A Chorus of Innocents

by P. F. Chisholm

“Of course.” She smiled at him. “I can give you twenty shillings each or take it off your rent.”

  Tully nodded. It was less than the beasts were worth but not much less. It more or less split the difference between that and the risk that they would be trouble.

  She came back across the field and climbed the stile, drew off her glove and spat in her palm to clap her hand to Tully’s and shake on it.

  “There’s ma hand, there’s ma heart,” he said. “Ye can take ’em now if ye like. I trust ye.”

  “Do you want money or credit?”

  “Oh money, missus.”

  She checked her purse which only had a couple of shillings in it.

  “I’ll send the reeve to you tomorrow.”

  Half an hour later she was riding back to Widdrington with the horses on rope halters and feeling quite pleased with the deal. They were nice horses with nothing obviously wrong with them, and she always needed horses for the eternal problem of dispatches. Sir Henry would probably tell her she should have paid less and he would probably find something else to complain about, but he knew they needed horses.

  She took the horses up to a gallop along a little ridge of the road, feeling happy as she always did when she was riding. Sir Henry was in Berwick on Tweed doing his duty as a Deputy Warden. He would turn up to harass her at some stage but probably not yet because October was peak raiding season and he would be dealing with raiders from the Middle March or, indeed, doing a bit of raiding himself.

  She came onto the Great North Road which actually passed through the village of Widdrington and cantered until she came to the stone tower and barnekin of her castle. Some of the women tidying gardens, or sitting on their doorsteps knitting or spinning, waved to her as she went by with her colour high and her hat pinned firmly to her cap so it didn’t come off. She found Mr Heron, the reeve, up to his knees in a collapsed drainage ditch and asked if he would take forty shillings to Tully the next day. Heron smiled at her, came and examined the two new horses and said he thought they were worth forty shillings each, unless they had some kind of horse disease, of course. “I think they’re healthy enough,” Elizabeth said, “but we’ll see.”

  The boy on the gate opened to her and came to take her horses as she clattered into the yard. Two more boys were hard at work on the dung heap in the corner but they stopped to come and stare at the new horses.

  “They’re nice,” said one of them, “not hobbies, though.”

  She dismounted to the stone by herself and passed Mouse to the biggest boy to whisp down and feed. One of the empty stalls had a very tired hobby in it, snoozing on his feet. She knew him but couldn’t remember his name so she assumed it was a messenger’s. “Yes,” she said, “that’s Blackie and that’s Pinky.”

  The youngest lad snickered and the middle boy elbowed him and told him whose they were. She let their curiosity fester and was about to go and check the new horse in the stable when a girl came running out of the manor house by the tower.

  “Missus,” she shouted. “Ladyship, you’ve got to come quick.”

  It was a Trevannion cousin, sent to her to learn huswifery, a scatterbrained good-hearted creature with brown hair and eyes, who was being assiduously stalked by several unsuitable men.

  “What is it, Mary?” she asked, expecting some tale about a spider.

  “It’s Mrs Burn, missus, she’s been crying and crying and I can’t get her to stop…” Mary’s eyes were full of tears. “I don’t know why either and I’m frightened for the babby…”

  Elizabeth had already changed course and headed for the manor, the back way through the stableyard, into the kitchenyard, through the kitchen—where she saw that the last pig carcass for winter had been delivered and was awaiting her attention in the wet larder—into the hall and through into the parlour, which had been built by Sir Henry’s father soon after he had taken over the little chantry down the road. The chantry had provided the handsome stones and was now almost gone.

  There sat Poppy Burn, otherwise Proserpina, one of the few women with whom Elizabeth could have a good conversation, and she was in a terrible state. Eight months pregnant, in a blue velvet English gown that had some mysterious dark stains on it, hunched over like a little old woman and tears dripping steadily out of her eyes into a sodden wad of linen. She lifted her head slightly, saw Elizabeth, and tried to rise to curtsey to her but couldn’t get up.

  Elizabeth went to her and put her arms around her as tight as she could and said things like “there there” and “now now” and signalled Mary closer with her eyes. There was a distinct metallic smell around Poppy.

  “Fetch in some wine, mull it, and put in a tot of aqua vitae from the barrel in my still room,” she instructed Mary. “Where’s Young Henry?”

  “He’s out checking drainage ditches.”

  Probably findable then, but he wouldn’t want to be bothered. “Fine. Go and get the wine.”

  Mary came clattering back grasping a tankard full of hot wine and Elizabeth put it in Poppy’s cold white fingers.

  “You’re freezing, and wet through,” she said as she felt the heavy velvet of the gown. “What happened, Poppy? What happened?”

  “It…it…” The woman started hiccupping and stared into space, as if seeing something terrible, her fingers gripping the hanky and the tankard until Elizabeth wondered if the handle would come off.

  “Has something bad happened to James?” Elizabeth asked carefully, it was the only thing she could think of that could cause this. Poppy was not an hysterical person, though she was young and perhaps idealistic for the Borders.

  Poppy nodded once and tears started to flow again.

  “My dear, we must get you out of your wet clothes and into bed. I’m worried about your baby.”

  She looked down in surprise at the mound of her stomach and then crossed her arms over it and started to wail. It was a terrifying sound that made Elizabeth’s hair stand on end.

  Right, she said to herself, this is obviously worse than just James being dead. She sent Mary upstairs to get the smallest bedroom cleared of her sewing things and the bed made, and sent a boy out to find Young Henry and bid him come in at once with some men. Then she untangled herself from Poppy and went to the dairy to tell Jane and Fiona to come and help. When the two girls came with her, she told them to keep their mouths shut.

  Jane and Fiona formed a bridge with their strong white arms smelling of cheese and milk. Elizabeth sat Poppy on their arms and they carried her up to bed that way, with Poppy still hunched and still weeping.

  “Milk Dandelion—she still has good milk—and bring the milk straight to me,” said Elizabeth to Fiona. “And, Jane, bring me up a bowl of hot water and some clean cloths.” She settled Poppy on the bed and unbuttoned the doublet front of the English gown and the let-out petticoat and shift under it. The petticoat, too, had brown stains on it which Elizabeth sniffed and confirmed her suspicions.

  “Poppy, my dear, are you miscarrying?” Elizabeth asked. Poppy shook her head and hunched over tighter. “Then is the blood someone else’s? James’?”

  No answer and no sense. What in God’s name had happened to the woman to cause this? Elizabeth had to check to see if she was in fact miscarrying, because in that case she needed to call Mrs Stirling immediately. Luckily she lived in the village, though she might be out with a patient anywhere around the country from here to Alnwick.

  When Jane came hurrying back with a big bowl of hot water, cloths, and—praise God— one of Elizabeth’s shifts under her arm, Elizabeth thanked her and sent her out. Then she stripped off the rest of Poppy’s clothes and found what had turned her from a bright-faced happy person into sobbing human wreckage.

  She could see bruises and grazes all round the tops of Poppy’s legs and lower down as well, grazes and blood on Poppy’s privates, too. She stopped for a moment to take a breath and calm herself because
Poppy had clearly been raped. She put her ear to the big belly and thought she heard a heartbeat, thought she felt movement but she wasn’t a midwife and she wasn’t sure. She put her head round the door and told the waiting Jane to run for Mrs Stirling at once. The dairymaid’s eyes met hers with understanding and then Jane turned and fairly sprinted down the stairs. Jane didn’t say much, and wasn’t pretty with her square young face and broad figure, but there was something steady about her that Elizabeth liked.

  She looked out the window and saw Jane running at a good clip out of the gate and into the village with her skirts bundled up into her belt and her boots occasionally striking sparks from the cobbles. Elizabeth’s hat was still on her head and she had her velvet gown on, but Poppy needed to get warm as quickly as possible, so she turned back to her and started washing her gently with the hot water and cloths. Poppy let her do it, passively, only tears leaked out from under her shut eyelids. When that was done Elizabeth put her own smock over the woman’s head, chafed her freezing hands and feet, and went and got some socks from the linen cupboard. She had to pause again as she did it: What kind of man did that to a pregnant woman? And what had happened to James? It was clear he was dead, probably killed. Had there been a raid?

  Poppy was still sitting on the side of the bed and so Elizabeth gently lifted up her legs, put the socks on her feet, and got her under the coverlets at last. She got the brandywine into her, which was the best thing to stop a miscarriage and seemed to relax Poppy a little.

  Just as the last of the wine went down, Fiona came back with a bowl of Dandelion’s best creamy milk, still hot from the cow. Elizabeth left her with Poppy, went to her stillroom, and found the precious bottle of laudanum and put a few drops in the milk, then spooned it into Poppy while Fiona stared unselfconsciously at her. Elizabeth sent Fiona to finish up in the dairy, and in particular, wash and salt the butter. It was aggravating that the time of year when cows gave the most milk was in summer when it was too warm to keep butter very long, whereas in autumn and winter, the milk was much less in quantity and creaminess. The butter made now was paler than summer butter, but if the weather didn’t get warm it might keep to be used for Christmas.

  The pig wouldn’t wait forever, either, but it could wait a while. Elizabeth went and got her work from her bedroom and took off her hat and gown while she was at it, put on an apron at last, and went back to Poppy.

  Poppy was sitting bolt upright again, twisting her hands together and making little moaning sounds. It would take awhile for the laudanum to work.

  “Well, I think this gown is wet through,” Elizabeth burbled at random as she picked up the heavy weight. “I’ll hang it up and brush it once it’s dry. The colour’s good, though, it didn’t…er…get on your clothes so we’ll see if we can rescue it.”

  She put a broomhandle through the arms and hung the gown up on the wall to dry, bundled Poppy’s shift and petticoats for the laundrywoman to have when they next did a wash, and put them in the bag. Then she sat down and started stitching a new shirt for Young Henry, who got through them faster than anyone she had ever heard of. She continued burbling about the cows and how she would keep Dandelion’s calf even though it was male because Dandelion’s milk was so good, and the old bull was getting on a bit, and Dandelion’s son might make a good replacement.

  By that time, the sound of boots on the stairs told her that Jane had found and brought Mrs Stirling. There was a knock on the door and Elizabeth answered it to find a flushed and triumphant Jane and the small grey-haired midwife.

  “I woke her up, missus,” said Jane, not breathing too hard.

  “I’m very sorry, Mrs Stirling,” said Elizabeth politely, “but I think this is an emergency.”

  “Ay,” said the midwife. “Ah heard fra Jane.”

  “Jane, will you wait in the house? Fiona’s finishing up for you. And thank you for running so fast.”

  “I like running,” Jane said. “Is Mrs Burn better?”

  “I hope she will be.”

  Jane nodded and plumped herself down on a bench in the corridor.

  The midwife had already gone to Poppy and held her hand to feel the pulses. “Now, hinny, ye’re to be a brave big girl. Is there pains?” Poppy shook her head. “Did ye feel a great movement or turn at any time?” Poppy started leaking tears again.

  ‘’When he…when he…”

  “Ay, when he was on ye, the filthy bastard. Were there pains after, coming in waves, like this? Like ghost-pains but stronger?” Mrs Stirling held up a fist and clenched and unclenched it. Poppy shook her head. “Now my dear, I need to have a feel of ye, inside, ye follow? Will ye let me?”

  Poppy nodded. “I thought…the babe was killed for sure.” She was whispering but at least making sense.

  “Well, mebbe not.”

  Mrs Stirling was gentle as she slipped her strong wiry hands under the covers and felt Poppy. She smiled. “Well, ye’re still closed up tight there and the babe isna head down yet, so that’s a mercy. How did ye get here?”

  “I…I rode. I got on Prince and rode to the Great North Road and rode south and…”

  “Did you find lodgings in Berwick?”

  Poppy shook her head. “I just rode round the walls because it was night and kept on because…because…I wanted to find you.”

  Mrs Stirling and Elizabeth exchanged looks. “Wis there naebody nearer ye could ha’ gone to?” asked the midwife.

  “I wanted Lady Widdrington,” said Poppy, as if this was obvious. “They killed Jamie and they…and they…”

  Mrs Stirling held her hands for her.

  “…and I want them hanged for it.”

  “Them?”

  “Two men, not from round here, strangers. They came when I was at the river with the laundry and I came back because I thought they were the men from the Edinburgh printers about James’ book of sermons, and they were talking awhile. I went to get some wafers and wine and while I was away…they killed Jamie. They stabbed him and he tried to fight so they cut half his head off.”

  “God above,” said Mrs Stirling, shaking her head. “God a’mighty.”

  “Then they…did this. Then they went. And then I thought, if I can find Lady Widdrington right away, she’ll help me find them again and hang them. So I tacked up Jamie’s hobby, Prince, and I rode.”

  “When was this?”

  “Yesterday. I don’t know when.”

  Mrs Stirling had brought out her ear trumpet and put the large end on Poppy’s belly, moving it around with her ear pressed to the other end. She paused and a large smile briefly lit her face.

  “Well now, that’s a lovely heartbeat,” she said. “Would ye like to listen?”

  Elizabeth would, very much but hadn’t liked to ask. She put her ear to the narrow part of the ear trumpet and heard Poppy’s own heartbeat and then the lighter quicker beat from the babe. Her face lit up too. “Oh yes,” she said, “That’s a good strong beat.”

  “It didn’t get killed by the…by them?” asked Poppy.

  Mrs Stirling took her hands and sat down next to her on the bed. “Listen, child,” she said, “it’s a terrible thing that happened and ye’ll want yer vengeance, I understand that. But you must try not to mither over it nor yer man’s death. Ye must be calm as ye can until the babe is born and then while it’s a little babby too. Take your vengeance late and cold.”

  Poppy nodded. “The Good Book says, ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, I will repay.’”

  “It does,” allowed Mrs Stirling, “though sometimes the Lord needs a little bit o’ prodding. Now go to sleep and think of the babby.”

  Poppy lay down obediently and closed her eyes. Elizabeth led Mrs Stirling out of the room and took her downstairs to the parlour for wafers and wine and advice.

  “She should be no worse for it than bruises and a sore quim for a few days, if she hasnae bin poxed
,” said Mrs Stirling consideringly. “As to her body, with luck. As to her mind, who can say? There was a girl raped in a raid that never spoke again nor made any sense. Another girl who was treated the same in another raid by the same man, as it happens, was well enough in a month, though a mite jumpy and couldna abide the tolling of a bell.”

  “Does it happen often?”

  “Not often. But it happens. Especially when the raiders are far out of their ain country and they’ve caught a girl who’s not from a riding surname and think they willna be known.”

  “I’ve never heard of it.…”

  “Ay, well, they dinna tell anyone but the midwife when they come to me for tansy tea and if they’re a married woman, especially, for they’ll be afeared their husbands will think they were willing, especially if they kindle.”

  Mrs Stirling polished off her wine and Elizabeth paid her.

  “Don’t leave her alone,” advised the midwife as Elizabeth saw her out the door. “She was alone when it happened, keep her company. I’ll call back in a day or two.”

  Elizabeth nodded at this and went into the dairy first to see that the place was clean and tidy to keep the faeries happy. It was, so she told Fiona and Jane they could go home. She found young Mary sitting eating hazelnuts in the hall and told her to come with her and went back upstairs to Poppy who was lying rigid with her eyes open. She relaxed as they came in.

  Mary she sent to get her crewelwork and sat down by Poppy.

  “Will you be able to sleep with Mary here?” she asked. “I must make a start on salting the pig for winter.”

  Poppy was weeping again and her poor eyes were already red and swollen.

  “Read to me,” she whispered. “Please.”

  “What shall I read?”

  “Anything.”

  Elizabeth went back to the bedroom and looked at her precious store of books, kept in a box under the bed where Sir Henry couldn’t see them. He didn’t see the point of women reading and had burned some of her books once. She chose a couple—one a book of sermons of staggering dullness that she used to get herself to sleep sometimes and the other a Tyndale Bible.