The Butcher Bird

S D Sykes

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First published in Great Britain in 2015 by Hodder & Stoughton

An Hachette UK company
1
Copyright S D Sykes 2015
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.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means
without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated
in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published
and without a similar condition being imposed
on the subsequent purchaser.
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.
Hardback ISBN 978 1 444 78581 4
eBook ISBN 978 1 444 78580 7
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The Black Death of 134850 killed an estimated half of the

English population.With so many dead, the poorest people could
suddenly demand higher pay rates for their labour. The response
of the king was a law to suppress wages:
The King to the Sheriff of Kent, greeting. Since a great part
of the population, and especially workers and servants, has
now died in this pestilence, many people, seeing the needs
of their masters and the shortage of employees, are refusing
to work unless they are paid an excessive salary. Others
prefer to beg in idleness rather than work for their living.
Mindful of the serious inconvenience likely to arise from
this shortage, especially of agricultural labourers, we have
discussed and considered the matter with our prelates and
nobles and the other learned men, and with their unanimous advice, we have ordained that every man or woman
in our realm of England, whether free or unfree, who is
physically fit and below the age of sixty . should be paid
only the fees, liveries, payments or salaries which were
usually paid in the part of the country where they are
working in the twentieth year of our reign (1346).
The Ordinance of Labourers (letter from King Edward III
to the Sheriff of Kent. June 1349)
This ruling was endorsed and strengthened by Parliament in 1351
to form The Statute of Labourers.

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the red-backed shrike

Lanius collurio
Once a common migratory visitor to the British shores, this bird
butchers rodents, insects and the nestlings of other small birds,
and then impales their corpses on thorns, as a larder. This
behaviour has earned the shrike the name The Butcher Bird.

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Prologue

Somershill Manor, September 1351

t was the tail end of the morning when the charges were laid
before me and I would tell you I was tempted to laugh at first,
for the story was nonsense. Or, at least, that is how it sounded to
me. Instead I suppressed a smile and carried on. Shouldnt Father
Luke deal with this? I said, turning to my reeve, Featherby. It
seems a more. . . ecclesiastical matter. This was the first manorial court of 1351 and I had spent the last three hours imposing
fines on my villagers for neglecting to plough a field, or for
allowing their goats to trespass upon a neighbours garden. After
such triviality, you might expect me to have been pleased for
some variety in my caseload. But I have learnt to be wary of
excitement. It causes trouble.
Featherby leant towards me and made a show of whispering.
Father Luke thought you should know about this crime, sire. He
then raised his substantial eyebrows and mouthed a word to me
that I think was affray, though his lips moved with such exaggeration, it was impossible to know for certain.
Tell me the story again, I said loudly, trying to disguise my
rumbling stomach. It was late morning and the rich scent of
roasting duck drifted across the great hall from the kitchens. We
should have finished by now.

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Featherby stepped away from me to pull a trembling figure

from the crowd. It was John Barrow a man I recognised
immediately, despite his torn clothes and filthy skin. Barrow
was often brought before the manorial court, though not
because his rents were unpaid, or because he had failed to perform some duty or other about the estate. Instead, the usual
complaint against the man concerned his refusal to cease his
shrill and piteous grieving. In my opinion his neighbours should
have treated him with more sympathy, for he had lost his wife
and three children to the Plague but given the sneers and
glowers of those about him, it seemed he had once again tried
the villages patience.
Featherby shook the miserable man. Tell Lord Somershill what
youve done now. Go on. He wants to hear it from your own lips.
Barrows response was merely the emission of a strange swallowing noise that both began and ended in his throat.
A woman with the sharp face of a weasel pushed her way
through the crowd. He opened his wifes grave, sire. Thats what
he did.
I looked to the man she accused. His skin was pale and moist
with sweat. His eyes as veined as a blood orange. Is this true? I
said, but he didnt answer. Instead he began to pant like an overheated dog a condition not assisted by the crowd that drew ever
closer about him.
Stand back, I told them. The morning was cold, but their
bodies exuded a nervous heat that hung in a low fug across the
chamber. They drew back with some reluctance.
I leant in close to Barrows ear, so that the others might not
hear me. Did you open your wifes grave? I asked him. You must
tell me the truth.
He nodded but didnt speak, only continuing to make the
curious gulping sounds in his throat.
Why? I said. Why would you do such a thing?
Its the second time hes done it, said the weasel-faced woman.

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s d sykes

We might have forgiven his sins once. But we shouldnt forgive

them twice. Oh no.
I folded my arms and glared in her direction as fiercely as a
boy of nineteen might. Are you the judge here? I asked her.
She looked to the floor. No, sire.
Then keep your opinions to yourself.
I turned once again to John Barrow. Now that the surging mob
had backed away, he stood alone in the reeds of the floor seeming
as unsteady as a newly born calf. I ask you again, Master Barrow.
Why did you open the grave of your dead wife?
He wiped a ball of spittle from his mouth. I wanted to hold
her again.
That wasnt all you did, came a voice from the crowd. I
couldnt see its owner, but knew it to be the same busybody as
before. At her words the hall erupted with angry calls to punish
the sinner.
I shouted for them to be silent, but they ignored me. And then,
as I looked upon their agitated faces, I remembered an earlier
time, not twelve months before, when I had witnessed another
frenzied crowd such as this burn a boy to death.
With this memory soldering my nerve, I raised my voice to a
new level. Enough, I bellowed. Or Ill fine you for disorder. For
a while they were subdued, allowing me to turn my attentions
back to Barrow. I took his hand, hoping that some kindness might
calm him. Please, Barrow. Just tell me the truth.
His fingers were hard to the touch and as cold as the icy stream.
His voice a thin, rasping trickle. I had a dream.There was a fiend.
A demon. It told me to return to my wifes grave.
And did you?The faces were once again drawing in about me.
He nodded. Yes.
My stomach sank. But why?
The demon told me I had begot a child upon her.
I dropped his hand sharply. You cannot beget a child upon a
corpse, you fool!

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Barrow caught my arm, his fingers now claws. But it wasnt a

child, sire. He pulled me closer close enough for me to catch
his sour, feverish stink. I heard a scratching from within the
coffin.
Dont lie, I said.
I lifted the lid, he whispered, digging his nails into my sleeve.
But I should have left it shut. I should have left the creature in
there.
What creature?
It was a monstrous bird. With great talons and a huge hooked
beak.
This is nonsense, I said, pushing the man away.
Barrow covered his face, his words now seeping through tearstained hands. I saw the creature fly away into the night. He
collapsed into the reeds, weeping pitifully.The crowd drew back,
calling him both a sinner and a devil. But as I watched Barrow
shudder and convulse upon the floor, my disgust at his story
slowly turned to sympathy. It was not sin that had spawned this
delusion. It was madness.
Featherby coughed. What should we do with him, sire?
I didnt answer.
Shall I bolt him into the pillory? he whispered. Loudly. Im
sure a night in the cage would sort him out.
I took a deep breath. No.
Featherby sighed with disappointment. Are you sure?
I looked my reeve squarely in the eye. I said so, didnt I?
But he sired a monstrous bird, came weasel-faces voice. You
cant let such a thing live.
I told you to be quiet before, I said. I wont say it again.
But still she didnt listen. You should torture Barrow, sire.
Make him tell us where the bird is! This idea caught hold, and
once again the fever erupted. How easily reason is destroyed by
fear. They shouted and waved at me, hopping up and down as if
the floor were a skillet of boiling resin.

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s d sykes

He wants the bird to take our children, because his own are
dead, came one voice.
Its a butcher bird, said another.
Hang the man, said a third.
Now I roared with such force they could do nothing but fall
silent. Go home! I told them. The manorial court is closed.
Slowly they dispersed, but not Featherby. He sidled up beside
me. What of John Barrow?
Lock him in the gaol house for the night. Let his madness
wane. Then I pointed at weasel-face. And put her in there with
him.

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Chapter One

ersey Castle is never colder than in March, when the winter

winds have frozen its walls since All Hallows and the milky
sun is still too weak to disperse the vapours from the river.
It was not an auspicious month in which to give birth, but my
older sister Clemence was heavy with child and supposedly in her
confinement. Lying in bed, however, did not suit my sister. Instead
she wandered the orchards, or even groomed her unpleasant
horse in its stable always in the face of firm opposition from
Mother and her physician. Eventually, to provide some relief from
this badgering, Clemence had written to me at Somershill and
begged for my company at Versey until the child was born. This
was a request I had found difficult to refuse, since Clemences
husband was dead and she had nobody to turn to but myself. It
was not even that the man had died, which would have been poor
fortune enough for a woman expecting a child. Instead he had
been murdered only days after their wedding surviving long
enough to assault my sister and conceive the child that she now
carried. The wheel of fortune had not turned in Clemences
favour for many months, so I could no longer allow her to face
its cruel momenta alone.
And Clemence was glad of my company.
At least I think she was.
*
*
*

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Soon after my arrival, I persuaded my sister to walk with me one

morning in the hours before Mother usually rose from bed. I needed
to speak with her on a delicate subject on a topic I had been
avoiding for months. As we walked through the meadow, Clemence
gripped my hand and stepped with care through the grass, the
weight of her belly threatening to unbalance her at any moment.
My ankles have swollen to the size of old Eleanors, she told me as
we made our way towards a favourite seat beneath the oaks.
Perhaps you would be better to rest, Clemence? Raise your
feet above your head.
She grimaced. Not you as well, Oswald? Mother has done
nothing but pester me about resting with my feet in the air.
She gave birth to nine children. That must qualify her to have
an opinion?
She doesnt know everything. Clemence then held her side
and groaned. Hes kicking his foot into my ribs. Such an energetic boy.
He?
She turned to me sharply. Yes. Its a boy. And before you say
another word, theres nothing wrong with him. Despite what
Mothers been saying.
I took her small hand again. Of course there isnt. But I wished
I had felt more confidence in this statement, for Clemence was
carrying a large child that was already two weeks overdue,
according to the midwifes calculation. My knowledge of childbirth was poor, but it was sufficient to know that a late birth was
more likely to end badly. We sat on the stone bench that looked
down the valley towards the castle. Before us the silver catkins
perched on the willow like a host of tiny rabbit tails, and the first
of the Lent lilies peeked their yellow heads through the grass and
nodded in the wind. In the distance, the two young de Caburn
sisters, now Clemences stepdaughters, ran into the woods, pursuing some of their usual mischief. We watched their blonde
heads bob through the meadow and then disappear into the trees.

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For a moment spring was in the air and I felt all the hope and
promise of the turning season, but then I saw Gilbert riding over
the drawbridge into the castle. He was my valet from Somershill
and there was something unlikely and even ominous in his presence here. I should have returned then to greet him, but as
Clemence launched into the next conversation the thought soon
slipped from my mind.
She coughed. When my son is born, will you keep your
promise to me?
I was tired after a succession of poor nights sleep, so it took
me a few moments to fathom what she was talking about.
Unfortunately Clemence read this hesitation as evasion. I knew
I couldnt trust you, she said, clapping her hands upon her thighs.
You mean to keep Versey as well as Somershill.
No, I dont, I said, now understanding her original question.
I had once made a rash promise to my sister, just after her husbands murder. Unfortunately I could not be certain that it was
now in my power to keep it. Its not entirely my decision.
Remember? The earl instructed me to take over this estate. She
shrugged, seeming to have forgotten that I had not asked for the
wooded hills and poor land of Versey. This castle was cold and
grey with only the sky and a wide river for company. She could
keep the dreary place as far as I was concerned.
But what about my son? she said. Hes a true de Caburn.Why
should he be cheated out of his birthright?
Im not trying to cheat him.
Then speak to the earl on his behalf.
I promise to try. When the opportunity arises.
She snorted and pulled a strand of black hair from her face.
You promise?
Yes, Clemence. I do. Even if your child turns out to be a
girl.
She stroked her expansive belly and looked at me with a drop
of the malevolence of old. It will be a son.

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I touched her shoulder. Feeling the soft fur of her miniver

cloak. I hope so, Clemence. If thats what matters to you.
She sighed. You think me cruel? That I dont care for my own
sex?
No. Its just that all of your dead husbands children have been
girls. Maybe you should prepare yourself for a daughter?
She shrugged me away. What use is there in being a woman in
this world, Oswald? Look how Ive fared, compared to you.
I took her meaning well enough. I didnt want any of this,
Clemence.
But it came to you anyway.
In the distance we could hear Mother calling for us and suddenly I remembered the reason for persuading my sister to walk
with me so far from the castle. Listen, Clemence. Theres something I want to tell you, I said. Before Mother finds us.
She turned to look at my face, her eyes suddenly wary. Oh
yes?
I took a deep breath, for this was not the easiest of confessions.
I went to the graveyard to look for Thomas Starvecrows grave.
Who?
I puffed my lips in frustration. Was she being deliberately dullwitted? You know who Im talking about. Thomas Starvecrow. At
the repeat of this singular name, a shadow crossed her face. She
knew the name. We both did.
They say that truth can sometimes be stranger than invention,
and in this case the adage held true for the previous summer I
had discovered that I was not really Oswald de Lacy at all. That
boy had been buried in a grave marked Thomas Starvecrow, after
his death in infancy.
So who was I then? If not Oswald de Lacy? Lord Somershill.
Thomas Starvecrow, of course. No grander than the son of a
poor girl who had been employed as a wet nurse to the latest de
Lacy infant. Her name was Adeline Starvecrow, and though she had
managed to feed two infants, there had been a divergence in our

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fortunes.Whereas I had thrived, this boy had faded and when he

had died at eight weeks, Adeline had substituted me, her own son,
for him. I dont believe there was evil or ambition in her act; she
had simply feared being blamed for the death of a noble child.
So why, you might ask, when this secret was revealed, had I not
been thrown into the streets? My mother (or the woman I had
grown up to believe was my mother Lady Margaret of
Somershill) had always known of the deceit. After giving birth to
nine children, with only three surviving to adulthood, she had
not wanted to risk another confinement so she had chosen to
ignore the slipping of this cuckoo into her nest. In any case, I was
the last son. The third spare. Nobody more important than that.
There were only three people now alive who knew this secret.
Myself, Clemence, and Mother. It was obvious why I kept quiet
but for Clemence and Mother it was a practical decision. With
my older brothers dead, there was no other male heir, and at least
I bore the de Lacy name, even if their blood did not flow in my
veins. In any case, any revelation about my true beginnings would
bring great shame and notoriety to the family. It was expedient
for all three of us to say nothing.
Clemence shifted from one buttock to another the weight of
her unborn child causing her some pain. Why would you bother
looking for Thomas Starvecrows grave? she asked.
I wanted to put the boys coffin in our family crypt, I admitted.
He was a true de Lacy, after all.
Her face hardened into a scowl. You should leave such matters
alone, she said. My brother died as a baby and you took his place.
You shouldnt be messing around with his coffin.
Suddenly we saw Mother beating her way through the grass
towards us, with all the vigour of a child with an urgent tale to
tell. Our time alone was limited.
But there is more to my story, Clemence, I said. Please listen
to me.
Instead she held out her hand so I might help her from the seat.

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When I refused, she heaved a wearied sigh. What is it, Oswald?

Please be quick. I want to get away from Mother as soon as I can.
Shes trying to feed me one of de Waarts purgatives to induce
labour.
I felt my stomach roll. Dont take anything that man
prescribes.
Clemence waved her hand. Just get on with your story.
I hesitated.The words rested on my tongue, but what an admission they held, and Mother was now within yards of us.
Be quick, Oswald, she urged.
I opened the lid of the coffin.
My sister screwed up her face in disgust. Gods nails, Oswald.
Why did you do such a thing?
I dont know exactly. Now she rolled her eyes. My sister
always thought me so foolish. Lacking the pedigree to be lord. I
was curious, I told her boldly.
Why?
My tongue felt tied. I just was. She smiled at my discomfort.
I was right to look. I insisted, dropping my voice to a whisper.
There was no body inside the coffin.
Now Clemence reddened. Are you sure?
There was nothing inside but a wooden effigy.The small Christ
child that had been stolen from St Giles.
She put her hand to her mouth. So where is the body then?
I dont know.
It was too late. Mother fell beside me on the bench, panting
and wheezing like a wool dyer beside a tub of steaming mordant.
When she recovered her breath, she turned to my sister and
scowled. What are you doing out here, Clemence? Your humours
will be assaulted by this cold air.
Im perfectly well, said Clemence.
Mother shook her head in despair. With this constant insistence on wandering around outside, I shouldnt be surprised if
you dont give birth to a little snowball. A child made of ice.

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Dont be so absurd. Im wearing a cape. My son is quite warm

enough inside me.
Mother smirked. Too warm if you ask me. That child is overcooked. It should have been born weeks ago.
My sisters face was beginning to sour. Her small hands tightening into fists. Make up your mind Mother, she said. Is my child
too hot or too cold?
I quickly intervened. Theres no hurry for the child to be
born. Its still healthy and moving.
Mother scoffed. What on earth do you know about such matters, Oswald? You were educated in a monastery. Did a monk
ever give birth? I shrugged by way of reply. No. Exactly.You are
quite unacquainted with the workings of a womans body.
I know more than that fool who claims to be your physician,
I said. I hear hes still in the castle.
Hush, Oswald. I am a great admirer of Master de Waart.
Would you have me suffer without his care?
Its his care thats causing your suffering. I said. I dont know
why you employ him.
To calm my nerves, of course. Versey is a very disquieting
place. It doesnt suit my temperament at all.
Clemence coughed pointedly. What is it that you wanted,
Mother?
You must return to the house. Its time for your purgative.
Clemence groaned, but Mother ignored this response and
turned to me, prodding a finger into my arm. And you need to
attend to this murder, Oswald.
What murder?
The murder Ive just told you about.
You havent said a word about a murder.
She wrinkled her nose. Are you sure? Gilbert brought the
news from Somershill.
I stood up. Wheres Gilbert now?
In the kitchen, I suppose, said Mother with a note of

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irritation in her voice. Thats where servants are normally to

be found.
The kitchen at Versey is perhaps the only pleasant room in the
castle. The scent from the bread ovens drifts through the air and
warms the nostrils. The heat is dry and comforting a reminder
of happier times.
I found Gilbert sitting next to Clemences servant John Slow
in a smoky corner. Gilbert was resting on a wooden stool, whereas
Slow, a man who mistrusted furniture, had taken up his usual
position on the stone floor. The two servants spoke in a low
mumble, on a topic that must have been fascinating, as they failed
to look up when I sped into the room.
It was Slow who noticed my presence first. He nudged Gilberts
leg in a panic and struggled to his feet. Im sorry, sire. We didnt
see you there.Then he flinched crouching and holding his head
in his hands, as if I were about to strike him.This was Slows usual
reaction to me, though I had never assaulted the man.
Please leave us, I said. I need to speak with Gilbert. Slow
backed away from me, bowing as obsequiously as a penitent
leaving the presence of the Holy Father, but when the man considered himself out of my sight, he bolted away in his strange gait,
rocking from foot to foot like a man upon a hobby horse. On
reaching the kitchen door he rested against the door frame and
took a deep breath, seemingly under the impression that he had
avoided the punishment that Gilbert was now certain to receive.
Gilberts reaction to me could hardly have been more different.
Though I was his master, he took time to wipe the crumbs from
his mouth before lethargically getting to his feet. Sire?
I should have reprimanded him in some way, but Mothers
story was more pressing. I hear you have some news from
Somershill? Theres been a murder. Is that correct?
He sighed and nodded, but still did not say a word.
Come on, Gilbert, I said. Im a busy man. This was not

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entirely true since I was neither that occupied and not yet considered a man but his indolence was provoking.
A child has been found dead, sire. Murdered. He clasped his
hands together as if he were about to pray.
Who is it?
A newborn girl. Only just baptised. He then held his nose
between his thumb and forefinger, and suddenly I realised that he
was trying to suppress a sob. Small tears leaked from the rims of
his eyes.
You say she was murdered? He nodded. Can you tell me her
name?
He composed himself and blew his nose. It was strange to see
my valet so affected, as the man was usually no more sentimental
than a storm cock smacking a snail against a stone. She was the
daughter of Thomas Tulley, sire. They named her Catherine.
Are you sure she was murdered?
His shoulders shuddered. She was But he was unable to
finish the sentence. Instead he slumped back down upon the stool
and hung his head. A couple of the scullions gathered to look
upon him, whispering in wonderment at the man who usually
scolded them for a dirty pan or poorly plucked bird. I shooed
them away with the command to fetch ale.
The ale was warm and frothy and tasted of bread dough with
the bitter aftertaste of dandelion leaves.
Gilbert drank his down promptly. Im sorry, sire. He blew his
nose once again upon his sleeve. I dont usually become so
affected. Its just what happened to her body.
What do you mean?
She was left in a bush of blackthorn. Her skin pierced by the
spurs and thorns.
I felt a dismal churning in my stomach. Do you know whos
responsible?
Its not a mystery. Thats why you are needed back at
Somershill. The whole village is in uproar.

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Then who is it?

Im disappointed to say that a smile began to curl at the corner
of his mouth. His tears now washed away by the mug of ale.
Which creature kills other nestlings and stores them upon the
thorns of a tree?
Im in no mood for riddles, Gilbert.
He put the mug upon a nearby table and stood up. He was no
taller than me, but his frame was solid and thick, like a seasoned
oak. It was a bird, sire. A butcher bird.
I looked him over. Was he being sincere? It was so difficult to
read his weathered face. The sun and wind had worn away its
nuances. The shrike is a small bird, Gilbert. It couldnt lift an
infant from its crib. Not even a newborn infant. It only attacks
And then I stopped myself, realising what Gilbert had really
meant. John Barrow did not beget a bird, I said.
My valet raised his eyebrows, and then wiped away a bead of
mucus from his nose. But he said he did. I heard it myself only
four weeks ago. At the last court.
The man is ill.
Maybe so. But hell be dead soon.
What do you mean by that? I snapped.
Theyll hang him, when they find him.
I groaned. Go to the stables and prepare Tempest.
He straightened his tunic and then bowed to me, though I
would say this gesture was no better than half-hearted. Very well,
sire. Are you riding back to Somershill straight away? he asked
me.
Of course I am. He trudged out of the chamber, grumbling
under his breath like a starved stomach. And be quick about it,
I added.
He pretended not to hear.

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