‘What does it say?’
‘Most of it is ignorant tattle – but it spoke of “blood on the corn” the very day Francis died. And as for the future, God forbid it is accurate. “Princes and grandees will be afflicted by disease and infirmities,” is foretold this month. And in December, “A violent and bloody end.” Think of it, man. Father always said my birth was foretold – so why not my death? Is it possible? Are there truly scrying crystals and magic mirrors?’
‘Be sensible, brother. It will all be mere coincidence and suggestion.’
‘I am not convinced. Who is this De Angelo? Could he be anyone you know of, in Chester?’
‘The only writer I know hereabouts is that Starling fellow.’
‘Not him. What about Dilks? He is an odd fish. What might Dilks have learned of us as he hangs about my wife’s petticoats? I am troubled, and I don’t mind confessing it.’
‘You believe a minister of the church killed Francis?’
Tabitha could catch nothing of Sir John’s reply, until he murmured, so quietly that she could barely catch it, ‘… the bishop to remove him.’
‘How long will that take? Here. That’s nearly ten ounces.’
Sir John yawned loudly. ‘Well, your cure had better work this time. Call my man to bring up my horse. And get hold of that almanack and let me have your opinion of it.’
‘You cannot expect an educated man to read such vulgar rubbish.’
After a long pause Sir John’s voice replied, low and fierce, ‘I don’t ask you – I order. Which part of your grand education does not allow you to understand plain English?’
TWENTY-SEVEN
An Enigma
In looks I seem of human kind,
But yet I lack a human mind.
I bear a sad or frightful face
And linger long where wrongs take place.
I come and go, I shine and dim
Where’er the heavenly veil grows thin,
But chiefly when the sun is down
I’m often glimpsed on hallowed ground;
And yet despite my awful fame,
I’m but a creature of your brain.
The 5th day of October 1752
St Faith’s Day Eve
Luminary: Sun rises 26 minutes after 6.
Observation: The Moon, Mars and Saturn in malefic aspects.
Prognostication: Unthought-of alterations in events bring troublesome consequences.
Come the eve of Saint Faith’s day, the virgin martyr, the weather changed. No beguiling glitter of dew spread across the meadow that morning when she set off for the doctor’s house and Tabitha knew at once that rain was on its way. By four o’clock, when she fetched Jennet and Bess from Joshua’s house, there was still no smoke rising from the tall chimneys of Eglantine Hall. So, Nat had disappointed her again. She hurried through the woods, watching a fresh western wind ruffle the treetops.
‘I’ve told Father I shall stay with you tonight,’ Jennet said, ushering Tabitha in at the door of the Grange. ‘It’s better than sleeping here alone, what with him harrying back and forth to Chester.’
While Tabitha waited for Jennet she looked over Joshua’s books. There lay The Pilgrim’s Progress, Every Man His Own Lawyer and The Young Man’s Guide. Alongside them were a number of journals: The Universal Magazine and at least a dozen years’ worth of De Angelo’s Vox Stellarum. Leafing through a copy of the latter, she found notes written in Joshua’s hand. Dates had been underlined with names and addresses beside them.
Glancing up, she saw that Bess had toddled over to turn the spinning wheel and watched in open-mouthed fascination as it slowly spun.
‘Stop that,’ Tabitha scolded, feeling the baleful presence of Mary Saxton lingering in the room as powerfully as ever. Bess moved away from the spinning wheel and Tabitha returned to her reading.
Hetty to the Little Brown Bull at George Holt’s, 13 July. It was nothing but an account of his attempts to increase his stock. Further on were dates of the assizes and parish councils. It was all as dull as dust.
Bess had been silent for longer than was common. Sure enough, the child looked up from a dark corner with wide guilty eyes. On the floor in front of her was Joshua’s document bag, its contents spilled across the flagstones. Jennet was still busy in her chamber so Tabitha dropped to the floor beside her.
‘Shh,’ she said softly and put her finger to her lips. Bess giggled and inexpertly patted her own mouth. Handing her a ribbon to play with, Tabitha pulled the bag on to her own lap. Inside were dull orders from Sir John and the County Gaoler, old arrest warrants and – God damn his spying eyes – a letter to herself from Nat. She read it quickly.
My dear Tabitha,
Accept my heartfelt apologies for my recent scrawl. Forgive me, I have been out of sorts from an abominable surfeit of industry.
I am now much recovered and rewarded with chinking guineas, and so with the assistance of your missive, I am again fired up to pursue the chase. I shall take this opportunity to call upon my mother in Cambridgeshire and dig a little deeper into the affairs of ‘D’.
I live in hope of returning by the fifth of October, should my mother’s prattling tongue allow it. I count the minutes until the felicitous state of being once again,
Your desiring and devoted servant,
Nat Starling
The pleasure of reading the letter and learning of his eagerness to see her was soured by the knowledge that Joshua had read it first. Damnation – he had proof indeed that she corresponded fondly with Nat, and also that they shared an investigation. Yet she slipped it back into the bag, thinking it too cruel to confront Joshua yet, for his theft of her letter was such a pitiful act. He had lost her affections entirely and must know it.
When Jennet came in with an apron full of oak apples, Tabitha got up to inspect her bounty.
‘Such a crop foretells a hard winter coming and much snow at Christmas,’ Jennet announced.
Tabitha smiled, anticipating nights by the fireplace at Eglantine Hall.
‘Winter in the country can be delightful. Soon we’ll have All Hallows’ Eve and Gunpowder Night – and Christmas.’
‘If you want a comfortable Christmas, you must start collecting firewood now,’ warned Jennet. ‘It was so cold last winter that your mother was forever tramping out in the snow to tend to dying folk.’
Tabitha remained silent. Long dark nights and snow-blocked lanes would be far easier to bear with Nat paying her court and buying her pretty treats with his bag of guineas.
By the time they reached the cottage an unnatural gloom had fallen and the wind was rising. Tabitha swept the dried petals of her mother’s white rose out over the threshold. There were few stars, and the thinnest crescent of the moon was barely visible, just one day from the pitchy black of October’s new moon. Jennet roused the fire and greased the iron griddle, laying out a bowl of water from the spring, a bowl of flour, salt and sugar.
‘You forget, we need three girls to do the rite properly,’ Tabitha reminded her.
‘And so we do have three maids. Bess can take a turn.’
They both laughed and Bess comically joined in the good spirits by performing a clumsy little jig.
First Jennet, then Tabitha, kneaded the dough; then they both coaxed Bess to pat it in mimicry. Next, Jennet baked it on the griddle, and they each turned it thrice, counting up to the magical number nine. By the time they sliced it, night had fallen outside, and the wind was pummelling the garden fence, with rain rat-a-tatting against the thatch and plopping drips inside the windows that must be plugged with rags. They lit no lamp, only huddling closer around the red glow of the fire. Jennet’s face was serious and intent, but Bess began yawning, losing interest in the long-winded game. The flat pancake had at first been cut into three, and then each portion was divided a further three times.
Tabitha pulled her mother’s wedding ring out of her pocket, and they passed all their slivers of pancake through the circlet before Tabitha carried Bess
into the back room to put her to bed.
‘I wonder if Bess will dream of her future husband?’ Jennet asked cheerfully.
‘There is a new Prince of Wales who may do for her. Do you reckon she would have him?’
‘Only if he has a good supply of sugarplums.’
‘And what about you, Jennet? Have you forgotten Darius yet?’
Jennet had laid the slivers of dry cake on a plate, offering it to Tabitha.
‘I shall never forget my first love.’ Her voice was so thick with emotion that Tabitha restrained a mocking sigh. With reverence, they each ate a piece of the flat cake; then Tabitha and Jennet both touched the ring and beseeched the ancient saint:
‘Oh good Saint Faith, be kind tonight
And bring to me my heart’s delight.
Let me my future husband view
And be my vision chaste and true.’
Together they went to the bedroom and hung the charmed wedding ring from the headboard on a cord. Not yet sufficiently tired to sleep, they returned to the parlour and both sat, one on each side of the dim glow of the fire.
‘Did you ever pray to Saint Faith when you were a girl, Tabitha?’
She looked up, startled from her reverie. She had been wondering if she would dream of Nat Starling, but a worry had waylaid her that the saint might recommend Joshua, or even Robert, as her husband. She was seized with a sudden impulse to tease. ‘I did; but I dreamed of a dreadful hairy fellow who used to work with the pigs at Croft Farm.’
‘Oh, no.’ Jennet’s mouth dropped open, and Tabitha shook her head dolefully.
‘Then he began to follow me, whenever I walked alone, as if the spell had truly worked. And the worst of it was, he’d lost his hand, scything wheat. He had a wooden hand now, attached to the stump of his arm.’ She struggled to keep her face straight.
‘Oh, how dreadful.’ Jennet had covered her face, aghast. ‘What happened to him?’
Tabitha made a vast effort to look grave. ‘He did very well; he’s just as good as anyone now. Indeed, he has a second-hand stall!’ She collapsed on the hearth, yelping with laughter at the foolish jest.
Jennet looked down at her, so stiff with disapproval that Tabitha fell on her and, seizing the wooden spoon, tickled her all over, asking, ‘How would you like a wooden hand inside your smock every night?’ Soon the two of them were shrieking with laughter.
It was a while until they regained their breath and settled down again before the fire. At length, Jennet looked up mischievously. ‘Have you heard the tale of the Devil’s bridegrooms over at Tranmere?’
Tabitha pretended she had not, simply for the pleasure of hearing Jennet tell the story. As the logs crackled and the wind whistled down the chimney like a wailing ghoul, Jennet recalled how five serving girls had stayed up on All Hallows’ Eve, determined to see the faces of their intended husbands. They laid table and chairs out for ten persons; then, blasphemously, they read The Lord’s Prayer backwards – and prayed in the name of His Satanic Majesty that their intended bridegrooms would come and seat themselves at the table.
‘Just then, it being the hour of twelve, the doors flew open and five ghastly gentlemen came and seated themselves around the table,’ Jennet whispered. ‘The girls could barely move themselves for fright and had to sit up with the ghouls for most of the night before they disappeared, the same way as they came. And so,’ she ended, ‘at least one of the girls, named Martha, died that night of fright.’
The two of them sat for a moment. Then Tabitha lit a rushlight in the fire; the darkness only seemed the greater as it closed round the unsteady point of light.
‘Do you believe in the Devil?’ Jennet asked.
Tabitha shook her head. ‘No. And Mother always said that story had been passed about for years. It is always said to happen in a different village.’
Yet it was easy to believe in such phantoms tonight. The rain lashed against the window in a high-pitched rattle; Tabitha’s fingers were growing so cold that she splayed them to absorb the last heat of the fire. It was too wild now to walk down to the river and see if a light was lit at Nat’s window. Great God, she hoped he was not travelling in this gale, but had found a comfortable inn upon the road.
Jennet’s question lingered in her mind. Was not De Angelo some kind of devil, hounding her mother and ordering Darius to butcher Francis? The notion set off a series of unpleasant echoes in her mind. In London she had seen the worst sides of men’s characters; discovering that some sheepish customers hid monstrous wolves beneath their skins. She was shaken from her thoughts by a sound from the garden; very close and low, and almost hidden by the bluster of the weather.
‘Do you hear footsteps?’ she asked Jennet suddenly.
The question set off a quiver of apprehensive laughter. ‘Stop it. Don’t tease me!’
The wind roused again, sending a whistling note down the chimney like a broken organ pipe; then, all at once, it dropped, and both could hear the slap of wet footfalls on the garden path. They seized each other’s hands.
‘Your father?’ Tabitha whispered.
Three house-shaking thumps on the door came, loud enough to make them both jump up in fright.
‘Get in the back room,’ Tabitha commanded. Once Jennet had darted away, she smoothed her skirt and walked boldly to the front door. She had longed for Nat to come home, but this bludgeoning summons did not sound like him; neither was it Joshua, who had a distinctive rapping knock. It was no doubt some desperate neighbour in need of her services as searcher – if so, it was foolish to be frightened.
‘Who is it?’ she shouted through the oak door.
There was no answer, only another thump that made the boards shake. She shook her head, trying to cast away all the past hour’s nonsense. What a pair of ninnies they were, terrifying themselves with tales of nightmarish bridegrooms. There was nothing for it but to discover who it was. She drew back the latch.
The door swung open, and the man who stumbled inside was so rain-drenched that at first she did not know him at all. His dark hair was plastered to his skull and rags clung to his body like a second skin. She stood back and watched as the fellow’s large hand steadied himself against the wall. Then two jet-black eyes met hers and a short, pointed knife gleamed in her direction.
‘I need food. Fire. Fresh clothes. Fetch Jennet here.’
TWENTY-EIGHT
A Riddle
Though I’ve no brains I have a head,
And eagerly lap though I’m never fed;
I often murmur but never weep,
Lie in a bed but never sleep.
I have not legs yet swiftly run,
And the larger I grow the quicker I run.
Yet when I’m enraged, I swell and grow faster,
Then no man or beast can my strength master.
The 6th day of October 1752
St Faith’s Day
Luminary: Sun rise at 8 minutes after 5 of the morning.
Observation: New Moon at noon.
Prognostication: As the trees are stripped of leaves, so hopes also flee in winter.
‘We must do as Darius says,’ Tabitha urged Jennet, who was now cringing, terrified, in the back room. ‘He has barely escaped the gallows; he has nothing to lose.’
Returning to the parlour, they found the fugitive in her mother’s chair, dripping water on to the rug and attempting to set a fresh log alight. Grimly, they collected together what little food they could find: the end of a loaf, cheese, brambles and some cold hasty pudding intended for their breakfasts. He stuffed it untasted into his mouth, his black-bristling jaw working as he watched them collect what few clothes of her father’s were left. There was an old coat that her mother had used in bad weather, a slouch hat and woollen leggings. He grumbled when they told him they had no liquor but closed his eyes with satisfaction as he drank hot sugared tea.
Setting the cup down, he said, ‘You was always telling me you wanted to leave here, Jennet.’
‘Me?’ she
squeaked. ‘I have to go home. My father is waiting for me.’
‘Don’t lie to me! I seen your own house was empty or why else would I be here? There’s a packet ship sails for Ireland in the morning, and you and me are taking it. I wouldn’t go without you, sweetheart. I’ll be looking after you now. Pack a bundle and be ready at first light.’
‘She’s not going with you,’ Tabitha said fiercely, stepping up to him. Darius lifted the knife into his lap and ran the blade across his filthy fingertips.
‘You,’ he said with loathing. Tabitha could feel his venomous gaze raking her. ‘I’ll give your sluttish face a little knife-work if you speak another word.’
She lowered her eyes, commanding herself to hold her tongue for Jennet’s sake.
‘I need a rowing boat to take upriver.’
Jennet looked to her for help, but Tabitha dared not speak again; she only nodded mutely. ‘There’s a fishing boat in the rushes up the river,’ said the girl shakily. ‘My father keeps it hidden there.’
Darius yawned ferociously. ‘I need to sleep first. Wake me at four. And you be ready, sweetheart. We’ll live like kings when we get across the water.’
Once they had both escaped to the back room, Jennet stood trembling.
‘I don’t want to go. He might hurt me. I don’t like him anymore.’
‘I know. When he leaves I want you to do exactly what I tell you. Do you understand?’
‘What should I do?’
Tabitha began to dress in her warmest clothes, tying her mother’s quilted petticoat up around her waist.
‘I’m still thinking. You lie still and try to rest.’
Jennet lay down very still on the bed, her narrow back trembling. Tabitha peeped through to where Darius was snoring, his head lolling, the knife still tight in his fist. She considered running for help, to the village or to Joshua; but as soon as she opened the front door the blast of wind and noise were certain to alert him. She looked at the tiny windows; they were too narrow even for Jennet to wriggle through. God help them, though she was growing foggy with tiredness, she had to think clearly. Should she try to follow Darius and Jennet when they set off? No, too risky – as soon as Jennet got into the rowing boat, she would be lost.
The Almanack Page 18