The Coven's Daughter

by Lucy Jago

  “He’s a bit taller than me. He has a…bad foot.”

  “Nope. I’d have spotted him if he’d limped this way. Never leave my post, not even to open my bowels.” He grinned, and Cess turned her head away from the pigs and the foul-smelling muck they were wallowing in.

  “How far is it to the tavern and the wrecks’ shack?” asked Cess, looking down the road.

  “Not far, but you’re a girl,” he said, looking her over again. “If you go alone, they’ll think you’re one of the doxies. I wouldn’t bet a farthing on your getting back here in one piece.” Cess realized he was probably right. She would ask Joliffe to go with her after the market. He seemed well acquainted with Yeovil’s taverns.

  On the way back to the poultry corner, Cess asked every stall-holder she passed if they had seen a boy like William, but none had. She was bitterly disappointed not to find out more, and felt the day had been wasted except for her success at selling. She had made more money than her predecessors ever did.

  “You’re a lucky one!” exclaimed her toothless neighbor, without a trace of jealousy as she packed away her stool.

  “Maybe it is you who brings me luck.” Cess smiled back. It was a wonderful feeling, to be liked.

  “I’ll buy that last bird off you,” said the woman. “Reckon it’ll make good chicks.”

  As the church bells rang out for evensong, the last of the stalls was being dismantled, and the dust boys swept the square. Cess watched them picking over their sweepings for anything edible or valuable before chucking the rest into a large dunghill in one corner. She took her empty baskets back to Joliffe’s cart and stowed them carefully. Making sure that she was not observed, she untied the purse from under her skirt and placed the day’s takings inside. She heard the coins chink against the pentacle and athame. She replaced the purse and checked that the necklace and ribbon were still lodged safely in her bodice.

  Then Cess waited for Joliffe, impatient to ask him to accompany her to the tavern the boy had talked about. She might yet discover something. As long as they did not spend too long there, they would be able to reach Montacute before the moon set.

  Her backside was numb from sitting on the cart, and evensong was almost over by the time Joliffe staggered up to her. Dusk had already fallen.

  “Here you are.” His words were slurred, and Cess could smell the drink on him. She wondered, crossly, where else he would expect her to be.

  “Farmer Joliffe,” she asked directly, “will you come with me to the eastern end of town? There is a tavern there where I might find out something about the missing boys. You know William Barlow did not return to his home last night?”

  “I heard the commotion. It’s your friend, eh? What tavern?” he asked, swaying on his feet so alarmingly that Cess wandered if he would even make it to the London road, let alone protect her when they got there.

  “The Hog’s Head,” she replied.

  “What?!” Joliffe exploded, covering her in a light mist of beery spittle. “Take you to that den of filth! Do you have brain fever? Never.”

  “But I need—”

  “I am a man with a bad reputation, missy, though I do not deserve it. If I took you to that damned louse pit and anything happened to you, which it probably would, I would never forgive myself, and no one else would forgive me either. And even if we went, which we won’t, you wouldn’t be able to believe a word anyone said because it’s as much a nest of thieves and ne’er-do-wells as you will ever see.” Cess had never heard Joliffe say so much, and it was clear he was speaking from experience.

  “So are we to return home?” Cess inquired, disappointed.

  “Home? That miserable hellhole? Of course not! Here there is drink and merry fellows aplenty. At home there is nothing but dark looks and tutting. No, lass, while I am here I like to enjoy the pleasures of the place.”

  “But where will we sleep?” asked Cess, worried that her purse might be stolen if she slept in the open.

  “Sleep?” said Joliffe, a little puzzled. “I don’t know that I do a lot of sleeping when I’m here. I lie beside the cart a little while before setting off back to the farm. You can sleep in the cart if you wish. We’ll be off before dawn.”

  The idea of sleeping in an open cart alone, or with a drunken man, was not appealing, but since Joliffe was already staggering off to another inn, there was no need to reply to his offer. If she was not back at Montacute House by dawn, they would think she had run away with the takings, but if she tried to reach the village in the dark she risked being attacked by cutpurses, breaking an ankle in the deep potholes, or at the very least losing her way.

  She looked around her. The once-bustling square was now empty save for a few vagabonds and ragged children who were searching every inch of cobbles for a scrap of food or a dropped penny. She couldn’t sleep outside, but she dared not spend a single farthing on lodgings in case the steward found her out. It was almost dark, so she walked back down the street by which they had entered the town. The shops were boarded up, but she could see candlelight winking through the shuttered windows above, and hear the sounds of the families that lived there. Now that the market and evensong were over, all the goodwives of the town were at home, cooking for their families. She was aware of being the only woman on the street, other than a couple of brightly painted prostitutes who stood at the corner of a narrow, dark passageway. Groups of apprentices loitered about, staring and clicking their tongues at her as she passed.

  There was a commotion up ahead, and as she rounded the corner she saw a group of men outside the inn Joliffe had pointed out, the Red Lion. The brawl was blocking the road, so Cess slipped silently through an arch to her right, into a busy courtyard. Servants, stable boys, and clients moved purposefully about the yard in all directions, feeding and watering the horses, fetching straw and firewood, hurrying off to slake a thirst, slopping out and sweeping. In one corner a knife grinder was sharpening the inn’s metal tools by the light of one of the many lanterns that hung from metal hooks set into the walls.

  Stables formed the whole of the right side of the courtyard, with room for fifty or more horses. To the left were the brew house, bake house, wood store, and other outbuildings. The privies, the usual shack over a pit with a plank on which to stand, were in the far left-hand corner. The far wall was high, and beyond it she could see only trees. There was a door in it, which opened as she looked. A well-dressed and handsome young man let himself into the courtyard and locked the door behind him. He walked confidently toward the back of the inn, which formed the fourth side of the courtyard, where a few steps led up to a door. On either side of the door were more lanterns. The boy was slim, tall, and aware of his good looks.

  Just as he reached the bottom step, the door flew open and a stout woman in a large white coif marched out, shouting at the top of her voice, “Jasper! Jasper!”

  “Here, Mother,” replied the boy, wincing slightly at her yells.

  The woman looked down. “There you are, noddle! Where have you been?” The boy did not reply. He looked Cess over briefly as he bounded up the steps and disappeared inside. The woman made to follow. “Mistress, excuse me,” called Cess as she walked up the steps.

  “May I sleep in the stables, ma’am? The cart I am to ride in is delayed till the morrow. I can wash pots or do any chores you wish in return.”

  “Do I look like a woman without servants to you, girl?” said the woman, glaring down at Cess. “Why would I let a wench under my roof who has never crossed my path before? Be gone!” She was about to slam the door when the thunder of many horses’ hooves trotting on cobbles filled the air, and a cavalcade of liveried horsemen rode into the courtyard. Cess counted sixteen men, most of whom wore green-and-white-striped belted tunics, with the Tudor rose prominently embroidered in gold and red. Four were not in uniform but smartly attired in velvets and brocade.

  “Greetings of the most excellent Master of the Queen’s Scouts and Harbingers, here by order of Her Royal Majesty, the Quee
n Elizabeth, God bless her soul!” announced the rider at the front of the cavalcade. “We need room and board this night, mistress. Pray fetch the tavern owner.” The shiver of excitement that had spread across the courtyard at the sound of the Queen’s name amplified severalfold as it reached the innkeeper. She pushed out her considerable bosom, patted her orange wig, and smiled around the courtyard for all the world as if she were the Queen herself.

  “I am mistress of this tavern, sir, since my beloved husband’s demise. I am Mistress Makepeace, and you and your men are welcome. The better kind of person is often to be found here at the Red Lion as we run the most select establishment in the town, to be sure.” This admirable self-promotion was drowned out by the clatter of breastplate and sword as the men dismounted. She took no offense, too delighted at the prospect of such fine company, and curtsied low as the scout and his outriders tramped past, somewhat stiff and bowlegged from their long ride.

  “You,” said Mistress Makepeace, eyeing Cess, “if you want board this night, you can help in the kitchens. We shall need another pair of hands. You may not enter the dining and drinking rooms under any circumstance, is that understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Cess, dropping a curtsy.

  Cess was put to work washing trenchers in cold, greasy water. The only light in the scullery came from a few evil-smelling, pig-tallow candles that guttered and smoked blackly enough to make her eyes sting. She worked without rest until well after midnight and was dropping with fatigue when Mistress Makepeace stormed in for what seemed like the hundredth time. Her fancy clothes, more sumptuous than a woman of her status was permitted to wear, were decidedly disarranged. Instead of yelling for more food or ale, she announced that she was retiring to bed and ordered the stable boy to bring straw for Cess’s bed.

  “The cook has left bread and dripping on the table,” she said, popping her head into the scullery before she swept out. When her daughters burst in moments later with the last pots to wash, they also looked flushed and disheveled. Their clothes too were finer than anything the village girls wore. There were no stuffs in brown or thick gray wool, but bright colors, stripes, and silky materials that showed off their figures. No village girl would ever wear a neckline as low, or a hem as high, as these girls did. They were babbling in excitement. By their conversation, Cess thought they must be a little older than her, for they seemed to think of nothing but romance.

  “Did you see the captain’s fine cape? Has ever a man so handsome been in Yeovil!” enthused one.

  “Yes, sister. The guard by the fire. He has better looks, I swear, and has spoken such sweet words to me all night. He says the Queen will make a progress in our county, and he will return with her and come for me! At least I will marry one of them, to be sure.”

  “Sweet words, sister? He did more than whisper with you, I saw! His hands were in your bodice as if he had lost his cap in there!” The girls howled with laughter, clearly as excited by ale as they were by fine uniforms. Without glancing at Cess, they snuffed out the candles and left.

  Cess wiped her hands on the coarse linen apron Mistress Makepeace had tossed her way at the start of the evening. Her fingers could hardly move, and the skin on her hands and arms was red and sore. She felt her way into the main kitchen. The fire had already been raked and covered, so it provided no light and little warmth, but the moon was up and shone into the room just enough for Cess to see her way to the pile of straw that was her bed. Too tired to care what she slept on, she kicked off her clogs, folded the apron to make a damp pillow, and pulled her cloak over her as a blanket. It was not long enough to cover her entirely so she chose to have warm feet and cold shoulders. She started to think back over the events of the day, but was asleep before she’d got very far.

  She awoke with a start. She did not know how long she had been asleep or what had roused her. For a few moments she lay very still, totally at a loss as to where she was. Then she heard a noise and saw candlelight flickering on a wall. Taking a deep breath to steady her nerves, it slowly came back to her that she was in the kitchen of the Red Lion Inn.

  The noise came again. A vessel, probably a clay pot, being scraped along wood. Cess raised herself on one elbow, being careful not to make a sound. If the inn was being burgled, she did not want to get hit over the head. Then there came another noise of someone moving a stool and standing on it. More pots being moved. Cess dared to raise herself enough to peep over the top of the rolling table. Balancing with one leg on the stool and the other kneeling up on a narrow trestle was the boy she had seen earlier. He had placed a single candle pricket precariously on a high shelf and was looking in all the pots stored along it. There were at least thirty.

  Suddenly his foot on the stool slipped, and the boy came crashing down out of view behind the table, still holding a small pot. He swore richly but under his breath. After a few minutes, when he had still not got up, Cess walked around the table.

  The boy was sprawled on the floor looking quite content, for all the world as if he were on the green sward in the sunshine. In one hand he held the pot, in the other, the lid. He was chewing with his eyes shut like a cow with its cud, humming quietly. Cess supposed that whatever was in the pot was supremely delicious.

  “Are you all right?”

  The boy leaped several feet in the air, quite a feat from a supine position. “Jesu!” he yelped.

  “I’m sorry, I did not mean to startle you,” said Cess, jumping back herself in the face of the boy’s reaction.

  He stared at her, his chest rising and falling as if he had run the length of the town. “I saw you earlier. What are you doing here?” he demanded when he eventually regained his voice, obviously much vexed.

  Cess noticed, even in the dim light, that the boy’s lips and teeth were black. She was sure they had not been earlier.

  “I’ve been working in return for my board. The mistress told me I could sleep here.”

  The boy looked Cess up and down, in a way she thought rather rude, before turning his attention back to the little pot. He dug his fingers in again, taking out a pinch of soft black threads and popping them in his mouth. Cess knew what it was as soon as she saw it. It was a drug that could only be bought from an apothecary. Strong and supposedly possessed of powerful medicinal qualities, which was why Mistress Makepeace would store it in her kitchen, it was said to be hard to give up once tasted. Some of the wealthier craftsmen in the village used it, by chewing it or putting it in pipes, setting light to it and sucking in the smoke. When the traveling apothecary came to the village, it was always his most successful ware.

  “I haven’t seen you around here,” the boy said, but without appearing to find that fact interesting. “This is my first time in Yeovil. I come from Montacute, ten miles distance at least—”

  “Montacute House?” asked the boy.

  “You know it?” said Cess warily, unwilling to reveal too much about herself.

  “Of course. Doesn’t everybody? My mother wishes to place me there after my schooling. She thinks if I am found a position, it will be my passage to court,” he explained with a short, harsh laugh.

  “Do you not wish to go?”

  “It would be better than school.” The boy shrugged. “What kind of man is His Lordship? Scholarly, or a man for amusements?” he asked, clearly judging the latter to be the best. He had a wad of the drug in his cheek and was leaning against the trestle, observing Cess as if she were a horse or a brace of coneys. It felt to her as if he was weighing up whether she was worth his attention.

  “He seems a kind man under his grand exterior,” she said, “and I imagine there is plenty of distraction to be found there.…” she continued, eyeing the pot in his hand. The boy looked at her out of the corner of his eye, his curiosity piqued by her lack of deference.

  “It’s best if my mother knows nothing about this,” he said, indicating the pot. “She’s against tobacco and only keeps it for when the plague or the sweat come.” He bowed his head to acknowled
ge that Cess deserved his respect in return for her silence. “I am Jasper Makepeace.” He bowed lower, with exaggerated gallantry.

  Cess hesitated. No one had introduced themselves to her before with such formality. She dropped a tiny curtsy and replied, “Cecily Perryn.”

  The moon, drifting through the night, now skimmed the side of Jasper’s handsome face. He had large, pale eyes with heavy lids and long, thick lashes like a girl’s; a fine, straight nose; and a wide mouth with lips curved like an archer’s bow. His hair fell to his shoulders in soft waves.

  “Won’t you sit?” he invited Cess, for all the world as if they were nobles in a grand house. She moved back to the hearth and sat cross-legged on the floor. She saw him smirk at her lack of airs and graces as he brought the stool for himself.

  “What position have you at Montacute House?” Jasper asked.

  “I am poultry girl. I brought the eggs to market.”

  “Why have I not seen you before? It is often I who goes to the market if my mother can’t.”

  “I turned thirteen two days ago. I asked to come.”

  “Ah, seeking adventure.”

  “Not really. My friend has gone missing and I thought I might find out something about him here.”

  “A good friend? Run away?” Jasper’s questions came fast. She wondered what interested him more, William’s disappearance or her relationship to the missing boy.

  “He could not run far. I think he was taken,” Cess replied, almost in a whisper. Just saying those words made it more real, and she did not want it to be true. Jasper said nothing. It was clear to her that he saw no need to concern himself with her friend.

  “Do you hear anything about those who have disappeared?” asked Cess.

  “Yes, indeed, all the gory details. The regulars know my mother likes to be entertained,” said Jasper, taking a last pinch and reluctantly putting the lid on the tobacco pot. Cess could well imagine that Jasper was also not averse to gossip.