“Most of the folk attendeth the village church on Sundays for prayers and songs, but that were not what maketh us good folk - no, Pe...tro...ne...lla - we were kind at heart. We helpeth each other as much as we could.
“Our world were shattereth when soldiers mounted on horses cameth galloping into our peaceful village suddenly one day. These soldiers were sendeth by Lord Fortesque. They wanteth to know who were the leader of our community. We thought we was all equal. But the villagers, not knowing who to pointeth the soldiers to, decideth it must needs be me, the wisest man in the village - they thinketh that were me, Pe...tro...ne...lla. I would hath doneth anything for myn folk.
“The following day more soldiers arriveth. They cameth to force their will on us. In short, they telleth us that all the land surrounding the village would passeth under the control of Lord Fortesque and his men. From then on, nobody in the village would be alloweth to own land. The land in the Kingdom would be carveth up into areas, and each area would be assigneth to a lord. In our case, it were Lord Fortesque; a man who imposeth his will on us with great terror. The Manor House were buildeth for him on the slope of the hill. From there he hath an excellent view over all the village. The gardens be hemmed in by high walls and be protecteth by armed guards at the gate.
“It hath been beautiful here. When I rideth around this land on my horse free as the wind, I were the happiest person alive. I loveth my land. I loveth the narrow winding lanes, the cottages buildeth in flint with coloured flowers around the doors. I loveth the thatched roofs which could be seeneth right up to the border of the village hiddeneth down in the valley upon which the sun shineth its rays like liquid gold.
“All our land were taken away from us and given to Lord Fortesque. In turn, the barons could do what they liketh with the piece of land given to them by Lord Fortesque. But the barons had to pay taxes to their master. Some used the land for pasture, some for crops, some for digging up peat for fuel. The villagers were then employeth by these barons to worketh for them, Pe...tro...ne...lla. The barons calleth the villagers villeins. Our folk hath to work harder than they hath ever doneth before and payeth taxes to their baron. Sometimes, the villagers did nat reap enough from the land to payeth their taxes. In those cases, the barons sendeth soldiers to the family’s house and taketh whatever they findeth of any worth: furniture, clothes...
“I must need nat telleth ye what pitiful poverty my folk liveth in. Men, women, children and animals in a couple of rooms. The stench could nat be covereth by the scent of those flowers anymore. Even worse, Pe...tro...ne...lla, this feudal system setteth some folk up against each other in their struggle to survive. Then everyone were on their own.
“Oh, Pe...tro...ne...lla, how can I describe what happened next? It be too gruesome to tell. But, I must needs continue, I must. Ye hath to know what happeneth because ye be THE CHOSEN ONE. Pe...tro...ne...lla, myn folk was treateth terribly. Now they cannat rest in peace. The folk and cats of Fort Willow hath disturbed the slumbers of centuries.”
Petronella didn’t really know what he was talking about. How could dead people get up and walk around streets and houses? But, then she realised that they could. For certain, this Hooded Horseman himself was there in front of her. Making her shiver and tremble. What was she to do? She, who was hated by everyone in the village. She certainly couldn’t go and talk to them. After all the name-calling, the stones thrown at her and the sniggering behind her back. All she wished for was the peace of being left alone. All she wanted was to read her books, look after Maalox, and enjoy the beauty of the woods that surrounded her house. Why did The Hooded Horseman have to pick on her? Out of all the people in the village.
“Pe...tro...ne...lla,” The Hooded Horseman answered, reading her thoughts: “I cameth here because ye cat, Maalox, bringeth myn head and torso here. As the leader of The Strincas, I can telleth ye that our souls liveth in our torsos, right here,” he said, pointing to the middle of his chest. “Once a torso be dug up, the soul be set free and we can roameth wherever we wanteth. But, our torso be our central point and we shall always be pulleth towards it. Wherever it be. The torso for us spirits be like your home be to ye. Ye go out and about, but ye always goeth back to your home for peace.”
Petronella hadn’t really thought about these things before. But she certainly knew she had a soul. Yes, when she wandered around in the woods, or curled up to read a book, or heard Maalox purring, she knew that her soul was being touched with something good. Then that feeling of goodness turned into happiness. Yes, she knew that a good soul meant happiness.
“I wish to finisheth myn story,” The Hooded Horseman said. “A young maiden calleth Marian were wrongly accuseth of harming Lady Fortesque. Lord Fortesque’s soldiers findeth Marian sleeping under a tree in the park around the castle. She were dragged back to the village by Lord Fortesque’s soliders. Then, together with anyone the soldiers taketh a dislike to, they killeth lots of Strincas. Marian and many villagers were axed by the soldiers.”
“I have never heard anything so terrible,” Petronella said. “Sorry for interrupting, please go on.”
“They killeth men, women, children and even animals - all innocent victims. A villager who hath seen these terrible scenes, but managed to escapeth, appeareth at my door with great sadness in her voice to telleth me all this. I putteth on myn mantle, saddled myn horse and gallopeth to the field. The most awful sight. My folk being axeth to death. I kneeleth and beggeth the soldiers to stoppeth. But I were knocked over, and that were the last I remembereth of myn life as a human being. Me thinketh we must all hath been buried in that field. Marian were killeth first. I, mynself, and two other villagers burieth Marian in the field under the tree against which she hath slept. It were as if, by burying her there, she would continueth her slumbers. Me thinketh we was killeth by the soldiers for burying Marian.”
“What a very sad story,” Petronella said. “I sometimes think the world is not right. Now, do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“No, of course not, Pe...tro...ne...lla.”
“Do you know anything about the big black tree round the back of my house?”
The Hooded Horseman looked at her as if he were frozen.
“What of it?” he asked.
“I can see it very well from my spare bedroom window upstairs. I mean, I know this sounds strange, but I am sure it moves. Not in the wind like other trees. That’s not what I mean. It actually moves place. The whole tree bends forwards and backwards. It looks like a giant. It must uproot itself and then put down roots again in another place. I can’t explain it. When I went into my garden with the local police inspector, the tree had vanished. I swear it. It just wasn’t there at all!
“Pe...tro...ne...lla, I cannat telleth ye about that tree now. Some other time. Please doth nat insist. All I can telleth ye be that it be calleth The Trogot.”
Silence fell over the room. Nothing seemed to move in the still night. Petronella kept staring at the space where The Hooded Horseman had been as she heard a horse gallop away into the distance. The candle on the window ledge had gone out and the only light shining was that of the moonbeams through her window.
She climbed the stairs up to the spare bedroom. Something made her go to the room. She needed to see if the tree was still there. She opened the door slightly and peeped through with one eye. Yes, it was still there. A sudden strong wind conjured up. The Trogot twisted itself to face the village and growled. At least she knew its name now.
Chapter 14
So Petronella finally went off to her bed for the night. Without bothering to put the light on, she sat on her bed and took her boots off. What a day it had been, honestly. She folded over the covers and got into... arghhh!!! Someone squealed. Well, blow me, there was someone in Petronella’s bed. She hurried towards the light switch. Wasn’t a hooded horseman enough for one night?
There in Petronella’s bed was a dirty ragged urchin boy of about eleven. “Who are you? And what are you doing here?” P
etronella asked him in a kind voice. The poor boy was trembling with fright. He was in such a state. Petronella felt so sorry for him, she just couldn’t be hard on him.
“I doth nat wanteth to goeth out and worketh in the fields tomorrow morning. Please doth nat be horrible and maketh me goeth. I be ill I telleth ye. I cannat goeth. Please, please, let me stayeth at home. I shall be good. I sweareth it on myn ma and pa’s souls.”
“What are you talking about, young man?” she said. “The language was that of The Hooded Horseman.”
“Who be you?” he asked.
“I’d like to know who YOU are? You’re in MY house, I’ve got no explaining to do,” she said nicely.
“Yes, ye hath because this be MYN house. Me thinketh you was myn gran’ma for a moment. But ye be nat. Where be myn gran’ma? What be happeneth to myn gran’ma?” The boy started wailing and sobbing and all Petronella’s efforts to calm him came to no good.
In the meantime, Maalox had sprung into the room, probably wondering what was going on. Because the boy wouldn’t stop wailing, Maalox started to get a wincy bit angry, drew his breath in and began inflating. Like a balloon, little-by-little. The boy’s tears stopped flowing as, wide-eyed and open-mouthed, he tried to figure out what was happening.
“What be that?” he asked pointing to Maalox.
“That’s my cat, Maalox,” she replied.
“I hath never ever seeneth a cat that size. Me thinketh I hath just seeneth it grow, I telleth ye,” he said.
“He’s a special cat to me. I love him very much. But, really, he is just as silly as any other cat.”
Maalox jumped on the bed next to the boy and started purring to show that he wanted to be friends. The poor boy moved back a little from fright.
“Don’t be frightened,” said Petronella, “he won’t harm you. What’s your name?”
“Myn name be Percy,” he said now calming down. “I liveth here with my gran’ma. Myn ma and pa be both dead,” said the boy. Then looking around the room, he said: “The house looketh different. Was nat as nice as this before.”
Petronella looked at Maalox wondering what to say. Maalox lay next to Percy, still purring, and Petronella took the boy’s hand. Of course, she had by now twigged that Percy was a Strincas. A little Strincas come back to life. He’d been made to slave in the fields and was a poor orphan. The state of him! So thin. Bruised and battered. How could anyone treat a little boy like that. The only relative he had left was his grandmother. Was she buried in the field? What had happened to his parents? Petronella didn’t like to ask.
“Look,” Petronella began, “you don’t have to go out and work in the fields tomorrow. Or any other day. I will look after you and make sure nobody harms you anymore. This is your house as much as it is mine and Maalox’s. Now you go back to sleep. Tomorrow morning I’ll have a tasty big breakfast ready for you. Then you can have a nice warm bubble-bath and I’ll go and buy you some new clothes.”
Percy was soothed by Petronella’s words. He had stopped crying and was now stroking Maalox’s fur. A few minutes later he was fast asleep.
Chapter 15
Morning soon dawned on Charis Cottage. Petronella was looking out for Fred, the milkman. She wanted to ask him to leave extra milk and other goodies for Percy. He was still sleeping in Petronella’s bed with Maalox curled up beside him. Petronella had always wanted to be a mother. And now here he was, a boy she could look after. What joy! She would no longer need to look for a husband. She felt as if she was Maalox’s mother. But being mother of a cat wasn’t quite like being the mother of a boy. And here was Percy. In her house with no relatives. Yes, she would do all she could to make his life good.
Petronella soon saw Fred’s figure on the pathway in the woods coming towards her house. Great! Now I need some butter, cheese, orange juice... but, as the man moved closer, she noticed it certainly wasn’t Fred. The man was carrying a heavy metal churn. And there was a horse tied to the same tree that The Hooded Horseman used. The horse had another churn strapped to its side. As Petronella opened the door, the man said:
“Morning, Mrs Trollope, how be ye and Percy today. The boy hath gone to worketh in the fields, hath he? Getting a little thin he be, an’ all. I can only giveth ye a quarter pint because ye still hath nat payeth me for last week’s milk...” Then the milkman looked up and noticed that he was not speaking to Mrs Trollope at all. Who was this? Ugly woman, if ever he saw one.
“You’re a Strincas, aren’t you?” Petronella asked him.
“I be so indeed, and proud of it, may I sayeth. What be ye doing here in the Trollope’s cottage?”
“I’ll explain that to you some other time. Percy’s asleep. I don’t want him woken up by chatter.”
“But at this time of the morning the boy should sloggeth hard in those them fields. So he should. Lord Fortesque shall send his soldiers here and giveth him what-for, I telleth ye,” The Strincas milkman said.
“No, he won’t. If Lord Fortesque or his men as much as dare go anywhere near Percy, they’ll have me to deal with. Now how much money did Mrs Trollope owe you?” Petronella said.
“Did? Be she dead?” the milkman asked.
“No, she be nat dead... No, I mean, she’s not dead,” Petronella noticed that she had even begun talking like a Strincas.
“So if she be nat dead, where be she?” asked the milkman.
“She is not here now but I’m sure she’ll be back later on,” Petronella answered.
“You doth talketh strange, ma’m, if ye doth nat mind myn saying so,” the milkman said. “Now how much of this wholesome milk doth I giveth ye, ma’m. Still nice and warm so be it, fresh from my prize cow Daisy,” he said as he unscrewed the lid off his churn. “Excuse me, ma’m, I must needs get on with myn rounds. Could ye goeth and get a tin-can?”
“What tin-can, sorry?” Petronella said.
“Well, the tin-can for me to ladleth myn milk into. Where doth I putteth the milk if ye doth nat getteth ye tin-can?”
Of course, Petronella hadn’t thought of that. And, off she went to see if she could find a container. As she watched him pour the thick milk from his churn into her plastic jug, she noticed that there were still cows’ hairs in the milk. The milk was like cream. Not exactly the skinny milk Petronella was used to.
“That be enough, I can only giveth ye a quarter pint. Mrs Trollope oweth me half a crown as it be. But I hath pity on the poor boy in there. He must needs some strength for that there hard work.”
“Now, you fill this container up, Mr Milkman, and I’ll give you ten pounds.”
“Ten pounds? That be a fortune, ma’m,” he said.
“This is a new ten-pound note, you may not have seen one like this before. But I can assure you it’s real,” said Petronella.
“It sure looketh good to me,” said the Milkman, as he pushed it into his trouser-pocket. Off he went back into the woods chuckling to himself. “And, what be thy name, ma’m,” he shouted back.
“Petronella. And yours?”
“I be Pepin. Pepin, The Dairyman,” he shouted back, as he waved to Petronella, mounted his horse and disappeared into the woods.
Chapter 16
Back in the village a group of Strincas peasants were heading for Farmer Giles’s house, angrily waving their pitch-forks. It was indeed in this Manor House that Lord Fortesque had spent his summers playing croquet with his family in the large grounds complete with duck ponds and sparkling streams.
The peasants thought it was very strange that no guards were standing at the wrought iron gates. They couldn’t believe how easy it was to surround the house.
“Cometh out, ye evil man. Ye soldiers hath killeth our families and friends. Cometh out if ye hath the guts,” one of them shouted out towards the house.
Farmer Giles took a peep from behind his silk curtains. What he saw was a scene from times gone by. Ragged men wearing patched-up trousers, tatty tunics and broken straw hats. In another setting they would have been quaint, but not h
ere and now. Those nasty pitch-forks swaying backwards and forwards did not look at all friendly. A couple of the most hot-blooded peasants started throwing stones at Farmer Giles’s windows. Indeed, they broke the window behind which Farmer Giles was spying on them. He was hit in the chest. The shout he let out was heard by the peasants. They broke in through a downstairs window and quickly ran up the stairs, ready to give Farmer Giles a good hiding. Bursting into his bedroom, they grabbed Farmer Giles from behind, thrust him onto a chair and tied him up tightly.
“Ah, Lord Fortesque, we hath at last got the better of ye. A long time I hath waiteth for this. I never thinketh I would seeth this day,” said the leader of the peasants.
“What the heck, get out of my house you good-for-nothing louts. How dare...?” Here Farmer Giles was cut off. The peasants had stuffed an old neckerchief of his in his mouth to stop him talking.
“Quick!” said the leader. “Go looketh for all the silver, jewels, and money ye can findeth. We must needs giveth it back to the poor folk of our village. These are the riches madeth from the sweat and blood that hath poured from our bodies. We must needs getteth back what belongeth to us!”
The peasants went off and ransacked the house throwing everything they could find into their sacks. “Here, looketh ye at all this food in the pantry. This shall feedeth the lot of us for a few days.”
When they had taken all they could carry, they ran off leaving Farmer Giles fuming, swinging around on the chair trying to untie himself. But it only resulted in his tipping over backwards. And there he lay on his own, looking up at his fancy decorated ceiling, grunting through the neckerchief.
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