by Lucy Jago
As she walked through the Borough, past the guildhall, the lock-up, and the shops, she noticed people huddled in small groups, deep in discussion. Many had just come from matins and were on their way home to break the fast, their faces unusually somber. Cess wondered what eternal hell the parson had threatened to make them look so serious.
Outside the tavern a few men were brawling. The fight looked as if it had started the night before and had revived now the men were waking. Some were groaning, clutching their heads and bellies. Others wrestled through pools of vomit and piss, arguing over who would reign once Queen Elizabeth was dead.
“King James! A man at last to end these times of misery!” shouted one, who was immediately set upon.
Cess doubled back to Wash Lane to avoid being entangled in the mess of punching fists, bleeding lips, and foul language. As she squeezed past the gossips at the narrow entrance to the lane, she overheard their whispered conversation.
“Who found it?”
“Maggie. She’s only six. A terrible thing. She poked it with a stick!” Cess heard the other women tutting. She could not imagine what they were talking about and only half listened as she crouched to remove a twig that had caught in her clog.
“He was only a boy, not more than twelve. Someone thought they recognized him, from Yeovil. Still had a farthing in his pocket.”
Cess’s attention was caught. She wondered how long she could fiddle with her clog before arousing suspicion that she was eavesdropping.
“No one would steal a farthing off a putrid body. Had he a reason to be in Montacute?”
“No one knows. He had no horse, and it’s a long way to walk.”
“He was under the thorn trees by the river. Eyes open and staring as if the Devil himself took his last breath.”
Many unpleasant things happened in the village: men beat their wives, women their children, babies died of hunger, and farmers were crushed by their own cattle. But to find a dead body far from home was a different thing altogether.
“How did he die?”
“Not by human hand.” There was a pause as the women absorbed the dreadful thrill of that thought.
“The Devil?” one said quietly.
“Who knows? The boy’s teeth and bones were broken. He was bruised like ten bulls ran over him, and his skin was raw with boils.”
“The Good Lord preserve us!”
“If it was illness that took his life, then others of his kin or village will die, so word has been sent.”
“Perhaps it was his family who sent him away when they saw he was ill.” Again the women tutted, although Cess knew several in the village who had boarded up dying members of their own families in empty barns, even tiny children, to protect themselves from the plague.
“Is it witches?”
The reply was drowned out by the shouts of several brawling men who were now fighting their way down Middle Street to the top of the lane. The women were forced to move on, and Cess risked a brief glance to see if they had noticed her. They were clutching their Bibles and frowning with worry, too engrossed in their imaginings to care about her.
Sometimes it is useful being a nobody, she thought as she walked quickly away, trying to shake off the hideous image she had formed of the dead boy.
C H A P T E R 3
Ignatius Bartholomew, the village parson, muttered crossly under his breath as he heard a rap at his front door. On May Day morning anyone devout should have known not to disturb his preparations. Today of all days he needed peace in which to write a sermon that would deter his flock from the abominable heathenism he saw all about him.
“These villagers with their maypoles, dancing, and fornicating in the woods…” he muttered angrily as he rose from his table. Although he had lectured them on the matter for the past ten years, Ignatius was aware that he had had little noticeable effect on the villagers’ behavior.
“Sir Nathaniel Davies, steward to His Lordship, sir,” announced his manservant.
“Ah, that’s different.…” mumbled the parson, smoothing a few sparse strands of dark hair onto his balding scalp.
He bowed as Sir Nathaniel strode in. “At your service, sir,” said Ignatius in his reedy voice. The parson was a tall man and thin. He did not approve of display, thinking it “womanly” and frivolous, and believed that the nobility of a man’s soul and the sharpness of his mind was all the adornment needed. He also loathed spending money, such that his clothes were shabby and ill-fitting, and he kept a poor table. The only guests he invited were local magistrates whose decisions he wished to influence, or men of the cloth with whom he talked about Good versus Evil. No women crossed his threshold other than to collect his laundry. He had once thought to have a wife, but was turned down by the object of his decision, and had thereafter abandoned any such notion.
“You have heard, I presume, of the boy found dead this morning?” asked Sir Nathaniel, without preamble. Ignatius, never a great admirer of the steward’s blunt manner, could not hide his astonishment.
“You have not?” said Sir Nathaniel disapprovingly. Ignatius was aware of the steward’s disdain for him. Inexplicably, Sir Nathaniel seemed to place great store by his wife’s opinions, and she had left the parson in no doubt what she felt about his belief in the inferiority of women and the evilness of papists. It had occurred to him that the steward and his bossy goodwife might be secret Catholics themselves, but so far he had held his tongue.
“I do not involve myself in the villagers’ lives,” Ignatius said loftily, “but prepare them to meet their Maker at their end.”
“Indeed,” said Sir Nathaniel, his jaw clenching in irritation. “The boy lies in your crypt. The church warden opened up, I believe.”
“Probably. He knows I don’t like to be disturbed before a sermon. He is quite capable of making the necessary arrangements for the body to be returned to the proper parish once it has been claimed—”
The steward cut Ignatius short. “Finding a young boy dead is a shocking event, even on such a busy day as this,” said Sir Nathaniel sternly. “He was recognized as hailing from Yeovil, and we have already heard that he went missing three days ago. The magistrates were treating it as a case of truancy, although the parents swore there was no reason for their son to run away. Finding his body has thrown doubt on a number of other cases of missing boys, of which there seems to have been rather a spate recently.”
Ignatius’s eyes narrowed in irritation. He liked to think he had an ear to the ground amongst the magistrates of the county. The fact that Sir Nathaniel was so much better informed than he was showed that the hospitality he afforded at the parsonage was not being rewarded.
“Please keep your eyes and ears open and report to me anything that might shed light on the death of this boy or the other disappearances,” Sir Nathaniel said, more an order than a request. “The Queen has honored us greatly by agreeing to visit, and it is of vital importance that nothing occurs which might disrupt matters.”
“The Queen?” whispered Ignatius as if Jesus himself were expected. Sir Nathaniel nodded. “Have you considered Catholics?” the parson blurted out, daringly, given his suspicions about Sir Nathaniel’s religious leanings.
“What?” said Sir Nathaniel testily.
“The boy. Could he be dead at the hand of Catholics?”
“To what possible purpose?”
“To put off the Queen’s visit?”
Nathaniel paused; the parson’s notion was not impossible. “We do not yet know if the boy was killed or died of natural causes,” he said. “His appearance was that of someone dead of the sweating sickness.”
Ignatius’s eyes opened wide in horror.
“It seems not to be spreading in the usual manner; no other cases have been reported,” said Sir Nathaniel, much to the parson’s relief.
“Has witchcraft been considered?” said Ignatius intently. It was a subject about which he was passionate.
“No, parson, nothing has been considered. We are sim
ply looking for information.”
“I shall be glad to serve in any way I can,” Ignatius assured hurriedly, bowing low as Sir Nathaniel left.
Back at his table, the parson took a small sip of wine to calm his thoughts before returning to his sermon. One dead boy. Hardly a plague. He hoped it stayed that way. Last time plague struck the village he had been away at his brother’s farm at Porlock Bay on the north coast, close by Devonshire. He had returned once the last of the bodies had been buried. He remembered the eerie quiet in the village. One in three dead. It had been a necessary release of anger and fear to hunt the witch responsible, easy to rouse his flock into following him, although disappointing that she had evaded capture. The fear of God had been struck into the villagers’ hearts, and that year at least there had been no maypoles or reveling. Perhaps, thought Ignatius, the dead boy provided the perfect excuse for a new hunt. He, of course, would lead it. This time the witch might be caught, and anyway, the exercise would provide valuable lessons on sin that the villagers needed to hear. How easily the Devil seduces his victims. The parson bent over his table and began to write furiously.
It was nearly midday by the time Cess found her best friend, William Barlow, and slumped down on the ground next to him. He put aside the slate he had been drawing on and began fishing about inside his leather jerkin.
“What bit you?” said William, noticing Cess’s frown.
“I heard about the dead boy they found this morning.”
William nodded but did not reply as he searched his inside pocket. Cess felt her worry diminish in the presence of her quiet, thoughtful friend. He was not someone to gossip or spread gruesome stories; he rarely spoke unless he had something useful to say, and Cess liked that about him. Indeed, having only one friend in the village now that Edith no longer lived there, she was glad it was William. People assumed they were friends because both were outcasts. She was a bastard and William had a clubfoot, the “Devil’s mark,” but Cess knew that was not the truth. She had saved his life once, when the other children refused to pull him from the fish ponds because of his deformity. His near drowning was “God’s will” in their eyes. That day had created a bond between Cess and William that they believed would last for as long as they lived.
“Ah!” said William, at last finding what he had been looking for. “This is for you.” He rushed the words out and blushed as he thrust a small packet toward Cess.
“You knew it was my birthday?” she said in surprise, turning pink with pleasure. Cess untied the dull brown wrapping of the parcel, and gasped. In her hand was a length of velvet ribbon, richly colored in reds and yellows, and trimmed with gold thread. Other than the pendant, it was the loveliest object she had ever held. Unlike the pendant, she knew this was really for her.
“It’s beautiful,” she mumbled, tears brimming in her eyes. She hugged her friend so tightly she heard his joints crack.
“It’s for your hair,” William grinned, pulling off her cap and reaching to undo the braid.
“I daren’t,” said Cess, stopping him. “People will see.”
“That’s the point! It will look lovely on you.” But Cess shook her head, pulling her cap back into place.
“People will talk,” she said. He opened his mouth to disagree, then shut it, knowing Cess was right. But she was so happy with the ribbon, her face shone as she tucked it away with the same care she had the priceless pendant. A thrill went through her to think of the treasures concealed in her tatty bodice.
“I should have bought you a mirror instead of a ribbon,” William said, staring into Cess’s face.
“Why?” she asked. “There’s not much point having a mirror with no ribbon to admire.”
“You have less need of ribbons than most, Cess,” said William, looking away to hide what Cess suspected was another blush.
She blustered on. “All that writing on your slate has weakened your eyes, just as your mother said it would,” said Cess. William fell silent, and Cess felt cross with herself for laughing at his compliment. It was not as if she received so many that she could be careless with them. During the silence between them they heard distant music. The sounds of fifes and recorders, the sackbut, cornets, and shawms, drums, and flutes, and cattle bells, were growing louder.
“They are bringing in the maypole!” cried Cess, eyes alight with pleasure, the awkwardness with William instantly forgotten. She helped her friend to his feet, and together they hurried to the edge of the Borough. The music grew louder as along Bishopston and Middle Street swayed a herd of cows and oxen, their horns decorated with May blossoms and ribbons. The largest two oxen were yoked to a great pole, painted with stripes and covered with spring flowers and boughs. Ribbons, strings, and handkerchiefs were tied to one end. Among the cattle were villagers, who had found ingenious ways to cover themselves and their best clothes with the May blossoms that signified fertility and love. Flowers sprigged their hats and caps, buttonholes and bodices, and were twisted into crowns and necklaces and even tied on to their shoes and clogs.
Cess and William, along with every villager well enough to leave their home, joined the crowd in the Borough. They stood to one side as the men heaved the pole erect in the center of the small green to such a cacophony of cheers it was as if it were carried aloft on the voices of the village. The girls came forward to dance, holding the ribbons that were pinned to the top of the pole. William pushed Cess forward, but she dug in her heels and stayed near the back of the crowd. The dancers wound the ribbons around the pole while others tucked more blossoms under the ribbons so that the pole looked to be bursting with fresh growth. Cess noticed Beth among them but could not see Amelia.
The music and clapping grew to a crescendo. Then the crowd fell silent with expectation. The taverner stood on an upturned log at the base of the pole, clutching in one huge hand a large pewter tankard from which he took a sip before bellowing out a poem.
May all our beasts birth babes,
And our fields grow tall with corn,
May our hives run forth with honey,
And our men all blow the horn!
At the last line the crowd shouted and whistled, and the men pulled their wives, sweethearts, or the nearest woman toward them and planted kisses upon them. To Cess’s amazement, William grabbed her in a clumsy embrace and kissed her cheek. She was speechless that he dared show her such affection before a crowd, but no one seemed to notice them. The taverner cheered to see the lust he had unleashed, chucked the contents of his tankard at the base of the pole to symbolize the coming together of man and woman, and signaled to the musicians to start up a tune. He jumped off the log to grab his wife, and moments later the whole village was carousing around the maypole, lifting skirts, whooping with pleasure, and drinking deeply.
At the end of the first dance a loud fluting hushed the crowd, and a veiled girl was led into the Borough. At a signal from the drum the young men raced each other to capture the crown of blossoms at the top of the maypole. A strapping cooper beat the others and swaggered over to the girl. He lifted her veil and planted the crown on her head with a great smacking kiss. Cess was not surprised to see that the May Queen this year was Amelia, who was even more pleased with herself than usual. Cess had to admit that her cousin looked lovely, her golden curls crowned with a frothing circlet of blossom. She wore a green overdress that showed off her smooth, creamy complexion and bright blue eyes. Although Amelia smiled sweetly at her May Day beau, it was clear to Cess, even at a distance, that her cousin did not consider the barrel maker a fitting companion and that she would shake him off as soon as possible.
As the May Queen looked on from her throne, and Cess and William found a vantage point on a pile of beer barrels, the villagers played games on the green, competing against each other in the long jump, skittles, high jump, and throw-the-stone. As the afternoon grew long, couples wandered into the woods, and the children ate greedily from small baskets of sugared treats that they had exchanged for pieces of fruit at cottag
e doors that morning. But despite the drunkenness and boisterous high spirits, Cess noticed a current of fear running through the festivities like a ground fire spreading along bracken roots, more frightening for being hidden. Among the carousers, Cess passed several huddled groups whispering about the boy who lay dead only a few measures away in the cold church crypt.
“What do you know of the dead boy?” said Cess to William, taking up the conversation that had been interrupted earlier. Visitors and travelers wanting William’s blacksmith father to reshoe their horses were expected to share their news while they waited.
“A Yeovil man came through this morning. If it’s the same boy as the one missing from there, he disappeared three nights ago,” said William. “And there are others.”
“Others?”
“They say two others have gone from Yeovil and…” Cess stopped William with a poke in the ribs. The parson was passing on his way to the church. He had a way of striding forward and poking his small head to left and right, searching for souls to save but looking no one in the face. Cess noticed that he seemed unusually interested in his flock, cheerful even. But she had no desire to talk to him, so she and William shrank back among the barrels, and he passed without seeing them.