Time's Echo

by Pamela Hartshorne

  ‘I have missed you, little wife,’ he said.

  I laughed. ‘You were only gone half a day!’

  ‘Still, I missed you.’

  I think of his hands, of his mouth on my skin, and I shiver with remembered pleasure. No one looking at my husband would guess the passion that burns in him when we are alone in the dark.

  Ned had noticed straight away that Hap was missing. ‘He was caught under a wagon’s wheel,’ I said. I did not tell him the truth. I am not going to speak of Francis. It will not bring Hap back and, besides, what if Francis is right? What if Ned doesn’t believe me?

  For Francis is quite the gentleman now. The neighbours speak admiringly of him. Everyone has noticed how devout he is, how seriously he takes his duties as churchwarden. His house is modest enough, as befits an unmarried man, but he is careful to be generous without being ostentatious. His clothes are good, but not so rich that he makes his fellow notaries suspicious.

  Oh, yes, he is clever. He has judged the neighbourhood to a nicety. They see a young man who is sober and devout. They do not know that he has hastened his master to his death, for so I am certain that he did. They don’t see the ugliness in his eyes, the brutal violence that simmers just below that smooth, smooth surface.

  I do. Before Hap, I was afraid of Francis and what he might do to me, but now hatred has settled low and hard inside me, ready for a long ride. I am not weeping and wild-eyed. My loathing is cold, dark, unmoving, like the Foss when it freezes. I can feel it in my gullet, in my belly.

  I do not have to see him often – that is something. He is at church, always, but I keep my eyes lowered. I know he watches me, though. I can feel his gaze burning through my gown. Once I looked up and found him staring at me with an expression that made my stomach churn. He smiled when he saw me looking, and ran his tongue around his lips in a way that made the hatred clog in my throat, and I wrenched my eyes away before I beat at him with my fists. I haven’t made that mistake again.

  Now, as we walk through the streets, I look at my husband and marvel that I could ever have thought him homely. Ned’s mouth is firm, his eyes steady, and beneath my hand his arm is very solid.

  He brings me a gift whenever he comes home. A ring, a pair of gloves, a girdle. Yesterday he brought me a book – and oh, what a book! My eyes stung with tears when I opened it very carefully.

  It is a book of travellers’ tales, and I am entranced by it. When I turn the pages and run my fingers over the pictures, I even forget my hatred of Francis Bewley. There are pictures of the men with only one foot, of the tribe who have only one eye in the middle of their foreheads and – my favourite – the Great Khan, with his costly robes.

  Strange to think that outside York’s walls, far, far away, they are living such different lives. When I read my book I wish that I could be there, to see for myself, to be away from York and the fear that, whenever I step outside my door, Francis Bewley will be there with his red mouth and his black heart and his strange, shiny eyes. What would it be like, I wondered last night, turning the pages of the book for the first time, to go to the Spice Islands? To be free?

  And as I wondered, there was a rushing in my ears, and a feeling as if I were being sucked out of my body so that I could look at myself with another girl’s eyes. A girl for whom it was my life that was different. My head was bent over the book, but I could see myself, the strangeness of me.

  Then the feeling was gone, and my heart jumped into my throat as I slammed back into my body. There was no one else, just me and my book.

  And my husband, watching me. My good, kind husband who sees me for who I am.

  ‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

  I shook the strange feeling aside and smiled at him. ‘It is a book of wonders,’ I said. I laid it down and got to my feet so that I could go over to him and rest my palms on his chest. ‘Thank you, Husband,’ I said, and I stood up on tiptoe to press my mouth to his. ‘Thank you.’

  I hoped my kiss would tell him everything I didn’t know how to say: that I was glad to be his wife, that it didn’t matter to me now that he is older, that I craved his touch and the feel of his body.

  That I would like him to take me up to our bed, right then.

  His arms did tighten around me, his mouth opened over mine and I melted into him, but then the latch was lifting and Isobel was bringing wine into the parlour and the moment was broken.

  I wish we were alone again now, instead of rapping on the door of my father’s house.

  Jennet lets us in with a grunt. Everything feels mean and faintly grubby here, and I am ashamed to compare it with Ned’s house. But I fix a smile on my face when we step into the parlour. I don’t want to hurt Agnes’s feelings.

  The smile freezes on my face when I realize that there is one other guest.

  It is Francis Bewley.

  His lips are glistening as he licks them slowly at the sight of me.

  My heart lurches sickeningly and I take an instinctive step backwards, but Ned is behind me on the threshold and urging me forward, and there is nothing for it but to go on.

  Somehow I greet my father, sketch a nod in Francis’s direction and turn to my sister – my poor sister who has no defences against a man like Francis. What is my father thinking of, inviting him here?

  ‘Agnes,’ I say, kissing her cheek, hoping to convey my sympathy, but her face is bright as she draws back, and she looks flushed and happy. Happier than I have ever seen her before.

  A sense of foreboding grips me around my gullet. ‘You look well,’ I say. It is true.

  ‘Thank you, Sister.’

  My father rubs his hands together and shouts to Jennet to bring wine. ‘Come, we are to celebrate! I have good news. Your sister has found herself a husband too,’ he says, and even though I have feared this is what he is going to say from the moment I saw Francis standing there, my heart leaps in shock.

  ‘No,’ I protest without thinking. ‘No, that cannot be!’

  There is an appalled silence while my words ring around the room. No, no, no.

  ‘Hawise . . . ’ Ned’s voice is troubled. Too late, I look at Agnes. She stares at me as if I have struck her, and her face crumples.

  ‘Come, come, Daughter.’ Even my father, usually oblivious, is uncomfortable. ‘You have a fine husband. You cannot begrudge your sister one too.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ I say, stumbling over my words. ‘It’s just . . . ’ But what is it? I cannot say, without explaining what Francis did to me, to Hap, and I have left it too late for that. I wanted to spare Ned and myself the humiliation, and instead I have left my sister exposed.

  Agnes stifles a sob, and Francis puts a hand on her shoulder. His eyes meet mine, and I want to scream at the others, Look! Look at him gloating!

  ‘I’m sure your sister didn’t mean to be unkind, my dear,’ he says.

  ‘I thought you would be happy for me,’ she wails.

  ‘I am, Agnes, I . . . ’

  I feel as if I have waded into a river, the mud and water weighing down my skirts, clutching at my feet. What can I say? What can I do?

  For now, there is nothing. I wish I could believe that Francis really wants Agnes, but I only have to look into his eyes to know that it is me he wants. He loves me and hates me in equal measure. He cannot let me go, and he will do anything to be near me. I know this without being told.

  My tongue feels stiff and unwieldy in my mouth. ‘I am happy for you, Agnes,’ I say because I cannot say anything else. ‘I’m sorry. I spoke without thinking. Of course this is good news.’

  I go over to kiss her, but she jerks her cheek away.

  It is the worst meal of my life. My father drinks too much, Ned and Francis carry on the conversation, and Agnes sits and casts me wounded looks.

  None of them can see Francis as I do – not even Ned. He can’t see the malice in Francis’s eyes, or hear the slyness in his voice. He doesn’t understand that every time Francis looks at me, I feel as if I am covered in slime. />
  They talk as men do, about trade and taxes, about the Spanish and the Lowlanders and the keelmen who ply the river between here and Hull, as if those things matter. Surely what happens in our houses, in our streets, matters more than that? Isn’t it more important that our families are safe, that a man like Francis cannot walk in and foul everything he touches?

  This is all my fault. Francis is using Agnes, I know this. How can she possibly be happy with him? And yet, she is happy now – or she was, until I spoke without thinking. She believes that Francis cares for her, that is clear. She won’t want to hear the truth.

  I pick fretfully at my food, very aware that Agnes never takes her eyes off Francis, while Francis makes a point of watching me. His gaze rests on my mouth, on my breasts. Can’t Ned see what he is doing? Can’t Agnes see? I want to squirm, but won’t give Francis the satisfaction.

  At last we can go.

  ‘You are very quiet,’ Ned says as we walk home. ‘Why aren’t you happy for your sister?’

  ‘I don’t trust Francis Bewley,’ I say flatly.

  ‘He is pleasant enough,’ says my husband, ‘and he will make your sister a good husband. She needs a home of her own.’

  ‘I know, it’s just . . . I’m not sure Francis is the right man for her,’ I try.

  ‘He is willing, and that is enough.’ Sometimes Ned surprises me with his practicality. ‘Agnes is not well favoured. She has been lucky to find a husband at all. She is not like you,’ he adds, his voice dropping to a caress. ‘There is no warmth or sweetness to her.’

  ‘She is sickly.’ I make excuses for her, the way I always do. ‘It is not her fault.’

  ‘All the more reason not to oppose this marriage. Agnes has little enough. Do not deny her that as well.’

  I sigh. He is right. ‘I will apologize to her,’ I promise. ‘I will go and see her tomorrow.’

  And perhaps then, I think, I will be able to talk to her alone and make her understand what kind of man Francis is.

  But Agnes doesn’t want to understand.

  ‘Francis explained how it would be,’ she says when I go back the next day.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘We have no secrets from each other.’ There is a triumphant look in her eyes as she spreads her skirts and sits at the window. She is very pleased with herself today.

  She hasn’t invited me to sit, but I am too restless to settle anyway and am wandering around the chamber, touching things, wondering how to extricate my sister from Francis’s clutches.

  ‘He told me how you used to meet,’ says Agnes. ‘I know how in love you were with him.’

  ‘In love with Francis?’ I swing round in shock. ‘Never!’

  ‘You told me so yourself.’

  ‘What? When?’

  She points at the bed. ‘You sat there and told me that you were in love.’

  I stare at the bed, remembering that day, remembering how excited and full of hope I was then. How foolish I was. I did say that.

  ‘Agnes, I hadn’t even met him properly then,’ I try to explain. ‘I didn’t know what I was saying.’

  She doesn’t listen. ‘It must have been a terrible shock when you saw him last night. I should have warned you, but I was so excited. That was wrong of me.’ She folds her hands in her lap with a little sigh. ‘I hoped – I hoped – that you would care enough for me not to make a scene, but I understand why you were upset, Sister. I know what it is to love him.’

  ‘Agnes . . . ’ Helplessly I drop onto a stool and press my fingers to my temples.

  ‘You don’t need to explain,’ she says. ‘Francis told me how it was with you.’

  Ah, yes, he would have done. I should have anticipated that Francis would put his own twist on the tale first.

  I lift my head to look at my sister. ‘How was it?’ I ask dully, knowing I am not going to like the answer.

  ‘He was very wrong to meet you before,’ says Agnes with a suitably sombre expression, but I get the feeling she is enjoying this. ‘He knows he was weak and led astray, and afterwards he was sorry, but he was unprepared for how forward you were. I understand your desire for him.’ Here my sister lowers her eyes, and a knowing smile trembles on her lips. ‘But Francis is very devout. It pains me to say this to you, Hawise, but he was shocked. He was sorry that you were forced to marry Ned, of course, but I think it was a relief to him, and then when he met me . . . ’

  She trails off with a contented sigh. ‘He didn’t know it was possible to feel like this. That’s why he was determined to woo me properly.’

  The look that accompanies this is needle-sharp. I haven’t missed the emphasis on that ‘me’. I am the trollop, it says, and she is the pure virgin, worthy to be courted with respect.

  Agnes can’t leave it there, though. ‘I am not to be romped in the grass,’ she says sweetly.

  I whiten with fury. ‘I never—’ I begin, leaping from my stool, but she lifts a hand.

  ‘We don’t need to speak of it.’ She is all understanding. ‘It is over.’

  Francis has played his hand well. Whatever I say, she will not believe me now.

  Swallowing my rage, I pace the chamber, as if looking for a door that will let me out of this situation. ‘Tell me something,’ I say, swinging round. ‘Did Francis know you were my sister when you met?’

  ‘Not at first, but then when he heard your name mentioned, he guessed, and he told me everything.’ Her smile is smug. ‘He didn’t want there to be any secrets between us.’

  ‘Agnes . . . ’ I shake my head in frustration. ‘You don’t understand. Francis is not who you think he is!’

  With a sigh, Agnes gets to her feet and smooths down her gown. ‘Francis warned me you might be like this,’ she says, letting disappointment creep into her voice, ‘and I see he was right. Can’t you just accept that he loves me, Hawise? I do think you might at least try to be happy for me. You have had everything – everything! – and I have had to stay and look after our father.’

  I want to say that she hasn’t looked after him, Jennet has, but I don’t. There is truth in what she says. I have been luckier than my sister.

  ‘Is it so hard for you to believe that a man might be interested in me?’ Agnes sweeps on. ‘That he might actually prefer me to you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Or is it that you think I’m not pretty enough for Francis?’

  I sigh. ‘It’s not that, Agnes. You know that.’

  ‘You can’t bear not being the centre of attention, can you? Every man has to look at you, you, you!’

  ‘What?’ I reel back as if she has punched me. Where has all this come from? ‘No! What do you mean? No one has ever looked at me!’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Agnes laughs wildly. ‘Act the innocent! It is what you do best, after all!’ And she throws herself face-down onto the bed.

  I stare at her in consternation. This is Francis’s doing. Already he has driven a wedge between me and my sister, already she thinks differently of me.

  ‘Do you want to know what I think?’ she says, her voice muffled in the coverlet. ‘I think you are jealous just because I will have a young husband and yours is old!’

  ‘Ned isn’t old,’ I protest, stung.

  ‘And Francis is handsome and kind.’ Agnes pulls herself up and flings herself back against the pillows. There is a hectic flush in her cheeks, a feverish glitter in her eyes. ‘I cannot believe how lucky I am. This is the first time anything has gone right for me, and you want to spoil it!’

  In dismay I watch tears fill her eyes. What can I say? If I persist, if I convince her that Francis tried to defile me and killed Hap, I will destroy her fragile happiness. If I say nothing, I abandon her to Francis Bewley, a man who would kill a dog without hesitation. He will push himself into her, the way he tried to do with me. I am terribly afraid that he will hurt her and use her to punish me.

  This is the first time anything has gone right for me. Her words echo around the chamber. I think of
my sister, of the years she has spent here in this dreary house, lying abed with the shutters closed. Now, at last, she has someone paying her attention, someone offering her an escape from this.

  I will never be able to convince her that it is a mistake. And I do not want to be the one who makes her unhappy. I will have to accept this, as Ned said, and make the best of it.

  ‘I won’t spoil it, Agnes,’ I promise her. I sit on the edge of the bed and smooth a strand of hair back under her cap. ‘I just want you to be happy.’

  She turns her face away, her lip trembling. ‘How can I be happy when everyone is so unkind? Father says he has no money to pay for a proper wedding feast. We will be lucky if we can offer our guests a boiled turnip!’

  I recognize my cue. ‘My husband and I will give you a feast to remember for your wedding,’ I say, and instantly Agnes is all smiles again.

  ‘Truly? And you’ll speak to Father about a new gown? I cannot be married in this!’

  ‘It will be my gift to you,’ I say, and I wonder what else I will have to do to make it up to her.

  All week the servants have been busy preparing a lavish wedding feast for Agnes and Francis. Margery is torn. She doesn’t want to be helpful, but her pride is at stake, and in the end she enjoys showing off her skills as a cook, while Isobel and Alison have swept and polished and scrubbed. There are fresh rushes on the floor of the hall and the waits are tuning up in the corner, ready to play after the meal. No one will be able to say that I did not honour my sister with the best of everything.

  It is late January, and the markets are thin, but I have set a feast fit for a queen before my sister. There are boiled capons and stewed mutton steaks, a roast calf and baked fish. There are tarts and pies, jellies and custards, sugar comfits and the best manchet bread. And, best of all, a grand centrepiece: a goose stuffed with a pheasant, stuffed with a chicken, stuffed in its turn with a pigeon, which I have made myself to make up for my ungraciousness when I first heard of her betrothal.