot be reached at low tide with a cart, as the muds are too treacherous to cross with a heavy vehicle. At high tide, there is only one way to traverse the short channel of sea aboard a wide-bottomed ferry. But the ferryman would not consider setting off that day. The waves were too high, and the wind was too strong. And so we were forced to stay another night, at another inn, waiting for some respite from the storm.

It was little better the next morning. The wind still blew in from the sea in icy, piercing bursts, and the waves still assailed the coast in long, diagonal lines but we could not afford to wait any longer. Knowing that plague was chasing our tails, I offered the ferryman more than twice the usual fee to make the crossing. He agreed to this, but warned me that the passage would be rough and he had not lied. The ferry rocked and creaked in the swell, as the storm grew in intensity. Above us the sky was invaded by black clouds, surging towards land like the fists of an angry god. As the rain fell in long and heavy strikes, I felt sick, cold and wet, and so I kept my eyes ahead, trying to think about where we were going and not what we had left behind.

The Isle of Eden is only six miles long by three miles wide, with few inhabitants other than a collection of tenant farmers. The sweetest apples grow here. The fattest walnuts and the ripest grapes, as the soil is usually warmed by the sea and sheltered by a succession of folding valleys. On my previous visits, the island had always lived up to its name a true Garden of Eden. And yet, today, the island ahead of us was shrouded by an ominous, swollen gathering of clouds so low and dark that this scene could be mistaken for the entrance to Hell.

We eventually reached the far shore, surviving the rains and the winds of the crossing, before we came to a ramp covered by waves. At first our pony refused to pull the cart from the ferry, shying away from the water and then attempting to rear. It was only when the ferryman threatened the whip that the pony finally agreed to move off, allowing us to follow the cart through the water to reach the shingle beach at the other end of the ramp. Our feet had barely touched the shores of Eden, before the ferryman turned his craft back towards the mainland. Seeing his boat retreat into the distance, I felt panicked for a moment, and nearly called out for him to return. But I bit my tongue, took a deep breath and forced a smile onto my face. We had to go on. We could not turn back.

Once we had settled the pony, I looked out for Godfrey, as he had promised to meet us here but the shore was deserted, with not even a watchman from the nearby village to greet us and demand to know our business. I decided not to wait for my friend. This was the final stretch of our journey and we needed to reach his castle before darkness fell. And so we set off, taking the only road that crosses Eden a track that bears south, following the spine of the island through a patchwork of field and forest.

The pony reared again as we headed up the first steep hill and then refused to move. It was scared by the change in the weather as much as anything. The rains had stopped now, but something worse was brewing a sea-fog that was cold, white and heavy with vapour. For a moment I was tempted to abandon the cart and come back for it the next day but our load was too valuable to leave about on a deserted track. It would be a rich prize for any thief. In the end I followed the ferrymans example and reluctantly threatened the pony with the whip, finding that it still responded to the threat of pain.

As we pressed forward in the thickening gloom, Mother struggled to keep up whenever she was required to get out of the cart and walk. I took her arm and helped her up the steeper inclines, but she complained bitterly at each step. I dont know why we had to come here, Oswald, she hissed, as she stumbled into a rut and nearly fell.

I caught hold of her before she landed in the mud. Yes you do, Mother, I said, once she was steady on her feet again. We couldnt stay in Somershill.

So weve run away from the Plague, she huffed, only to die in this cold. This is not how I wanted my life to end.