Verity stares after him. Her chin is trembling. She shouts, “I will never marry Gerald! Do you hear me, Father? Never never never!” She is in tears. I put my arms round her but she pushes me away. “Where were you when I needed you, Beatrice? Off in the forest with Hugh? You’re on their side, not mine!” I stare at her in shock.
People are hesitating, some turning away, not wishing to get on the wrong side of Father. Leo hands James his drum and mutters, “It’ll mend, lad.” Hugh gestures to Simon Sims to start playing again. Germaine, well away from Gerald now, finds her fiddle and joins him. They play together, dancing round each other, grinning, colliding elbows and hips in fun, making people laugh. Gradually the mood of festivity is restored.
Verity says to me, “I’m sorry, Sister,” and she and James walk away together towards the Pike, with a cold dignity that rejects us all. She is sobbing. A little way down the slope James puts his arm round her. I watch them go. Hugh holds out his hand to me, but I shake my head. There is only one place I want to be at the moment, and it is not here.
I ride Saint Hilda through the woods at a fast trot. Half way to the cottage I meet Mother, strolling from the direction of the shore with an unhurried smile on her face and fish scales in her hair. She looks surprised to see me.
“Beatie, where are you off to? I thought you’d be dancing till midnight.”
I jump off Saint Hilda and hug her. “I need to get away for a bit, Mother. Are you going home? Father and Verity have quarrelled. She may need to talk to you when she comes down from the Pike.”
Mother looks dismayed. “I’d better get on home then.” She bites her lip. “I shouldn’t be away so much. Go on. Enjoy your ride.”
I put one foot in the stirrup. I feel a great urgency to talk to her properly, and for us not to have secrets. Secrets have led to Verity’s accusation that I have neglected her, that I am not on her side. Robert is a secret which I cannot share, but he makes all other secrets seem unworthy of the bother of keeping them. Yet how can I ask my mother if the local witchdoctor is her lover?
“Mother…”
“Yes child?” She sounds impatient. I reach into my saddlebag where I have a leather pouch belonging to the Cockleshell Man. It contained painkilling herbs when Robert still needed them. I have been meaning to return it to him.
“Would you mind giving this back to Cedric, please?”
Her mouth actually falls open, and stays so. Her round blue eyes just gawp at me. The colour goes from her face.
I am alarmed. “I’m sorry, Mother. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
She passes a shaking hand over her face. “Is this your way of questioning me, Beatrice?”
I realise then that I do not need to question her. My mother loves the Cockleshell Man. It is perfectly obvious, and indeed I do not blame her. I shake my head. “No Mother. No, it isn’t.”
“How do you know him, Beatrice? What was in this pouch?”
“A… remedy… some herbs for someone I know…”
“I’m surprised you didn’t mention it to me then, and that Cedric didn’t say he had met you.”
This is a talent my mother has, gently changing the emphasis and putting the other person on the defensive. I feel very close to her suddenly. She and I are both doing the unthinkable. I kiss her on the cheek, and realise with relief that if Cedric has not told her about meeting me, he will certainly not have mentioned Robert to anyone else. My mother says, “He is a man of exceptional goodness, Beatrice. You will know that if you have met him.” She takes the pouch from me and nods, then walks away quickly through the forest.
Chapter 15
Robert is not at the cottage. He is not anywhere I look. I search the woods. I even risk calling him. Some half-fletched arrows he has whittled lie outside the cottage. The grey goose feathers he has been using to fletch them are blowing about in the breeze. I look for a note, then realise I don’t even know if he can read and write.
Has he gone? Has he just decided he is well enough, and returned to Scotland? He sounded very homesick yesterday. I shiver, despite the heat. Surely he will not have tried to cross the sands unaided. Our quicksands are shifting, treacherous things, and all travellers must be guided across. Cedric is the guide, or carter, as we call him. I did not see him at the Midsummer Revels, so perhaps he is at this moment taking Robert across the sands, or perhaps he took him last night, in the safety of darkness.
I feel astonished that Robert should have left without saying goodbye to me. I ought to feel relieved, but I do not, though I can see the sense in his going now, before our march on Scotland draws closer and the communal blood is up.
I search the woods one more time, then untether Saint Hilda from beside the beck. The sun is tilting towards the west on this longest day of summer. It is going to be a golden evening. The tide is moving up the bay as I ride back down the hill towards the lea. The midsummer bonfires are now emitting just a heat haze. Germaine in her green silk gown is sitting on a logpile, playing a lament on her fiddle. A drunken farmhand lurches out of the bushes at me, his face red and his clothing dishevelled. “I’m ready to fight the bloody Scots,” he declares, and falls into a patch of thistles.
I continue down towards the tower. Torches have been lit along the valley to see merrymakers home, and the hot smell of tar mingles with the smell of dung. A few homesteaders are still standing around, talking and laughing. Dickon is dancing to the tune Germaine is playing, a pair of ram’s horns held to his head. Around us, twilight deepens. It gradually occurs to me that something is wrong. There is a strange atmosphere, a sense of suppressed excitement amongst those who remain. I hand Saint Hilda over to Leo, and almost ask him what is going on, but do not wish to draw attention to the fact that I have been absent.
In the kitchen Kate is suspending a pot from the top notch of the rackencrock, for a slow stewing. Clearly supper is expected to be late. “Kate, what’s happening?” I ask. “It feels as if something is going on.”
She turns the handle of the winch which swings the rackencrock back over the flames, and throws me a disapproving, purse-lipped look. “Those of us not dallying out in t’woods know as to what’s going on, my girl.”
I turn away impatiently, but Kate, unwilling to let anyone else be the bearer of scandalous tidings, adds smoothly, “’Tis a death hunt.”
I freeze. Suddenly the smoke from the midsummer bonfires has a sickening odour. “Who is it? Who are they hunting this time?” I ask.
Kate, her face red from the fire, allows a dramatic pause before she whispers, “They found a Scot in the woods.”
I feel as if I am going to pass out. Kate wipes her hands, bloodstained from cutting up the mutton, on the white apron which now covers her frilled gown. I lower myself on to the oak settle. “You say a death hunt, Kate? So he must have got away then.”
“Aye, the lads were too drunk to hold him. He’ll not get far though. They’ll comb t’district and cut off the route round the bay. If he tries to cross the sands, well God help him. It’ll save us a bit of bother.”
A large, white moth flutters past me into the fire, and fizzes audibly to death. Despite the heat, gooseflesh is standing out along my arms and legs, living flesh which will also be consigned to the fire if I am caught in what I am about to do. I stand up. “Kate, I’m going to bed. Death hunts sicken me. Don’t disturb me for supper.”
Kate weighs her cleaver in her hands. “Oh, hoity toity then. That makes two of you. Mistress Verity is sickly and lying down too.”
I leave while she is still talking, then put my head back round the kitchen arch. “Kate, where did they find him, this Scot?”
“In the ash grove by the lime quarry, is what I heard. Meks yer blood run cold.”
The ash grove – he’ll have been cutting sticks for the arrows he’s making. How could he be so stupid as to come out into the open like that? I feel furious with him, after all the care we have taken. I run up the stairs to my room. The stairwell is full of acrid pitc
h smoke which has drifted in through the arrow slits. I arrive in my room coughing. At my window I can hear the voices of people outside in the barmkin. More seem to be arriving and everyone sounds drunk. Tinderboxes click and spark. Through the distorting glass I can see glimmers of flame as torches flare up. I go up on to the battlements, where Martinus and George are watching the crowd below.
“They reckon as he’s an outrider for a fresh attack,” George tells me. “Unless he was left behind from last time.”
A cheer goes up below. I peer over and see my father wobbling drunkenly on the barmkin wall, calling to his horse, Caligula. Someone brings the horse over and he topples on to it. The barmkin gate swings open and the assembly bunches together. The few horses prance and fidget. A howl arises from the edge of the darkening woods. Master Spearing, who keeps the alehouse in the village of Barrowbeck, has arrived with his two manhunting bratch-hounds. I watch them being offered a bundle of some sort, and then recognise the red-brown jerkin I gave Robert from the cupboard at the back of the men’s common room. I realise not only that its previous owner could easily recognise it, but that my scent as well as Robert’s might be on it.
Slowly the death hunt moves off, the walkers keeping clear of the nervous frisking of the horses. I bid the two henchmen good night and walk to the top of the stairs, then as soon as I am out of sight, run for my room. Caesar, my cat, races with me, enjoying the game. I push him away, fling my hooded black cloak round my shoulders and flee down the back stairs.
I pass the end of the bright kitchen without Kate seeing me, then rush on down the underground passage, past the wolf-pit, up through the stone floor of the dairy and out into the barmkin. Saint Hilda approaches, but I stroke her warm neck and leave her behind. I need to be inconspicuous. Out in the cool meadow, wisps of smoke hover about my shoulders and a pale, daylight moon shines on the sea at the end of the valley. Robert, what are you feeling, out there in the dark? I don’t think you’re easily afraid, but perhaps you’re afraid now. Can you hear the dogs?
The hunters on horseback are keeping a close rein, letting the hounds take their time and allowing those walking to keep up. I move silently behind them. It is not difficult to be unheard, with the noise of the dogs’ yelping and whining. At the crossroads on the Barrowbeck to Hagditch Road the death hunt stops, and flounders about uncertainly. I press myself against the trunk of a tree. “The hounds are favouring that way.” Someone points.
“Aye, reckon as he’s headed for Mistholme Moss.” It is my father’s voice.
Suddenly I know where Robert is. Yesterday I told him the truth about his weapons. They are indeed at the bottom of a bog, but what I had omitted to tell him before was that they are wrapped in oilcloth and attached to a long, fine chain, so that they can be hauled back to the surface when necessary. I suppose it was a dislike of waste that made me do it. They are fine, well-tooled weapons. A lot of work went into them.
The death hunt moves off in the opposite direction from Barrowbeck, towards Mistholme Moss. I know this marsh well. It is where we cut peat and gather rushes. There is a short cut to it over a gorse-scattered heath full of rough stones and lacerating thorns, on the opposite side of the road from where I stand. If I go that way, I can reach Mistholme Moss ahead of the death hunt. I hitch up my skirts, climb the steep bank and start fighting my way through the hostile scrubland.
I wonder if Robert will have found, in the wilderness of pools and reedbeds that is Mistholme Moss, the ancient stand of willows which I described to him. By day it would be easy. “Where the yellow flags are in bloom,” I told him. Whether he will be able to make out these wild irises in the dark is another matter. The intermittent bright moonlight will be both his ally and his enemy.
For a long time, as I stumble across the heath, I can see the torches of the death hunt as they take the easier route. My own way is frighteningly slow. Spiny shrubs catch on my skirts and drag me back. In places the gorse and bracken are impenetrable, and I have to make detours over high escarpments and low fissures. My stockings become ripped and full of thorns. At last I climb down the bank to the Mistholme Road and stand still, to listen. The death hunt must be far behind me now. There is a chance.
Water glimmers ahead, dappled bright and dull in patches where pool and reedbed intermingle, like a tapestry of silk and wool. An owl hoots from the hill over which I have come, and another replies from the wooded rise across the moss. I pick my way down the pebbled slope to where the ground is soft, and risk calling, “Robert?” There is no reply. Water seeps round my boots as I edge carefully on to a safe path and make my way towards the willows.
I am walking between sheets of water now, their surface puckered by a breeze which sends long, flat ripples smacking at the path edge. Somewhere near me a duck mutters in its sleep. Small clumps of water-weed look like warts on skin. As I near the willows a splash sounds ahead of me, but it is only a sleepless otter. I call again, “Robert?”
I try to work out where the death hunt will be now. They can’t be far behind. Ahead of me the thick-knit stand of willows blots out the moon. Slippery things move beneath my feet. Small bodies slap into the water as frogs flee my path, and I only realise when the silence intensifies, that their trilling had filled the air before.
Robert is not among the willows. I go to the low-hanging branch where I attached the other end of the chain holding his weapons, and feel along it. I tread over my boots in water as I check again. The weapons have gone.
Then I hear them. The death hunt has reached the moss. The dogs sound excited, as if they have picked up a trail. Is it Robert’s, or mine, I wonder. I stand still, trying to work out which path they will take. I am going to have to make a wide detour now, on paths I know less well. I climb through the willows and feel around with my foot for where the path continues, but I cannot find it. There seems to be just a sheet of water here. I climb back and take an unreliable, boggy path which will come out a long way back down the Mistholme Road. Where I come out is the least of my worries now.
Suddenly the dogs are baying. Dear God, they must have scented me. They must know that I held that jerkin, carried it through the woods, helped Robert get his bad arm in and out of it. I try to walk faster, and immediately fall into the bog. Cold, peaty water closes over my head. I choke, surface, clamber out again, my wet cloak half strangling me. I want to empty the water from my boots, but daren’t stop. Somewhere, very close, something growls. The moon has gone behind a cloud. I stand still and wait to be attacked, then realise it was the water gurgling back through the reeds that border the path.
Far off to my left I can hear men shouting. The dogs are setting up a new clamour. The water seems to carry the sound within it. My teeth start chattering and my whole body shakes with cold and fright. Is Robert over there? Have they caught him? Suddenly the moon comes out, and I can see the road. I stagger towards it and drag myself up the pebbled shore. I just want to lie there, on dry earth, but there is no time. I can see a halo of light far off down the road, where torchlight reflects off rocks. I start to run towards it, then climb up the rocks to look down on the road. The death hunt is milling about below me. Someone is refreshing the scent of the dogs. So they haven’t caught him yet. There is someone else there too, and voices raised in anger. I edge forward, my wet boots squeaking and slipping on the rocks. It is Parson Becker on his black horse, and he and my father are shouting at each other. Master Spearing’s bratch-hounds start snapping at John Becker’s horse’s heels, but the animal does not move. I know he calls his horse Universe. As though encouraged by the dogs, several men move menacingly towards the priest. I am just above him. I can hear him sigh in exasperation.
“This is not the way to do it.” He raises himself slightly in the stirrups, leaning his hands on the pommel of the saddle. “Look, you’ve lost his scent. You’ll never find it again amongst all this water. Why do you think he came this way? If he exists at all. If you all stayed sober you’d be in a better state to know whether you’re
seeing Scotsmen or not. Try to cross that bog now and a couple of you will drown before the night’s out. Go home instead, and pray for better sense.” Suddenly he brings his whip down sharply across his gloved hand. “Squire Garth, go home, then the others will follow you.”
I watch the wind ruffle John Becker’s hair as he sits back down. My father shifts in his own saddle, then abruptly wheels his horse and raps away smartly through the middle of the crowd, shouting over his shoulder, “We’ll catch him in the morning! Yon prating parson’ll be eating his words then.” The crowd scatters in panic from my father’s horse, then gradually starts to disperse.
I wait until the road is empty, except for the priest on his horse, then I climb down the rocks. John looks shocked.
“Beatrice. I didn’t expect to see you on a death hunt.”
“I wasn’t on the hunt.”
He looks at me more closely. “You’re soaking wet. Whatever’s happened?”
I want to tell him the whole story, but the risk is too great. He is staring at me curiously. After a moment he holds down his hand to me. “Climb up. I’ll take you home.”
I come close against the warmth of his horse’s side and his booted leg. “No thank you, John. I have something else to do.”
He dismounts. “Beatrice, I hardly dare think what you’re up to.” He touches my dripping hair. “At least swap cloaks then.” He pulls my drenched cloak off my shoulders, and flings his own round me. It smells of him, and feels warm and dry over the sodden red silk, which it seems I put on such a long time ago.
“Thank you.” I turn away, before I can be tempted to give in and ride home with him. I cross the Barrowbeck road and climb the steep bank to the woods. When I glance back he is on his horse at the crossroads, looking first along the Mistholme road which borders the bog, and then along the Barrowbeck to Hagditch road which borders the woods. It is as if he were looking for someone.
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