‘Knowing that you can’t afford to pay,’ he observed, drumming the table with his nails. ‘So, have you contested the new rent?’
Kate shook her head dolefully. ‘What good would have come of it? Besides, there was little enough time to go traipsing up to the guildhall during shearing. Samuel Grafton is set on selling this land. That one has more than his share of gambling debts. Clarke made no bones about it, I am a thorn in Samuel’s side, he said, Devil take him.’
He leaned back in his chair, fists clenched and pressed together. After a moment his stern features stretched into a grim smile and he said quietly, ‘Yes, indeed.’
He stood, the only quiet figure, in a cursing, swearing crowd, drawn to the cockpit behind the Buck and Bowstring by a series of bills advertising the event. He surveyed the assembly of gamblers critically. It was the usual motley gathering of work-soiled craftsmen, grubby apprentices, a smattering of gentry trading their midday repast for a taste of blood. Bets had been laid and recorded on slate in chalky scrawl. Bodies were surging, all eyes fixed on the trestle table below, where the one-eyed black champion was painting crimson streaks across the throat of his speckled opponent.
‘Gritty old bugger, I’ll say that much for him,’ hissed a voice close to his ear. ‘Though I dare say you’ve put your crown on Black Jack, eh?’
He shot the companionable punter a cursory glance, taking in the Grafton livery and crooked grin, then returned to the warring cocks. ‘I’ll wager you never backed a dunghill brood, gritty or not.’
The punter snorted agreeably. ‘Not me‒’
The clamour of the crowd rose to fever pitch. Amid a fluster of downy feathers, Black Jack – straddled across the speckled’s still darting head – his razor-sharp bill plunging and tearing, was spraying ring-siders with blood. Black Jack caught and bagged, was declared the victor. The crowd roared its satisfaction.
‘Black-hearted demon,’ spat the punter, rubbing his hands gleefully. ‘Well,’ he sighed, pulling on his gloves, ‘no rest for the wicked. Messages to be delivered, horses to be fed. Just have to collect my winnings next time.’
‘A shilling says you can’t secure us a table and a pot of ale at the Buck before that fair establishment is overrun,’ he said with a wry smile.
The punter checked, pulled off his gloves and winked. ‘That, sir, is a fair wager.’
The Familiar ...
In the amber light of a September evening, Samuel Grafton’s groom rode over to Kate’s smallholding. Finding the cottage empty, he remounted and went in search of the folds. Beyond the copse and across the brook to Kingsmead, according to the gentleman’s directions.
Emerging from the copse, he coaxed his horse up a sharp hillside to the hurdle enclosure on higher ground. The nearest ewes eyed his approach with suspicion, before bolting from the edge of the fold. Kate, who was securing the gate hurdle on the far side of the fold, looked up.
‘Are you Mistress Gurney?’ he called, skirting the enclosure.
Kate shielded her eyes against the last of the sun’s light. ‘I am,’ she said sharply. ‘Who wants me at this late hour?’
He reined his horse in close to her and, with obvious reluctance, removed his hat and dismounted. The witch’s brat, they called her – tarred, it was said, with the same brush as her mother. He had imagined her to be one of those malicious looking hags he had seen in the pamphlets. It confused him to find that she was a comely enough wench with no aversion to staring him straight in the eye.
Though he had been working as a stable lad in another county at the time of the execution of Elizabeth Gurney, the details of her crime had reached him. It had kept tongues wagging for weeks; how she had put the Evil Eye on a merchant called Laurence Tyler because he had gone to another weaver for the cloth which she had previously supplied. They said that she had fashioned an image of him; that she had put the effigy in a glove stolen from Tyler and having burnt the lot in the kitchen grate, fed the ashes to her sow. Shortly after, Tyler had died of a raging fever. He shuddered mentally. Given a choice he would not have come within a mile of this place or this woman.
‘William Kerry, head-groom to the Grafton family ...’ he grunted, adding hastily, ‘though it’s not as such I’ve come here.’
‘What is your business then, William Kerry?’ she prompted impatiently. She scolded Jack who sat, hackles raised and growling, between his mistress and the stranger.
‘I was told that you had a way with ailing creatures. A gentleman I met at the pit, name of Marsden, recommended you.’
‘Marsden?’ she queried. ‘I know no-one of that name-‘
He cleared his throat uncomfortably. ‘This gentleman said you had common blood.’
Suddenly she understood. The knife, the crushing embrace. It was him, she knew it had to be him. And now there was a name. Marsden.
Kerry backed away.
‘Wait,’ she said quickly, ‘I must be weary to have forgotten kinsman Marsden. That’s who it will be. Sent you here, did he?’
He nodded stiffly. ‘Be obliged if you’d come up to the manor to cast an eye over the master’s horse,’ he grunted. ‘There’s a half-crown in it for you.’
‘If it’s lame you’d better fetch the horse-surgeon,’ she said doubtfully.
‘He’s away in London, same as Master Samuel and his family,’ he grunted. ‘Now, will you come or not?’
Kate shrugged. ‘It’s a long walk up to Apescross.’
William Kerry folded his hands across the pommel of his saddle and sighed. It had gone against his better judgement to come at all. Comely she might be, but she still sent a shiver up his spine and now he was forced to share a saddle with the woman. Why he had ridden the master’s favourite hunter back from the Buck, sotted with ale, he would never know. Ridden it half to death, he had, and in the dark. Next morning he had come to on a bale of straw next to Prince Rupert, cannon fire in his head, the Prince’s hoof swollen obscenely. None of the usual poultices had worked and now the wretched horse had gone off his fodder. It could not have gone worse what with the family expected back from London any day.
He watched irritably as she threw a woollen shawl around her shoulders and fastened it in her belt. Then pulled himself into the saddle and stretched out his hand to lift her up behind.
Later, while Kerry went in search of a lantern, Kate stood alone in the stableyard, gazing up at the reflected glow of the setting sun in the window glass of Apescross Manor. The air was still save for the restive whinnying of the horses and from somewhere in the house, the sound of a girl’s laughter.
More than once during the journey, she had been on the verge of asking Kerry to take her back to the cottage. What earthly use was it her looking at a valuable horse? All she knew was sheep. To attempt a cure was to take responsibility for the animal. And it would surely have to be in a bad way for the groom to have resorted to seeking help from her.
But as she stood in the cobbled yard, she felt calm again. He had suggested she come. That was enough.
As she gazed, the reflection from a window on the second floor of the house vanished. In the dark opening she could just make out the outline of a person standing at the window.
‘What are you doing there?’ It was the voice of a young woman, by her demanding tone, a lady of the house.
Kate stayed quite still. Kerry had sworn her to secrecy, now this woman threatened to alert the whole household.
The question was repeated, this time with indignation. Somewhere a dog began to bark. Kate guessed there were twenty paces between her and the stableyard gate. She tensed herself, ready for flight then, to her relief, Kerry rushed back with the lantern and hurried her towards the Prince’s stable.
‘Ah-ha!’ exclaimed the voice from the house. ‘So, Will has a sweetheart.’ Chuckles echoed around the yard. Kerry swore under his breath. He bundled Kate inside, then turned to scan the shadowy building. ‘Beware the clap,’ hissed the voice.
‘I will if you will, Miss Barbara,’ he
muttered. With exaggerated movements he pressed a finger to his lips and bowed away into the stable. Once inside, he pointed Kate towards the injured animal, then threw the bolt.
Kate found the Prince lying listlessly in the corner of the stable furthest from the door. He was a well-proportioned horse, but his chestnut coat glistened with sweat in the lamp-light and his breath came in harsh snorts. A poultice had been strapped to the pastern of his swollen right front leg, giving it the appearance of a large white boot. She touched it gently and the horse twitched away with a snort of protest.
Instructing Kerry to hold him, she quickly cut away the poultice and inspected the swollen flesh and hoof. The inner hoof had become convex with swelling and was very painful to the touch. Holding the lantern directly over the upturned hoof, she pored over it until she came to a small irregularity; a tiny pit in the throbbing surface. Without once taking her eyes off the tiny incurve, she lowered the lantern until Prince could bear its heat no closer. Though the tissue had swollen almost completely over it, she noticed a minute flicker in the hole; a reflection of the lamp-light as she moved it back and forth.
‘There’s something bedded in the hoof,’ she murmured. ‘It will have to come out before it festers.’
The groom wiped his brow and nodded.
She said briskly, ‘I’ll need pincers, hot water and another pair of hands to hold him.’
She watched him go, then exhausted, too tired even to stand, eased herself down between Prince and the stable wall, and yielded to sleep.
Minutes later, she was jolted awake by footsteps and a voice with a familiar lilt.
‘A gambling man like you, Will?’ said the newcomer, with a derisory laugh. ‘Come, let the woman do her bit, what harm can come of it?’
Kate scrambled to her feet and stared at the starched white collar and the stylish cut of his black coat. ‘Kinsman Marsden,’ she said, dry-mouthed.
‘Ah, Mistress Gurney,’ he greeted expansively. ‘Come, show Master Kerry here that you can mend this poor creature. I’ve a crown resting on it.’ He raised an eyebrow expectantly, and began to unbutton his coat.
Swallowing hard, Kate pulled the shepherding knife and a small, flat tin from her pocket. She flicked the tin open and ground the blade against the worn oilstone inside, using extra force to steady her shaking hands.
Her thoughts raced. How did he come to be at the manor? That very morning he had taxed her about the Graftons as though he knew nothing about the family.
Dragging her mind back to the horse, she swilled the sharpened knife in the bowl of scalding water Kerry had brought. Then, as steadily as she could, she pared the tough flesh away from the incurve until the shiny tip of the hard object within, was well exposed.
The groom held the hind quarters, worry etched into his features. His livelihood she knew, depended on the survival of the horse.
She had her back to Marsden, who held the head, but she was keenly aware of his soft whispering and the effect this seemed to have on Prince.
The squealing, writhing horse had become quiet as a lamb; had not stirred, even when she cut into the inflamed flesh. She turned, fearing that fever had reached the brain, rendering the horse senseless. Instead she found him quite alert and relaxed under Marsden’s manipulative fingers.
Easing the pincers around the shiny head she clamped them tight and pulled firmly. Prince gasped and Kerry pressed himself across the trembling flanks to prevent sudden movement.
Kate’s eyes widened as a metal spike, the length of her thumb joint, emerged. Laying it aside, she applied thumb pressure to the open wound and cleaned away the blood and puss that oozed from it. Then smeared on it a layer of green ointment; a concoction she always carried against foot rot in the ewes.
‘To stop it festering,’ she said in answer to a quizzical stare from Kerry. ‘Tomorrow I’ll bathe it with feverfew to bring down the swelling.’
The groom picked up the spike and stared at it. ‘First thing I looked for,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘Even had Smithy Cobshaw’s lad come look at it. I’d have wagered there was nothing stuck in there.’ Running his hand over the horse’s side he scrutinized Kate for several seconds, then sighed. ‘Ah well, if it has done the trick‒’
Marsden snorted. ‘I didn’t take you for a churl,’ he said ironically. ‘I daresay Mistress Gurney has keener eyes than you.’
‘Ah,’ the groom agreed grudgingly, ‘that may be.’ He gave the horse an affectionate slap, then threw a blanket over it.
Marsden glanced at Kate, his eyes intensely conspiratorial. It was a look of deep familiarity and infinite knowing that warmed and filled her with longing. Then it passed and a sideways flick of his eyes commanded her to leave.
She washed her hands in what water remained and began to gather her things. She was pushing tins and knife into her pocket when the stable door was flung back. A young woman, tightly clutching a scarlet cloak around her, picked her way across the straw. The flame in her lamp guttered as she moved towards them.
‘So,’ cried the young woman, staring wide-eyed at Kate, ‘this is where you’ve disappeared to, Marsden.’
Kate looked at the dark ringlets and powdered cheeks. For all the paint it was a young face – no more than a girl. Too young to address him so carelessly, to shout taunts at a groom from a second-storey window. From Kerry’s earlier grumblings she supposed that this was Barbara Canard. Perhaps, after all, the tales she had heard about Grafton’s niece and ward, were not unfounded. Kate looked from the girl to Marsden, who was buttoning his coat with an affable smile.
‘Needed a pair of strong shoulders, miss,’ explained Kerry, rubbing his hand across the Prince’s shivering flank. ‘The old boy was in a sorry way, weren’t you my old beauty?’
‘What business does she have here?’ demanded the girl, casting Kate a withering glance. ‘Aunt Henrietta won’t be at all pleased to know that her guest had sloped off to some ménage-à-trois.’
Marsden snorted a laugh and folded his arm around Barbara’s shoulders. Kate alone saw the momentary flicker of his eyes – a dark shadow corrupting his genial features. A suggestion of moonlit woods and soundless terror.
He paused in the stable doorway and glanced from Kate to the groom. ‘Worth a crown of any man’s money, eh Kerry?’ He laughed and Barbara laughed with him, her eyes glazed with triumph. Kate turned away, her face burning with humiliation, and finished pushing her things into her pocket.
She heard the door swing idly shut and when Kerry asked if she would come again tomorrow, she could only bring herself to grunt a reply. Her attention was with the whispering beyond the flapping door, with the contempt in Barbara’s gurgling laughter as she and Marsden went off together towards the house.
Why, Kate cursed herself, why had she not realized it before? Starched collar ... tailored coat ... cultivated air; he belonged to the world of Barbara Canard. She did not. He had mastered her, had claimed her, but he would never belong to her as she did to him.
She waited until their voices faded away, then slipped quietly across the cobbles and away into the night.
He did not come to her that night.
Next morning, the sun rose behind a blanket of louring cloud. Rain lashed her face and flattened Jack’s fur against his wiry body as they stumbled up to check the ewes. Kate saw the trampled hurdle gate, even before Jack bounded towards it. She braced herself against a rainy gust, pressing her crook hard into the wet grass, and scanned the hillside.
A dozen or more ewes were sheltering up against the sides of the fold. She could only hope that the others had the sense to take to the copse and had not wandered on to her neighbour’s land. After a sleepless night, the thought of another confrontation with Tom Clarke was more than she could bear.
She lifted the broken gate from the muddy grass and tied it in place. The sky was an unrelenting grey; no sign of a break. And as she climbed back down to the copse, thunder rumbled across the hills.
It was past noon before she
reached Apescross. She had eventually found the ewes, scattered around the small wood. Many of them were caught in brambles. Three, she found stuck fast in the mud at the edge of the pond, bemoaning their luck. With the aid of Jack’s strict marshalling though, she had finally driven them all back to the fold and secured the gate with new posts.
She had stopped off at the cottage only to make an infusion of freshly picked feverfew. Then with a change of boots and stockings she set off on the Kingeswood low road.
The sun had at last broken through the cloud and Kate stopped to trace the arcs of a double rainbow. The vivid spectrum of colour weakened into spectral transparency and vanished into the yellow gorse on the next hill. The sight of Jack tearing up the hillside and bursting through the coloured bands, urged her on again.
When she reached the stableyard it was busy with men and horses. The Grafton coach, its gleaming black paintwork and crest spattered with wet mud stood inside the arched gateway. A liveried footman leaned against the kitchen door, indolently scraping his boots as he watched the grooms coaxing the horses away to their different stables. And through it all ran four noisy children, three girls and a boy, still wearing their travelling cloaks.
Hoping she might complete her business and be gone before her presence was noticed, Kate pulled Jack in close to her and skirted the yard, past the mildly curious footman, towards Prince Rupert’s stable. She was just passing the wrought-iron gateway before the stable she wanted, when a harassed matron flew through the opening knocking the bottle of ointment out of her hands.
‘Good gracious!’ declared the woman, straightening her mob-cap. ‘What on earth?’ She shook her head at Kate, then chased after one of the noisy children. Kate knelt down to retrieve the bottle, relieved to find that the thick green glass had weathered the impact. As she stood up, Kerry emerged from the stable. She moved towards the groom but a frantic gesture from him made her hold back. Just then Samuel Grafton, his features locked in a censorious scowl, marched out after Kerry.
The Witch (The Witch Trilogy Book 1) Page 3