30
20th September 1580
Rent for Mistress Isabeau with Eliza Dread until Christmas eight shillings and eight pence
Accounts of Banstock Manor, 1576–1582
It is my duty to substitute for my Lord Anthonie when he is away from the manor, and he travelled to London upon the dawn. The rector asks me to discuss something with him, and I sigh, thinking his sister is yet again calling for the hounding of Mistress Isabeau. The apothecary and the midwife had both advised the Frenchwoman not to travel, and she has sought refuge with an old bawd called Eliza Dread in the town of Ryde. It is a fine day, so I decide to take my lord’s mare and ride through the farms. I carry the books Lord Anthonie has borrowed, and a firkin of ale for the rector from the manor, as Agness seems too much preoccupied with condemning others to perform her own duties. The rectory is only a mile from the manor.
I am made welcome by the Reverend Waldren, who takes me into his study, and calls for a Rhenish wine he has just bought from town. We are halfway through the bottle when he broaches the subject of his worries.
‘I have great concern about my sister. I had hoped that she would seek a husband but she feels herself too far above the local farmers. She is the granddaughter of a baronet, you know.’
I make a noise suggesting interest but the wine is more engaging.
‘Our grandfather – Sir Richard of Ensley, in Kent, you know – paid for us to have the best education. She is well read in the scriptures as well as the arts of housewifery.’
I look around the room. Ensley’s coat of arms, I presume, is the one that adorns the embroidered hanging behind his chair.
‘Indeed, sir.’ I keep my own opinion to myself, which is that of the two, the brother is the daintier. ‘And she is known to be virtuous, religious and an excellent nurse to Lady Banstock. But her opinions are harsh; she raises a storm among my lady’s women.’
‘I hoped that she would find occupation in marriage and would cease her suspicions and megrims. She may still bear a child or two; she is in good health and not yet forty.’ He looks at me. ‘I hoped that someone in a good position, who has connections with a good family, might be attracted by her dowry despite her age. Perhaps she would make an excellent consort for a man of letters, like yourself.’
I almost drop my glass. ‘You might better take her to the seat of your family and introduce her to gentlemen who seek a well-bred wife.’
‘For some reason, she will not leave Banstock.’ The rector finishes his wine in one gulp, and fills both glasses again. ‘She feels her life is here. She was happy enough until this year, until the Frenchwoman came. It was like a demon of jealousy possessed her.’
‘Strong words, sir.’ Strange talk of demons from a man of God. ‘How does this jealousy manifest?’
‘I was called out three nights ago – the widow Blackthorne was dying – and I returned at dawn, much tired. I didn’t call at the front door and awaken the household, but left my horse loose in his stable and slipped in through the kitchen, where my man was already lighting a fire. As I passed my sister’s room, I caught sight of her, dressing. When she saw me she slammed the chest where she keeps her clothes and bade me go, in the hardest of terms.’
I am sceptical. ‘Mayhap an excess of modesty. Or concern for her appearance.’
Waldren pours most of the remaining wine into his glass and sups heavily. ‘Have you ever known mine sister care about appearance? Condemn a maid for doing so, more likely.’
I drink my wine slowly. ‘She is disappointed in love, perhaps. She is getting beyond the age of marriage.’ Yet, I think, what are her prospects? Her looks are plain, her fortune small. All she has to offer is what all women offer a husband, but I doubt any man would find bedding her consolation for her acid tongue.
‘I waited until she went up to the manor.’ The rector stands, his years heavy upon him, yet two decades less than I. Too much time sat at a trencher, I think. He leads me into one of the two chambers upstairs, the one inhabited by the lady. It is unlike any woman’s room, save a nun, perhaps. No brushes, no trinkets, no shawls. The bed appears as hard as a table, the blanket tucked in tight around it, no hangings or rugs to lighten it. He kneels awkwardly, dropping onto fat knees, and lifts the lid of a chest. ‘Then curiosity led me to look at what she hides.’
Lying on dark grey dresses is a doll, flaxen wool for hair, a white kirtle, bound loosely in a scrap of lacy binding.
‘See, Master Garland? What madness makes a woman seek a child’s toy?’
I feel the chill of evil before me. ‘Madness, perhaps. But it could be seen as more.’
He stares up at me, his round face looking confused. ‘What do you mean?’
I wonder at the resemblance to the woman Isabeau Duchamp. ‘Such dolls are used in witchcraft.’
‘I know my sister would never consort with any part of the Devil’s games.’ He acts shocked, but I know the thought of witchcraft might have crossed his mind. And he thought such an impious, spiteful shrew a good match for me?
‘You said yourself perhaps she grows a little mad. Let us take the doll and dispose of it. It may be time to seek a doctor who can consider the case. With fasting and purging she may regain her good senses.’
He picks up the doll and passes it to me. It is, in truth, much as a child might play with, but a woman in her thirties is no child. ‘My mother had spells of moon madness at the end of her life,’ Waldren concedes. ‘Perhaps Agness imagines a baby when she has none.’
‘Then there is your answer,’ I say. ‘Your sister needs a child, and her madness makes her create a doll to care for. I had a hound once who would take ducklings as if to suckle when she had not been mated.’
He acts reassured but neither of us can put the fear away. I leave with the doll shoved into my saddlebag, and ride back uneasy at its presence against my leg. If it were a harmless toy, well, Mistress Agness’s reason is better without it. And if it is a most foul device of witchcraft? I resolve to destroy it.
Vincent Garland, Steward to Lord Banstock, His Memoir
31
Thursday 11th April
Sage was cleaning her teeth when there was a knock at the door, and she assumed it was just her neighbour when she opened it. ‘Mum!’
‘Mum, yes. So, give me hug.’ Pressed against Yana’s coat, Sage tried not to cover her in toothpaste, but her chest tightened with tears.
‘I’m glad to see you,’ she mumbled, through minty foam.
‘You said there was problem, I came.’ The answerphone message Sage had left on impulse, immediately regretted, had obviously had an impact. ‘I stopped your dad coming over, but he wants a full report.’
Sage detached herself, and padded into the bathroom to spit and rinse. ‘I said I was fine,’ she grumbled. ‘I specifically said, “Don’t come over.”’
‘Then you weren’t at home all evening,’ Yana called from the front room. ‘And you haven’t tidied up for what, a week?’
‘I’ve been really busy at work.’ She ran another towel over her wet hair, and walked into the main room. Her mother had opened the blinds and a window.
‘Is a good day, sunny,’ her mother mused, squinting down the Esplanade, her accent more vivid than usual. She turned to scrutinise Sage, looking down at her belly, prominent in her pyjamas. ‘You look well. Fat.’
‘I am well, really. The placenta is a little low, that’s all. I’m going to have another scan next month.’ Sage cleared the blanket and a handful of sweet wrappers off the sofa. ‘Sit down. You must have left home at dawn.’ She smiled, a little lopsidedly. ‘I really am pleased to see you.’
Yana draped her coat over a chair and hugged her again. ‘Of course you are.’
‘But I have to work today.’
Yana waved her words away. ‘I have plenty to do. Maybe I’ll clean up a bit here. I have some friends to see – you remember Mary Ellis? We’re meeting in Newport for lunch. Can I borrow car?’
‘Of course, I’m
using the van. But, Mum, I’ll tidy up when I get home—’
‘Shush. I don’t mind doing a bit of cleaning, kill time until I run into town.’
Sage knew Yana would do her own thing anyway, so went into the bedroom to get dressed. The rainy weather had given way to a cool sunshine, so she chose a few layers. When she came out, Yana was already cooking something. ‘Mum, I’m in a hurry—’
‘Well, my grandchild wants oatmeal porridge cooked by his apa, and it won’t kill you, either.’
‘Yes, Sheshe.’ Sage sat at the table and Yana smiled down at her.
‘So, this placenta, they say how bad?’
‘Just borderline. If I go full term, it might be right out the way. I’ve just got to let them know if I start bleeding.’ Yana put the porridge in front of her, and added the sugar pot and a spoon. ‘I would have anyway.’ The porridge was creamy and rich, and the first mouthful made her feel hungry for the rest.
‘Well, that’s OK then. You don’t mind if I stay a couple of days? Catch up with friends.’
Sage was absorbed in blowing on each spoonful of porridge, then she remembered something. ‘Sure. I think I might have met one of them, actually. Kate Jordan, she’s a local historian in Banstock. She says she knows you.’
‘Ah. Kate.’ Yana’s voice dropped lower. ‘I remember her. Of course. This is tiny island, full of stories. Your man, he’s married, yes?’
‘He’s my ex, Mum, but yes. He’s married.’
‘His wife, does she know?’
Sage considered. Marcus thought not, but it seemed impossible that Fliss wouldn’t suspect. ‘I don’t know. They live in Fishbourne, so maybe she doesn’t.’
‘Years ago, I met friend at Women’s Institute, when I give talk about herbal medicine. Caroline, remember?’ Sage had been just finishing primary school, but vaguely remembered Yana going off with her to events that didn’t interest her father.
‘I remember – wasn’t she one of the gardeners at Osborne House or something?’ Yana nodded, and waited. She folded her hands in her lap as Sage frowned.
The penny dropped with a thud, right into the pit of her stomach. ‘You mean, Caroline was more than just a friend?’
Yana shrugged. ‘We were lovers, yes, two years. Your father, he was glad I found a friend who loved plants like me, but then it turned into this big thing. Love thing. And Kate Jordan, she found out.’
‘Oh.’
‘She told Caroline’s husband. She was husband’s sister.’
The worst thing about living on an island, everyone knew everything, sooner or later. Gossip spread like the flu. Sage finished the porridge. ‘Oh. No wonder she was a bit… standoffish at first.’ She stood up. ‘Mum, I really have to go, I’m so late. The car keys are in the top drawer by the door.’
‘I know, I know. See you tonight.’
Sage stopped long enough to hug her again. ‘I’m glad you came. Enjoy your lunch with your friend.’
* * *
Elliott and Steph were already at work at Bramble Cottage, the spoil pile going down and the sieved sediments pile going up. Rob Greenway, who had excavated the well, had promised to return to fill it in again over the next week. The two students had an air of urgency as if they knew they wouldn’t get all the spoil processed. Sage eyed the quiet Elliott and lowered her voice. ‘What’s wrong with him? He’s very quiet.’
Steph smiled, and glanced over at him. ‘Hopefully he’s trying to work up the courage to ask me out.’
‘Oh.’ Sage studied him. Elliott had seemed so absorbed in his work she hadn’t noticed any hint of him flirting with Steph. She noticed how tired he looked; even at his young age, combining studies and full-time site work was probably a bit much. She should have insisted he take more time off. But then, for the last couple of weeks her attention had been stretched thin.
She turned back to Steph. ‘Look, I was going to investigate a memorial to someone who went missing around the right time as our lady in the well. Fancy a stroll?’
‘I do, actually.’ Steph replaced the cover of the box containing pottery fragments. ‘Let me get my rucksack.’
Nick had explained that the road by the churchyard had been widened, and a few eighteenth-century headstones and a replica of a Tudor memorial had been moved to the new village cemetery. The memorial was prominent, and village fundraising had been matched by a government grant to move it to the larger site. They walked in the bright spring sunshine along roads edged with celandine and daffodil verges. The baby moved lazily, as if he or she was getting more cramped.
‘You’re getting big really fast.’ Steph’s gaze was curious.
‘This is the stage where the baby grows rapidly.’ Sage rubbed her side, where an elbow or knee had grazed. ‘I’m getting quite used to it, now. It’s going to be strange when the baby’s gone.’
‘But then he’ll be out. Or she.’ Steph crossed the road towards the cemetery. ‘I really admire you. I mean, you’ve got a senior job in archaeology and you’re having a baby by yourself.’
Sage couldn’t help a laugh that sounded a bit mocking when it came out. ‘I wish it was that easy. Right now I’d love a husband to take some of the strain.’ She glanced at Steph. ‘How did you and Elliott get on with the pottery? I didn’t mean to leave you all day yesterday.’
‘We got loads done. Oh, I meant to tell you. Someone was snooping around the back garden, a man in a suit. I wondered if an estate agent was looking around, hoping they would sell the cottage. I sent him packing, what a ghoul.’
‘What did he look like? Good-looking, dark blond, designer stubble?’
‘I suppose so. Forties, big smile, like it wasn’t in the worst taste checking out the house before Mr Bassett even dies.’
The worst possible taste. Ghoul. Definitely Marcus. Sage pushed the thought away. After all, he had already seen the house – he sold it to the Bassetts.
Steph pushed open the gate to the cemetery and Sage walked in. It was a shortcut between the school and the shops, and the neat rows of graves were well tended, many of them decorated with flowers.
Maybe Marcus was looking for me. Maybe he was worried about the baby after all.
‘Mrs Bassett’s already thinking of selling.’ Sage stopped walking halfway down the path. ‘This must be the newest bit. Where’s the memorial?’
Steph turned around, scanning the graveyard, then pointed to the far corner. ‘Those gravestones look older. And that must be the memorial.’
They walked up to the squat obelisk, maybe six feet tall, crafted out of limestone blocks and set on a brick plinth. One face was carved with words, difficult to read. Sage squinted at them. ‘It’s very worn – this looks like rainwater damage. Acid rain dissolves the surface.’
Steph pulled out her phone and started snapping. Then she reached into her rucksack. ‘I did come prepared. I thought I might record some of the Banstock headstone inscriptions from the 1580s, but the earliest ones in the churchyard are much later.’ She laid a piece of tracing paper over the stone. ‘I’ll hold it, you scribble,’ she said, holding out a crayon with her free hand.
‘Gravestones in churchyards became more common in the 1600s. This takes me straight back to primary school,’ Sage said, gently rubbing the surface, releasing the smell of the smooth wax. It worked. With a little more pressure, incised edges of the carving caught the crayon. She remembered something from brass rubbings, and peeled the wrapper off the crayon, offering the long edge to the inscription.
The words crept out of the stone onto the paper.
In memory of Agness Waldren, sister to the Revd. Matthew Waldren, rector of this parish.
‘Wow.’ Steph held the paper up to the light. ‘There’s more below, shall we try that?’
Sage started rubbing the next piece of paper, bending awkwardly to vary the direction of the crayon. It took longer to decipher the smaller words, but they told a story.
Said Agness disappeared in her thirty-eighth year, in a great storm 13th day of N
ovember, 1580, swept away by the sea or otherwise taken to the Lord. Requiescat in pace.
Steph carefully folded the paper. ‘That could be her, the woman in the well. If she didn’t end up being “swept away” like they thought.’
Sage gazed across the cemetery. Each rectangular plot held another body – for a moment, she was overwhelmed by the scale of it all. She, her baby, the baby’s grandchildren – all destined to rot away. What had taken Agness? Suicide, plague, murder, the storm?
‘What do you think?’ asked Steph.
‘Sorry. Miles away. I don’t know. It’s all a bit circumstantial, and we can’t narrow the date down enough to be sure.’ She managed to smile. ‘So, do you think Elliott is going to ask you out?’
‘I don’t think he will, somehow. Though I caught him taking a picture of you and me back at the cottage, so I thought he might be interested.’
Sage looked at Steph, who had a rueful expression. ‘That sounds promising.’
‘Except he wouldn’t show me any of the pictures he took.’
Sage started walking back to the gate. ‘What will you say if he does ask you out?’
‘Ha. What will you say to the vicar?’ Steph grinned.
Sage laughed in shock. ‘What makes you say that? Anyway, he’s only just lost his wife.’
Steph followed her down the path. ‘I’m not blind.’ She swung open the gate for Sage. ‘He can’t take his eyes off you.’
32
23rd September 1580
Physic for Lady Flora two shillings and four pence
Accounts of Banstock Manor, 1576–1582
Lady Flora was racked with agues and tremors all night, her groans keeping us all awake. She called for the midwife and for Agness, whose piety and prayers comfort her more than the physics given to her by the wise woman. I did not call for the rector’s sister at first, lest she be mad or worse. By morning, the lady was convinced she was close to death, and we dared not refuse her. Mistress Waldren arrived in good time and calmed the lady greatly, who then voided much matter and was relieved of her griping bowels.
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