A Baby's Bones

by Rebecca Alexander

  Viola would have gone forward, but I catch her arm, murmuring in what breath I can spare: ‘Wait, my child.’

  She nods, and leans against me. Agness and Solomon stare like fighting cats.

  ‘Your French whore is dead.’ Agness’s voice is strident, deep like a man’s, triumphant. ‘I have saved your child from her filthy body.’ She holds up a silent bundle to him. He glances at us, his face distorted with agony.

  ‘Master Vincent. Tell me: does she speak truth or lie?’

  I could not dissemble. ‘Mistress Isabeau lies slain. Her babe is gone from her belly.’

  ‘No!’ The man’s shout is harsh with his anguish, and Viola flinches in my arms. ‘You are a murderess! A monster!’

  Agness shook her head, cradling the bundle in her arms. ‘Nay, sir, it was a French witch that had you in her spell. See – your babe. We will raise him as our son.’ She reaches out with the bundle, as if to show him, but I hear no sounds from the infant, not even after all the shouting.

  Viola steps towards them and calls out; her young voice cuts like birdsong through the rough voices. ‘Let me see him, Mistress. Mayhap he is cold in this air. Let me warm him.’

  ‘You?’ the woman spits at Viola and the girl halts. ‘You think to wed a man like Solomon Seabourne? Back to your books and music, child. A man needs a woman and a babe a mother.’

  Seabourne has covered his face in his hands, but looks up at this. We behold Agness draw a dagger from her cloak with one bloodied hand, crushing the infant against her with the other. ‘You have no claim on him.’

  ‘Nor you, Mistress.’ Viola lifts her chin, ignores the knife, and walks forward. I make a grab for her arm, but her sleeve slides through my fingers.

  Solomon’s man Kelley steps from the shadow of the house. ‘Mistress, let us get the lamb within, by the fire.’

  Viola holds out her hand. ‘Yes, let us help the babe. It cannot be good for him to be in this cold, unswaddled, Mistress Agness. I will go into the house with him, then you and Master Seabourne can talk.’ Her young voice is pleading, and Agness glances down at the bundle, at once uncertain, perhaps.

  ‘He is pale,’ she muses.

  Solomon gathers himself, and says with his natural authority: ‘Give the child to Viola, Mistress, and Kelley shall take both indoors. And you may say what you wish to say to me.’

  ‘Solomon, my love.’ Such is the woman’s voice altered at this, I barely recognise it.

  While she is momentarily distracted, Viola reaches her, ignoring the wicked blade and its vile stains. She stands at her elbow like any woman admiring another’s child. I hold my breath for fear.

  ‘He is bonny,’ she says, in a gentle voice, like her mother’s. ‘But he looks pale and cold. Poor boy. Let me get him by the kitchen fire.’

  ‘Give the maid the child,’ I add, ‘and we will resolve this.’

  Agness turns upon me with a snarl, and great hatred contorts her features. ‘Give the child to her, the bastard child of a bastard?’ She spits at my feet, then. ‘You think the whole manor does not know that you are Viola’s true father?’

  Viola spins around, staring at me. ‘It is not true.’

  I answer loudly, ‘It is not true, though, God forgive me, I loved the lady truly. Nothing passed between us but words. Viola is my brother’s child, born in wedlock. Give her the babe. She will keep him well by the fire, Mistress Agness, and we will fetch the rector to your aid.’

  The woman hesitates, then kicks aside the wooden cover that lies over the old well. I gaze across the garden at Solomon, and see that he is not trying to cozen the woman, but walking closer to her.

  ‘Better he drowns than be given to her,’ says Agness, but I see uncertainty in her expression.

  Viola steps forward, her voice gentle. ‘Mistress, I have seen that I should not marry Master Solomon and I will break off my betrothal. But God will never forgive you if you harm that baby.’

  For a moment the woman hesitates. She unfolds the bloodstained cloth, an apron I realise, and I see the inside is wet with scarlet. The baby’s face is white, his eyes closed, his budded lips blue. A slash down his chin tells of some injury, perhaps gained when his mother was butchered.

  ‘He does not move,’ the woman wonders, and Viola reaches a hand towards him, though her fingers are shaking.

  ‘Come, Mistress,’ she offers, but the woman turns to me, meets my eyes over Viola’s shoulder, and her lips turn into a sneer.

  ‘If I cannot have his child, none will.’ She turns towards the well, and as I leap forward to grab Viola, Agness throws the child into its black mouth.

  My fingertips catch the back of Viola’s cloak as she screams and dives towards the edge, falling to her knees, sobbing something incoherent. Agness’s face is a mask of triumph.

  Viola falls half across the well’s mouth and I see her scrabble at the stone edge to brace herself, staring into its black depths. I stumble over to her, catching one arm, seeing deep below the white of the apron and its lost burden. I pull Viola towards the shelter of the hedge and cradle her as she sobs in my arms.

  I look up at Solomon. His finger is outstretched at Agness, who has stopped not a half-dozen steps from the well.

  ‘Master Vincent, get Viola away.’ His voice is strained, hoarse with his rage, his grief. ‘There is the witch. For she is possessed by the Devil. Who else would slaughter a babe, and a woman who has done her no wrong? You are the villain here, Mistress Agness!’

  The woman totters a step backwards. ‘But you smiled at me! That day, outside the church, upon your betrothal to the Lady Elizabeth.’

  ‘Perhaps I did smile at his lordship’s servants and tenants! For I was betrothed to a gentle girl and had not yet met Isabeau Duchamp.’

  ‘Solomon, my love!’ Agness cries, her words screeched.

  ‘No love, indifference.’ He steps closer to her and his hand shoots out to clamp her knife arm. ‘I did not know you existed.’

  ‘Master, no!’ Kelley darts closer and stands between the pair and the well, a brave move. ‘Do not compound one black murder with another.’

  ‘One murder? She has slaughtered both mother and child, and would no doubt take Viola as well.’ He shoulders Kelley aside, dragging the now silent Agness closer to the ring of stones.

  Viola shudders in my arms like a bird. ‘Go, Uncle,’ she whispers. ‘Do not let my husband be a murderer. Let Agness come to justice.’

  I watch Agness fight in Seabourne’s hands but every movement brings her closer to the edge, until it lies not two paces from her feet. She drops to her knees, somehow losing half a pace, and digs her fingers into the frozen grass.

  ‘Mercy!’ she cries.

  Seabourne stares down at her. ‘Mercy? What do you know of the word, madam? You have killed a fine woman and a helpless baby.’

  I stride towards the pair, holding one hand out to stop this, as Agness bends her head, her shoulders shaking. ‘I have loved you since the day I saw you, since we saw each other.’

  ‘I did not see you. You are no one to me.’ Seabourne’s words are harsh, but I see his hand waver.

  In a bound, she shakes him off. I stand between the madwoman and Viola as she screeches at me, pointing the knife at my chest. ‘You! You have done this – you brought the French witch here, you tried to marry Solomon to Banstock’s bastard—’ She stabs at me, as Solomon’s arms sweep her off her feet. The knife grazes my arm and she struggles wildly as he spins around. The circle of stones seem to reach for her faltering boots as she fights free of his arms. She falls backwards, screams once and then disappears into the blackness.

  Vincent Garland, Steward to Lord Banstock, His Memoir

  57

  Tuesday 23rd April

  Sage could see blue sky overhead. She could hear her own sobbing breath, and Chloe crying. She could feel some knot of pain in her belly, and smoothed it with one hand, dreading feeling a cut or blood. But there was no injury there, just the burning pain of her cut palm. There
was a wide hole where the well had been, a bowl shaped depression in the mud made as it collapsed.

  ‘He hurt my arm!’ Chloe wailed, crawling over to Sage, rubbing her small chest and wiping her face with her sleeve. ‘And the bad man fell down.’

  Sage became aware of Felix’s voice as if a radio had been turned up. ‘That’s right: Bramble Cottage on the High Street, Banstock. Yes, he’s been stabbed. No, no, I won’t. Hurry!’

  She glanced over at Nick, who lay unmoving, Felix kneeling over him. She pushed herself up with her good hand to kneel, then stood, shaking. She held out her uninjured hand to the crying child. ‘It’s all right, Chloe. Stay with me.’ Chloe huddled against her. She looked over the blonde head to Felix. ‘Is he…?’ Please, please let him not be dead.

  Nick’s eyes were open, and he was looking straight at her. Just when she’d convinced herself he was dead, he blinked, and managed to croak a word.

  ‘Sage?’

  She let go of Chloe and knelt beside him, her good hand cradling one of his. ‘Don’t die.’

  ‘The… the baby,’ he whispered.

  She glanced down at her bump, smudged with blood.

  ‘It’s fine, it was just a cut on my hand.’

  Felix looked at her belly, then looked down further. ‘Sage, you’re bleeding. Lie down.’ His voice had a quiet authority, even though panic had added an octave.

  Sage dropped a hand to a wet patch on her jeans, lifted bloodied fingers. Bean. She looked back at the terrified girl. ‘It’s all right, Chloe. Help is coming.’ She sat down, her limbs shaking.

  Chloe ran to her, hunched into her side. ‘I want my mummy!’ Sage realised Felix’s hands were bracing either side of the knife in Nick’s chest, applying pressure. She lay on her back, and the child cuddled against her side. She could feel slow surges of liquid pulsing out of her, feel the world become simpler. It became about in and out, breathing in the quiet air, feeling the cold rain spit on her face, watching clouds scud overhead. Nothing seemed real, just Nick, Bean.

  The paramedics arrived a few minutes later, and divided their attention between Nick and Sage. Then the police, some firemen testing the ground where the well had been with poles, and finally Judith and Pat. Judith didn’t speak, just scooped up Chloe and rocked her. The child’s crying slowed and stopped. Finally Judith put Chloe down, then crouched next to Sage as a paramedic took Sage’s pulse.

  ‘Are you OK? Oh, God, the baby.’

  ‘I think… I think I’m OK.’ Sage felt as if she was thinning, becoming transparent. Only Nick kept a part of her anchored. ‘Is Nick—?’

  ‘They’re working on him.’

  Suddenly the pain returned, gripping Sage’s belly, and a gush of hot fluid was forced out. Sage could feel rivulets of tears streaming from her eyes without the energy to sob. ‘Elliott tried to kill my baby.’

  * * *

  The next few moments seemed stretched apart, like knots in elastic. The siren of the ambulance in the dimmed interior, a voice speaking to someone else. The banging of doors as the trolley was pushed through. The pain of a needle ‘just a scratch’, squirming and burning into a vein in her arm, then peace came, with death, or sleep. She slowly emerged into sounds, lights, voices.

  ‘There you are.’ A woman’s face was suspended over Sage. ‘You’re going to be a bit dopey, you’ve had a lot of painkillers. But you are going to be fine, and your baby is doing well. He’s small but he’s strong, just premature.’ The woman smiled as Sage tried to untangle syllables that didn’t make sense. ‘It’s OK. Go back to sleep.’

  Sage felt herself relax. She did as she was told.

  * * *

  She woke in a quiet room, darkened but with a nightlight over the bed. A nurse was beside her.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You had to have an emergency section and a transfusion, but you’ll be fine, and your baby’s a little bruiser. NICU sent down a picture.’ Sage lifted a hand to take the proffered photograph, and was surprised to find the back of her hand stuck with tape and bearing a drip. The picture was fuzzy, printed out on an office printer, and hard to see in the low light, but the nurse turned on the reading lamp. The baby’s creased features burned into Sage’s brain like a laser, never to be erased. He looked like her, he looked like Marcus, damn it, he looked like Nick. He was a real baby, not Bean, not a bump, he was a tiny person. Suddenly her gut tightened with the thought that he was too young, too small. She turned her face to the nurse, but the woman pre-empted her.

  ‘He’s four pounds, two ounces, and very strong. He came out yelling, which is always a good sign. He’s going to need a few weeks to fatten up and get more independent, but he looks like he’s going to be fine.’

  ‘Nick.’ The word cut through her thoughts. ‘The man that was stabbed. Do you know—?’

  The woman’s face fell. ‘I don’t. But there’s a very nice policeman who wants to talk to you, and he probably does. He’ll be back in the morning. Is Nick the baby’s dad?’

  ‘No. He’s…’ Words faded away. Sage held the picture, and her life came back into focus. ‘Can I have a phone?’

  ‘Who are you going to call? It’s four thirty in the morning.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘I’ll be back before I go off shift, and I’ll help you call whoever it is that’s so important. OK?’

  She was as good as her word, helping Sage call Felix just after seven.

  ‘Sage?’

  ‘Is Nick—’ the breath ran out.

  ‘He’s doing well. He had to have the knife removed in surgery, and his lung collapsed, but he’s going to be fine. The baby?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him yet, but they say he’s OK. They gave me a picture.’ She could hear the sigh at his end.

  ‘I tried to explain to the police about Elliott,’ he said. ‘I said he accidentally fell down the well while in a psychotic state, trying to kill you. I’m afraid he’s dead, Sage. The well caved on him.’

  She settled back into her pillow. ‘I didn’t even think about him. He killed Steph.’ She swallowed. ‘Is his body out of the well?’

  Felix fell silent for a minute. ‘I don’t know. I expect so, by now. Can I come and see you? The police are keeping me on the Island for a few days as a witness.’

  ‘Try and see Nick first, OK?’

  They rang off and Sage tried to shift up in the bed, a burning pinch across her groin reminding her of the incision from the caesarean. The nurse took the phone from her and put a blood pressure cuff on her arm. ‘Was that the father?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ Sage suddenly felt a bubble of laughter float up at the idea. ‘No, the father is someone else.’

  The cuff squeezed Sage’s arm for a long moment. ‘Your blood pressure’s still a bit low. You lost a lot of blood yesterday.’

  ‘I don’t feel too bad.’ Sage moved her shoulders, feeling the stiff muscles and a sharp pain in her neck. She looked at the skin on the inside of her wrist, where Elliott had hung on. It was purple and red with bruises and cuts. ‘Actually, I don’t feel great. I ache like I’ve been in a fight.’

  The nurse smiled. ‘The police will be back shortly. I diverted them with the promise of toast, but only while I checked you over. Can I just have a quick look at your tummy?’ She folded the sheet down, and skimmed up the surgical gown Sage was wearing. Sage looked down at her puffy, half-deflated stomach. Above the surgical dressing her belly was covered with bruises and abrasions, red splotches as if blood had been drawn almost through the skin.

  ‘Ow,’ she whispered. The nightmare of yesterday came into focus. Elliott grabbing her arm, dragging her across the ground, Felix catching her around the waist.

  ‘They did say you were bruised.’ The nurse half laughed. ‘You can rest now, get better.’ She tucked the sheets in protectively. ‘Here come the police. I’ll give them ten minutes, then you really need to sleep before we take you downstairs to see your baby.’

  The policeman that came in was a stranger, with an older fe
male officer, but Sage hardly registered them beside the woman who barged between them.

  ‘Sheshe!’

  58

  16th December 1580

  There will be no funeral for Agness, for none else know she is dead. Solomon, Kelley, Viola and I stand over the well and agree that it would serve none to tell the dreadful tale. Instead, we will say the storm snatched her to her death. The babe, well, it had been unborn and as Solomon says, a papist’s child might as well lie near its father than be rejected from Banstock’s graveyard. Only Viola begs to have the child buried with its mother, but none of us has the stomach to go into that hellish hole and retrieve the bodies.

  Seabourne cannot meet Viola’s eyes, and turns to me instead. ‘Master Vincent, Isabeau. Where is her body? I must… see to her.’

  Viola steps forward, her body still shaking but her voice calm. ‘Isabeau is in the spinney, I will take you to her. She deserves a Christian burial.’

  ‘She was a Catholic. She will be denied her place in the churchyard.’

  Viola speaks with the tone of an older woman. ‘Then she shall be buried where she died, with the prayers and blessings of a minister.’

  Perhaps some motherly tone touches Solomon, for tears come and he looks hardly older than Viola. She reaches for him and supports him, while I send a white-faced Kelley to fetch the rector and the sexton from the church, and to send Allen Montaigne to fetch my brother.

  When we reach it, the body is frozen to the ground by the blood that has seeped underneath. The rector is distraught when he arrives, I believe at the fear that his sister may have been involved. The sexton is puzzled by the terrible injuries, even though I had pulled her gown together to hide the worst of the wounds.

  ‘Reverend Matthew,’ I begin. ‘Perhaps if we were to take the body to Well House, which is closest, we could confer about the poor girl’s burial.’