We did not talk much on the journey back. I kneaded my hands in my lap until I saw William glance at them. He smiled. ‘You’re impatient to be home. That’s natural enough. I wish I had a girl to pine for me like that.’
The light was still clear but it was taking on the slant of evening. How I wanted to be able to take a switch to the poor old nag that bore us! As we reached the edge of the park a man passed us; a gamekeeper on the estate, I knew his face and called out to him. Had he heard if they were returned?
‘Oh aye,’ he said, ‘two, three hours since. No end of commotion and comings and goings.’
Two, three hours since! I heard the words, and I was reeling giddy, the air itself was reeling. Oh dear God! I felt the sun itself would pause from sinking. The very birds trilled it. Then we were crossing the gatehouse with the long view of the drive; empty. ‘Take me by the stables,’ I said; I got down; scarcely nodded to William’s thanks; there were the horses, rubbed down, clean-bedded, snorting; he was not there. I began to run; over the grass to the bridge; to the orchards; there was old Rowland with his John, waving, waving; what were they shouting? It did not matter! I waved back; panting now, my heart splitting, my face splitting with the joy of it. There was Jack Robbins, kicking stones on the lane. ‘Good day to you Jack.’ I cried, but the poor clown turned in a mumbling sulk. No matter; I reached the end of the row, my new-thatched cottage, my own door; my hand on the latch, lifting it; pushing the door wide; calling out, ‘Jacob!’
‘Jacob?’
The room was empty, just as I’d left it that morning; no bag flung down, no footprint, no bread torn from the loaf. He has gone to find me I told myself. I was not here and so he has stepped out to look for me; I’ll sit and wait for his return. I sat down in the chair then straight stood up. I could not sit and wait in such a flutter. There was a great blackness gathering at the edges of my vision and I felt if I could just look straight ahead, if I could just avoid all but the very centre of my gaze, it might just go away. The door opened; my heart stopped. It was Sally with tears at her eyes and the blackness rose up from the floor and I fell.
Sally was very kind. She sat by me an hour telling me over and over that all was well, he was just delayed was all, I was foolish to take it too hard. He was following after; I could ask Rowland Coggeshill’s nephew. Meg came and crept up on my knee and stroked my face with her hand. Perhaps they were right, I thought. I should try to take heart, but then I remembered Rowland and John waving to me as I rushed by. John had begun to run toward me, old Rowland catching at his arm. It hadn’t been a greeting, of course it hadn’t; he’d been trying to warn me.
‘I must see John Coggeshill,’ I said to Sally. ‘Will you come?’
11
When I think back to that time I see the darkness that rushed at me from the floor; I hear a silence that is like roaring. Time unhitched itself. There were minutes and hours, light and dark, and I was present in them, but apart as well. I was in the silence; it had always been there, under the bustle of life, waiting. Lucky people never glimpse it, or deny it, but I had known it already – and felt it call to me. What was it, the roar of hell? The roar of God forsaking me? Of the night without God, with only darkness; the whisper of my prayers just the sound a mouse makes in the grass that only the listening owl attends to.
I could not see John Coggeshill that night, for he had gone back up to the Court when we called. On the way back Meg gripped my hand very hard. All night as I lay beside her the soft sough of her breath calmed me. In the morning I rose early and left Meg sleeping in the cot. There were voices already in Sally’s cottage, raised voices; I paused outside.
‘I never said she went with him. You saw the kiss he gave her at the corn-showing – that didn’t come of nothing. Arh! Why do you strike me mother? I’m only saying …’
‘Well don’t. Any more talk like that, Jack Robbins, and I’ll take a stick to you. Proper turtle doves Martha and Jacob, I’ve never known married folk love so.’
‘Not married folks, maybe,’ put in Michael. ‘Seems like she couldn’t do without it.’
‘That’s enough from you and all,’ Sally cut in. ‘It’s no time for jests. Poor girl! And her with no family at all.’
‘They say his own mother swore she witched him,’ Michael began. I stepped carefully away, feeling sick in my stomach. I scarce dared glance down at my feet, in case I saw the earth splinter madly beneath them like a sheet of ice when a rock is thrown. The ground was getting ready to shift again. What good was Sally waving her apron against such a slide of rumour? I would never be rid of the shadow of the gallows tree. Only Jacob’s open, honest face kept people’s faith in me. A sharp shower lashed my face as I walked and I was glad of it, for it kept the lane empty.
Rowland opened his door almost before I had knocked. ‘Been expecting you this half hour girl,’ he said. ‘Sit yourself down. John’s out the back.’
He gave me a cup of beer and as John talked I stared into it, watching the image of my face that wobbled and reformed. ‘It was in the week before Easter it happened,’ John told me, then stopped.
‘Has nothing been said? Has the Steward not spoke to you?’
I shook my head and said nothing, gripping the cup. John glanced at Rowland who nodded at him to go on. ‘I don’t know all,’ he said, leaning forward on his stool. ‘It was late. Sir Thomas himself called Jacob out with a message for Edward Croft. I heard the name of a tavern where he was like to be found. “Be sure to find him”, the master said, “and bring his answer.” There was little love lost by then between the two of them. I believe Master Croft owed Sir Thomas money. I offered to go along, but Jacob laughed. It’d be easy enough to search Croft out, he said, he’d only to listen for the sound of baying and brawling. Oh, if I’d only gone along with him!’
He put his hand on my arm and I looked up. Great fat tears were running down his face. I knew then what was coming; it was as though my blood were draining into the floor, all of it, draining out, till I was left whole and empty as a cast adder’s skin. I thought for a moment I would choke, but someway I swallowed, and then I was able to pat his arm. ‘Peace, John,’ I said. ‘What happened?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘I went to my bed. At dawn Sir Thomas’s man, pale as plaster, shook me awake. Jacob had been surprised by rufflers in an alley next the inn and though he called out and Master Edward and his men themselves heard and came running, they were too late. He was stabbed Martha; they could not staunch it.’
Old Rowland leant towards me. ‘I’m sorry, child,’ he said.
I heard the words, all of them, and heard what they meant, but I could not reach them; it was as though they were at a distance, far off, like a skein of geese beyond bowshot, not the crow that flaps over the thatch and calls out death.
‘What was done with him? Did you see him?’ It was my voice, although I did not expect it.
‘In faith I tried. He was took to the tavern, they told me. I feared they might bury him unready so that he went hot to hell like a brawling rogue. I swore I would not let them. First thing I did was to buy bread and beer to pass over him for the sin-eater to consume away his sins. Street to street I went. There was no one to be had. They have Romish priests to do their sacraments and do not have the custom. Folk scoffed at me for a country clown. And the more they jeered the more it came to seem the only thing of weight in the world, that he should pass clean over, without any wrongdoings dragging him downwards. He was the best friend that ever I had, Martha. That he should die so, in the dirt of an alley, him who could soothe a foaming courser with a touch of his hand, so it would let him lead it into hell if he asked it—’
‘—Don’t,’ I said.
‘No. Forgive me, you’re too full already. Anyways, at length I found a Welshman, from Monmouth he was, and I brought him back with me to the alehouse and …’ John fell silent and studied the floor.
‘And what, tell me, did you pass the bread over him?’
/> ‘They would not let me see him,’ he said at last, rubbing at the floor with his boot. ‘There were men there, two of them, they barred the room and declared he was a malefactor and not fit for holy ground, but that his master had interceded for a parson.’ John stood up and turned away. ‘I went straight back, thinking it was some mistake, it could be soon sorted, but when I opened my mouth Sir Thomas’s man struck me, told me Jacob’s name was forbidden, that he’d betrayed the great love and favour the master had shown him. He would be decently buried, but that was all, we were not to talk of it. The next day we left.’ He had begun to sob. ‘Don’t believe it Martha, he had no harm in him, none.’
‘No,’ I said at last, ‘I don’t believe it.’ I stood up very slowly then, placed my cup on the floor and stepped outside to the lane. John and old Rowland, glancing at one another, followed after. I had only gone a few steps when the bile rose and I began to retch. I gripped my hips with my fists and bent to the ground and felt the rush of vomit again and again and the throw of it spattered the whole stinking tale onto the earth.
When I could stand again I wiped my streaming nose and the bitterness from my mouth. John and Rowland, I realised were holding me by an elbow each.
‘Leave me alone,’ I said, but they would not; rather they took me back to Sally to fuss over me. I sat in her small house while all the people of the village came and condoled with me and left again. I remember the faces appearing before me and my hands taken and stroked and some of the women were weeping, some of the men too. The grip of their hands was a comfort, pulling my soul back into my body, but I scarcely heard what they said, beyond their hope, glancing at my belly, that before long I’d have some comfort, that I’d find then he was not altogether gone. I do not believe I spoke a word. At last I was given strong spirits and put to bed in my own house; sleep rolled over me like a fog.
When I woke the darkness was so heavy I thought myself still sleeping. For a moment – it can have been no more than a moment – I was aware only of a formless dread. Then I remembered. They had told me he was dead. I tried to form the words on my lips but could only say his name. Jacob. Over and over in the dark I said it, because it brought his face close to mine. Jacob; his name ended with a kiss. Had I known that always, I wondered, breathing the image of his face against my lips? Next to me Meg sighed and turned; I rose and left.
The moon was big, but it was sinking. I did not have much darkness left, so I headed into the woods, where only the hollowness of the air led me along the paths, one foot after another. Only in utter darkness, it seemed to me, could I keep from thinking, or rather think as I ought, as I wanted to. After minutes, but I was not sure, it could have been an hour, I tripped over a fallen branch and fell headlong into a soft bank of old leaves, twigs and long damp bluebell spears. Instinctively I put my hand to my stomach, but there was no need, I was not hurt at all; I did not bother getting up, but sat with my knees hugged to my chest. About me, things crept and scuttled so quietly I caught only the whisper of a moving stem. Before me a great oak tree inked itself; a blot of darkness so swollen it must have begun its dying long ago.
We first made love as man and wife under branches in the crook of ruined walls long open to the sky. Here, in the thick black calm of the night, I could call the thought of him to me so that he seemed as real as a breath of wind against my cheek. ‘Oh my sweetling,’ he said, unlacing me to kiss the brown mole on my shoulder, ‘how foolish you are, how could you think I would let this go?’ I closed my eyes and felt how big his hands were against mine, all the life beneath his ribs. It was not possible that I could breathe like this, push my fingers into the crumbling wood rot and he be gone from the world; from the whole living world and the cold clear stars in their spheres. ‘Listen,’ he would whisper close in my ear on summer nights when he had led me out to the fields, ‘do you hear the music, do you hear the music the stars make? Sometimes I think I hear it.’ And I nodded, because it pleased him, but I didn’t hear it; I only heard the warm rhythm of his pulse against my skin.
I opened my eyes and looked up; night was fading and if there were any stars the ragged clouds obscured them. If heaven was there I could not find it. What use was heaven to me now? I did not want it. I wanted his body, his voice; I wanted to go back and find him by our hearth, pulling on his boots, poking at the fire, cursing the slowness of the pan to boil. The light had grown now so that even if I closed my eyes it pressed through them. He had not and would never come home. I hugged my knees and rocked back and forth as the bright horror of the day lit on me. There was no comfort, none. Weeks hence the promise in my belly might bring me some kind of solace, but not now, not yet. Above me birds trilled to their nests and each other. He’d used to copy them; waking me with the woodpigeon coo ‘I love you honeysweet.’ No, no, I must not think of that. The pain pressed at my ribs, my belly, and though I moaned and rocked it did not ease the tearing at my heart. ‘What kind of bird am I, then,’ I asked him once. ‘You’re a wren, Martha.’ ‘No, surely,’ I said, ‘let me be bigger than a wren.’ He darted kisses over my face and neck. ‘You’re a wren, small and brown, with your tail cocked at all the world and a voice stronger than any.’ My heart would burst. How could I not break open?
If I’d had his knife in my pocket I believe I would have stuck the blade into my leg, have let the free flow of blood relieve the strain in my chest, but I did not have it. There was a dense patch of nettles by the path; I went over and drew my hands and wrists across the saw-edged leaves. The stings burned. I jerked off my boots and walked into the clump barefoot, holding up my skirts so that my legs were seared, over and over; until I flamed. I grabbed the young plants, crushing them in my fingers, against my neck, my chest, my face – but tearing at the plants was no good way to get the hurt from them. The scalding tempered the worse pain however, turned it somewhat, so that in the stinging I found a way towards anger. That he had been left so, like a thrown shoe in the road and I not told and all that was his not brought to me!
When I reached the cottage Sally was there, and Rowland; Sally all in a pother that I had done myself mischief in the night.
‘We were that worried, Martha. Roused every house in the village we did after Meg crept into me that you were gone in the dead of the night. Oh if anything had happened, I could never have forgiven myself that I did not sit up to watch you. In your condition, too. “Who knows what she might do in the grip of her grief,” I said.’
‘She sent our Jack to Master Boult’s house,’ Meg said before Sally could shush her.
‘Just so as men could be sent to look,’ Sally said quickly.
I felt my heart tighten and took little Meg’s hand; the child had been crying, her face was stained with tears.
‘Forgive me, Sally,’ I said, ‘and don’t worry, I would not offend God.’ I turned to Rowland. ‘Would you come with me, to the Steward’s house? There are questions I need answers to; I think I should be much stronger with you beside me.’
Boult was striding through his gates whistling as we approached. He stopped when he saw me and put on a doleful face.
‘Yes, you had better come in. You can wait if you wish, Rowland.’
‘If it’s all the same, sir,’ Rowland said, ‘I said as I’d stand with her and I shall.’
Boult frowned at that, but pointed back towards the house, showing us into a small office that I had not seen before, with a single chair and a desk.
He sat down and pressed his fingertips into an arc, regarding us a moment as we stood, awkwardly, before him. ‘It’s my duty, Goodwife Spicer, my painful duty, to let you know the truth. As no doubt you have heard, your husband did not die an honourable death. Nevertheless, out of his compassion and generosity Sir Thomas left instructions for a minister to bury him decently.’
The stinging was fading from my arms and legs, but it was enough; my voice wobbled but did not give way. ‘John Coggeshill has told me what little he knows sir, but not the particulars of his death. How was it disho
nourable?’
Boult eyed me sharply. ‘He tried to force a girl in an alley. She cried out and a brawl ensued.’
My legs buckled. It was only old Rowland’s arm that held me upright.
‘No,’ I blurted, ‘he would not,’ but I collected myself. ‘What is the name of the man who killed him, sire?’
‘What does it matter? He drew a knife first. There can be no doubt. Edward Croft’s men witnessed it.’
‘Edward Croft’s men.’
‘Yes, girl. Master Croft’s men. Jacob had come to an inn hot with liquor– sack-sopped, wrangling with every comer, with the fly that buzzed before his nose. When he reeled out they followed, to prevent any trouble in the town. They saw it all.’
I could not speak; I stood staring stupidly at Boult who for his part stared back at me. There were scales behind his eyes, weighing and counting. It was Rowland who broke the silence.
‘In what parish, sir, is the boy buried?’
Boult consulted a letter on his desk. ‘Ah yes, the parish of St James. What does it matter? He was given a Christian burial. Be grateful for that; it’s more than he deserved.’
When he spoke again it was in quite a different tone. ‘As you know, you have no claim on the cottage without your husband Goodwife Spicer. Indeed, it will be needed. But Sir Thomas is merciful, it may be that some arrangement can be made. He has left the matter entirely in my hands. I have no doubt I can find you suitable work in my own establishment – and more convenient accommodation.’
The Good Wife Page 8