A Fall of Shadows

by Nancy Herriman

  “Jesu, why did you not say so immediately?” Bess leaped to her feet. “Joan! I require my ointment of honey and alum for burns.”

  She left Humphrey standing in the hall as she rushed to collect, with Joan’s help, all she’d need to tend to anyone who might be burned. The ointment. Clean squares of linen.

  Joan handed Bess her satchel. “This is a most unchancy fire, Mistress.”

  Bess slung the satchel’s strap over her shoulder. “You sense it, too.”

  “Need me to attend you?”

  “No. Stay with Ellyn. I will return as quickly as I can with news.”

  * * *

  The fire flared hot, burning through the dried thatch roof and decaying cob walls with the speed of a flame racing through pitch-soaked branches.

  “’Tis the crone’s cottage, Kit,” said Gibb, out of breath from having run with Kit to the site.

  “I know whose it is,” Kit replied. The old healer. The one the townsfolk thought was a witch.

  “I should not have shown that poppet around,” said Gibb. “It angered the villagers and made them fear. And look what they have done!”

  Damn.

  A handful of the woman’s neighbors stood with empty buckets in their hands. One of the Merricks’ male servants had also come to help; their farm was just over the rise behind the cottage. The bystanders had gone to the river for water to throw onto the flames, but had not bothered to return to it for more. The house was past help, anyway.

  “Stay back!” shouted Kit to a pair of lads who ventured too near to the building. The boys scattered, laughing and jostling each other.

  One of the onlookers trotted over. It was Goodman Cox. He of the witch-cursed sheep.

  “She’s done for,” he said to Kit and Gibb, no hint of remorse or pity in his voice.

  “Who started the fire, Goodman Cox?” demanded Kit.

  He stepped back. “How would I know?” he asked, defiantly throwing forward his chest. “I saw the flames from my house. Came running. It was already afire by then.”

  “Did you hear any screams for help?” asked Gibb. “Is there anyone inside?”

  “No. I heard no screams.”

  “Are you certain? You had no love for the woman who lived here, Goodman Cox,” said Kit. “You accused her of killing your sheep.”

  “I do not lie, Constable. I heard no screams.”

  Just then, the beam supporting the roof collapsed in a heap of sparks, prompting those assembled to cry out in alarm. One of the local plowmen ran over to stomp out the fire that the spray of embers had ignited in a close-by patch of grass.

  “Anyone here see who started this fire?” called out Kit. “If any of you know and do not say, you are also guilty of the crime.”

  His question was met by stony faces.

  “’Tis God’s punishment!” one finally declared.

  “Aye,” echoed Goodman Cox. “You’d not attended to keeping us safe from the woman, Constable. So God had to intercede.”

  “My thanks for your opinion, Goodman Cox.”

  Grumbling, the man sauntered off to join those who loitered about, watching the cottage burn to the ground. Some of the crowd began to disperse, having lost interest in the fire.

  “Any number of these people know—or suspect—who set this cottage ablaze, Kit,” said Gibb. “I would wager upon it.”

  “Shall we torture them to gain a confession?” he asked bitterly. “I know you are right, Gibb. But what can we do?”

  “Should I search for Mother Fletcher’s body?” his cousin asked.

  “Let the fire die down. We’ll search then.”

  Out of the corner of Kit’s eye, he spotted a familiar figure running up the road.

  “No!” cried Bess Ellyott. “I am late again! Was she in there? Is she dead?”

  She flew past Kit, bound for the crackling remains of the house. He grabbed her before she went too far.

  “Mistress, stay yourself.”

  “But Mother Fletcher!” Her eyes reflected the flames that surged and subsided. “She may have returned. She may be inside.”

  She tried to twist free of his grip, but he dragged her close. “If so, she is long past our aid.”

  “No!” she sobbed, but did not struggle any longer.

  * * *

  The rock Bess sat upon dug its sharp edges through her skirts and into her buttocks and legs. She slumped over her satchel, clasped on her lap, and watched as Gibb Harwoode prodded the smoking ruin of the house with a long stick he’d found in the nearby woods. Flames still licked timbers, but for the most part, Mother Fletcher’s cottage was a pile of ashes.

  “They burned one of her houses before, Constable,” she said to the man who paced in front of her. On occasion, he paused to kick at a stone or a clod of dirt. Everyone else had departed, leaving her and the Harwoode cousins to reflect upon the destruction of a helpless old woman. “The house that stands across from the ruins of the old friary. When her family had been afflicted with the plague, the townspeople did set afire their home. She lost them then. She lost everything. And now …”

  “She was not inside when the cottage burned, Mistress Ellyott.” Kit Harwoode looked at his cousin, gingerly stepping over a smoldering pile of timbers. “Gibb would have found her body by now if she had been. She is gone from the village, as you suspected when she did not answer your knock yesterday.”

  “Then why burn her cottage?” she asked.

  “To keep her from ever returning.”

  And to exact a measure of vengeance for their superstitious fears, thought Bess.

  “Gibb believes that his questions about the poppet encouraged them to do this,” said the constable.

  “The townsfolk did not need your cousin to ask questions in order for them to want to harm Mother Fletcher, Constable. They already feared her. What shall they do, though, who shall they next condemn, when their sheep persist in falling ill and perishing?” she asked. “When folk die in mysterious ways? When that mound—” She gestured toward the old fort hill that rose not so far distant. “When that cursed mound remains to loom over the road, haunting them? Will they risk some even more ancient curse and tear it to the ground, scattering the rocks and dirt?”

  He turned his gaze to her, his face somber.

  “Or shall they blame me, Kit, when someone’s newborn child fails to thrive and withers away? Or their crops are blighted by bad weather? Shall they burn my brother’s house around my head? I have already been accused of making that poppet. What next?”

  She’d never called him by his given name, let alone the pet name his cousin used; he did not remark upon her overfamiliar transgression.

  “We shall find the one who murdered Bartholomew Reade and Anna Webb, and the townsfolk will see it’s not a curse that struck them down, Mistress,” he said, his gaze kindly. Gentle. “Trust me.”

  “I do. I do,” she replied. “But shall the townsfolk trust you? Believe you?”

  He had no answer for her questions. How could he?

  * * *

  Bess shifted the weight of her satchel and climbed the incline to the Merricks’ farmyard. She should have returned home. But many confusions remained, and their resolution would not be found by hiding in Robert’s garden or near the hall hearth. However, it might exist within the whitewashed walls of a dairy barn.

  She entered the yard. A servant sang inside the barn opposite the dairy buildings, his voice melodious. The youngest Merrick daughter ran across the gravel, chasing the chickens. The family’s tan dog danced after the birds, tail wagging. Feathers fluttered into the air. The girl stopped and eyed Bess, who greeted the child but received no polite response in return.

  Bess squared her shoulders and slipped around the open barn door. The warmth cast off by the animals was a welcome respite from the cold outside. “I pray I do not disturb you, Thomasin.”

  The dairymaid stood before one of the stalls located halfway along the length of the barn. She looked over at Bess, her pale
eyes frosty. “Does Mistress Merrick know you are here, Mistress? You no longer have a patient to tend at this house, and I have work to do. You should be on your way.”

  “I require only a moment,” answered Bess.

  Another young woman, whom Bess recognized as the housemaid, poked her head out of the stall. “Are we finished, Thomasin?”

  Thomasin hesitated, then nodded. “Go back to the house, Jennet.”

  The housemaid removed the stained holland apron she’d tied over her blue dress and scurried past Bess, dashing outside. Thomasin stepped into the stall, the cow within lowing softly.

  Bess, her thick-soled shoes crunching through the straw scattered the length of the aisle, passed the other stalls. The one where Anna had died was empty and cleaned. The red cow was not in the barn, so far as she could tell.

  Thomasin had taken the milking stool the housemaid had abandoned. “That one will not succeed. She fears the cows. Especially since Anna died. She says they are dangerous.” She squirted the cow’s milk into the pail set beneath the animal, a rhythmic splash created by her practiced touch. “How did you know?”

  “Know?” asked Bess, confused.

  “That Mother Fletcher was wed to my mother’s cousin.” The rhythm of Thomasin’s hands did not break. “That is why you are here, is it not? Because of the fire.”

  “Was it you who provided for her?”

  “When I could. ’Twas not much, for the Merricks are not generous masters,” she said. “But if you have come to offer sympathy, I have no need of it. She was a trouble-causing woman. The village is well rid of her. And now that she is gone, I will no longer need to suffer whispers and rumors. Nor give away precious pennies.”

  “Mother Fletcher is not the reason for my visit, Thomasin,” said Bess. “There were marks upon Anna’s body as though she’d been struck by a rod.” She did not allow her gaze to wander to where the cattle prod stood. “I have been told your mistress disciplines the servants severely.”

  The cow’s milk slowed to a trickle, and Thomasin sat upright. Her gaze was steady. “It is her right,” she replied, confirming what Ellyn had said.

  “And Anna would attempt to ward off the blows.”

  “Though it would do her little good.”

  Standing, Thomasin picked up the milk pail and low three-legged stool. Bess stepped aside, and the dairymaid went into the next stall. She placed the stool by the cow within and sat.

  “Are you finished, Mistress?” she asked, the rhythm of splashing milk beginning anew.

  “I came to the farm yesterday in hopes of visiting Anna and saw you arguing with her,” said Bess.

  The sound of Thomasin’s milking stuttered. “You spy upon us, Mistress Ellyott?”

  A guilty flush heated Bess’s cheeks. “I did not mean to.” God forgive me my untruthfulness. ’Tis necessary.

  “Anna was late in coming to the barn,” Thomasin answered plainly. “I scolded her. ’Twas all. And I know not why you concern yourself with an argument I had with Anna. She is dead. The cow killed her.”

  “Do you honestly believe her death was an accident? I do not.”

  “What does it matter what either of us believe? ’Tis the constable’s business, Mistress.”

  “Why had Jeffrey Poynard come here, Thomasin?” Bess persisted. “He was in a foul temper.”

  The cow she milked shifted restlessly, and she tutted to the animal to calm it. “He was here to shout about wanting to speak with Master David. That he would not be blamed for killing Master Reade.”

  The same as Constable Harwoode had learned. “He dragged you aside, Thomasin. I saw it. What did he want from you?”

  “You do spy upon us,” Thomasin accused.

  “I mistrust him,” said Bess. “I think you might as well.”

  Thomasin lowered her hands to wipe her fingers across her apron. “He sought to browbeat me. To force me to admit that I knew it was David Merrick who’d killed Bartholomew to keep him away from Mistress Ellyn. To admit I knew that he, Master Poynard, was innocent,” she said. “Though how would my avowal profit a prosperous man like him? The useless word of a servant.”

  “Why would Master Poynard think you knew any such thing, Thomasin?”

  “Master Jeffrey Poynard is currish and requires no good reason for what he believes.” Thomasin turned back to the cow, which had been patiently waiting, and resumed milking.

  A small brindled cat slinked into the stall. It meowed at Thomasin.

  “Do not look to me for food. Go catch your mice, puss,” she said, chasing off the animal. “’Tis Master David’s cat, but it misses Anna, who petted it.”

  Bess regarded the creature as it meandered through the barn, its tail flicking. “Have you ever noticed a weasel near the old fort hill, Thomasin, or heard of one there?”

  Though who would confuse a cat for a weasel?

  Mayhap village boys intent on seeing a witch’s familiar in the guise of one. Keen to see what they wished to see. To believe what they wished to believe.

  “That story?” said Thomasin. “The lads like to frighten the girls with such tales.”

  “But not only girls are frightened, Thomasin. And now your kinswoman’s cottage is burned to the ground.”

  Thomasin pressed her lips together. “She was troublesome.”

  And deserved to have her home destroyed?

  “A witch’s effigy was left in the yard here,” said Bess. “I, for one, do not think Mother Fletcher is responsible for putting it there, however.”

  “Cook thinks her responsible, and this morning she made certain to tell this to any who’d listen,” said Thomasin, exhaling sharply. “What is done is done. Now please go.”

  “I have one more question, Thomasin; then I will leave you be,” said Bess. “Do you know a woman, a countrywoman, who walks the highway and covers her face all about with a clout and a low forehead cloth? I saw her upon the road yesterday, but I did not recognize her.”

  “There are many countrywomen hereabouts, Mistress.”

  Bess tried to recall any feature that might produce a name. “She was of a typical height, but walked with a hunched back. Her dress was unremarkable. Grayish brown, I think.”

  “Perhaps the farmwife at the cross road. Though she has a large nose you’d not miss,” she said. “It could be anyone. Anyone.” She rested a chapped hand against the cow’s flank and looked over at Bess. “Why do you ask?”

  “A plowman claims it was she who made the poppet, Thomasin,” said Bess. “And I must find her.”

  * * *

  “She is not the countrywoman I saw,” Bess muttered, moving away from the low shrubs that marked the boundary between the Merricks’ farm and the farm at the nearby crossroads.

  After many minutes of waiting, Bess’s patience was rewarded when the wife of the farmer came outside to retrieve stockings she’d left to dry atop a row of bushes. Thomasin had been right; her nose was quite prominent, and Bess would have noticed the feature.

  She headed back for the roadway. So who was it I saw?

  Bess trudged homeward, studying the traffic that she passed on the road. Today was not a market day, which brought folk from near and far to town, so the highway was not as busy with people as it could be. A shepherd’s boy guided a wandering sheep along the verge and through a break in a hedgerow. A girl plodded by, pulling a cart laden with straw behind her. A farmer walked along the inclined edge of the road and inspected the low shoots of winter wheat poking through the soil of his fields.

  But no countrywoman wearing a clout and a low forehead cloth limped past.

  Why did she trouble herself with this matter? ’Twas the constable’s concern, as he often reminded her. Had it not been for Ellyn Merrick arriving at her gate, bleeding from the loss of her baby—Jeffrey Poynard’s baby—on the same day Bess had been called to tend to a sickly Anna, she’d have had no cause to even think upon Master Reade’s murder. Other than to mourn the sad wastefulness of a young life cut short.
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br />   You have always cared about justice, Bess. Ever trying to right the wrongs of the world.

  “And so I have, Martin,” she said to the voice inside her head that might never cease to speak to her. I’faith, she did not wish that voice to ever cease. When it grew silent, would that not mean she had forgotten him, the man whose love had given warmth to her days and meaning to her life?

  I will never forget you, Martin.

  She neared the lane that led to Mother Fletcher’s cottage. The acrid smell of smoke hung over the road. Three boys rummaged through the smoldering ruins.

  Bess charged forward. “Get away from there!” she shouted. “Leave her things in peace!”

  One waggled fingers at her before they turned and ran across the field with howls of laughter.

  Bess scowled, tears of anger burning in her eyes. The old woman had not ever harmed anyone. Her only sin was that she’d come from elsewhere and had kept to herself. However, being a stranger, an outsider, was enough of a sin. As the woman had been aware.

  Her steps dragging, Bess eventually arrived at Robert’s house and went inside.

  “Joan, I have returned at last,” she called out, untying her cloak and hanging it on the nearby hook. “Joan?” she called again after receiving no reply.

  Shouts echoed in the courtyard. Bess hurried through the hall to the rear door, which hung open. Joan and Humphrey stood in the center of the garden, trampling the herb beds. Quail barked and pranced about in a frenzy of excitement. Ellyn Merrick stared at them, her arms clutched about her middle.

  Humphrey waved an item he held at her. “You put it there! Admit you did!”

  “I did not!” Ellyn shouted, stumbling over Quail as he bounded beneath her legs. The dog yelped and leaped aside.

  “What is this?” asked Bess, rushing across the courtyard. They did not hear her.

  Joan grabbed Humphrey’s arm and tugged. “Leave Mistress Ellyn be!”

  “You would defend her, Joan Barbor,” he answered, shaking off her grip. He prepared to say more but spotted Bess. His mouth clamped shut over his unspoken words.

  “Quail, come away,” Bess ordered the dog. He loped to her side. “What is this?” she asked again.