by Deryn Lake
‘Absolve me of guilt,’ he said, ‘the future is better thus. God grant that Oriel — and Marcus — find peace.’
Then he rose up and went on his way to offer public prayer, not only for all those that had gone but for everyone left behind to suffer.
Part Two — The Magic Valley
Eighteen
From the slopes beneath Baynden a figure could be seen walking towards the house, swinging a basket on its arm, and singing. It was tall, bony, and from a distance not recognisable as that of man or woman. But then, as it suddenly moved its head, the thick dark hair that fell to its waist revealed that it was a young female who strode up the hill, her black skirt tucked up that she might walk more freely and her long fingers snatching at the early spring flowers and placing them in her basket.
As the girl drew level with the house she waved but when nobody responded did not halt her progress, merely passing by and taking the track that led up towards Maighfield. She began to slow her pace slightly as the incline grew acute but still went steadily on, not pausing to gossip with the woman who called, ‘Good day, Jenna,’ who stood, rocking a baby, outside one of the few cottages that straggled beyond the confines of the village.
Eventually, breathing faster, the girl reached the top of the steep hill that led to the village street, and paused for a moment looking about. Before her the broad track that ran through the centre of the village stretched away; the fine house built for Sir Thomas Gresham thirty-four years earlier, in 1575, by far the most imposing dwelling, other than Maighfield Palace itself, which lay back from the track in its own grounds.
It was through the archway in the palace gatehouse that Jenna now went, making her way round the side of the great building towards the kitchens. There was a morning smell everywhere; freshly baked bread combining with the raw sharpness of newly killed meat and the salty tang of fish, brought to the steward for his approval. Going inside, Jenna picked up a sharp knife and began to attack the mound of vegetables that lay on the wooden trestle before her. Instantly the atmosphere of the kitchens consumed her and she was happy.
She had always felt like that about the palace, her earliest recollection being of sitting upon her father’s shoulders and tilting her head back to see the shadow cast by the arch of the gatehouse as he walked beneath it. After that she could recall her burst of intense emotion as she had cast her eyes for the first time upon the graceful stone walls and flowing lines of what had once been the palace of the archbishops of Canterbury. She had never been able to explain it then or since; the great feeling of oneness with the building.
It had been something of a family joke and they had laughed about it and other strange ways of Jenna’s until her mother, on her death-bed, had whispered to Jenna’s father, ‘Do not repeat what the girl says. Remember Alice.’ And this mention of his aunt had silenced Daniel Casselowe from then on.
Jenna had often been told how her father, as a little boy, had stood with the other villagers on the dusty track and watched the queen arrive at the palace to visit its owner, her courtier Thomas Gresham. How he had shouted and cheered as the glittering figure — tall, with pearl-decked red hair in startling contrast to her pale enamelled face — had turned to look at her humble subjects of Maighfield. Daniel had always sworn that the queen’s deep blue eyes had singled him out and that he had seen in their depths the fierceness and fanaticism that had let her rule England so powerfully for so long. But now the glorious creature was gone and King James had come from Scotland and had occupied the throne of England for the last six years.
A noise of crashing kitchen irons broke the train of Jenna’s thoughts — of a great queen sleeping in a chamber which had once been the private domain of celibate archbishops — and she ran to help the hapless girl kneeling on the stone floor, picking up the scattered implements.
‘You’ve broken the jointed stool by dropping the great pan on it,’ said the master cook accusingly. ‘I’ve a mind to thrash you.’
But another voice spoke up saying, ‘Benjamin Mist is in the palace mending one of my lady’s chairs. Take it to him before he leaves.’
At the very mention of the name, Jenna’s hand began to shake and her heart quickened its beat. Her cheeks went bright and she bent her head forward over the floor, pretending it was the effort that made her suddenly colour. Even to be under the same roof as the carpenter was enough to arouse emotions in her that were too disturbing to contemplate, for Jenna could not remember a time when she had not been in love with Benjamin Mist.
Even as a child she had been drawn to him and then when womanhood had come upon her some years later she had realised that she was frantically in love. So frantically that a wild and unpredictable streak in her nature had flared when he had escorted Debora Weston to the fair, and she had lain in wait for the girl and thrown her bodily into the stream that ran by Cokyngs Mill.
The incident had not been serious, Debora suffering no more than a chill and Jenna, Daniel’s belt, but from then on Benjamin had grown distant. His dreamy eyes had hardened whenever Jenna had come near and she had, on several occasions, seen him deliberately side-step rather than have to speak to her.
Now she said, too eagerly, ‘Shall I take it to him to be sure he gets it? Where is he working?’
‘In the stables. But don’t waste time talking. There’s a great deal to do and my lady will be furious if all is not ready when Sir Thomas comes home.’
‘I’ll only be a moment,’ said Jenna, snatching up the broken stool and hastening into the courtyard before the cook could change his mind.
The early morning freshness had gone and now the bright spring sun was turning the old walls from stone to rose. Pennants of smoke ascended from the family apartments towards the fluffy clouds that chased one another across the mazarine March sky. Jenna paused for a moment, listening carefully. From the far stable came the steady tapping of a hammer, and even knowing that the noise had been made by Benjamin Mist was enough to set her heart pounding again, and make her palms go moist. Jenna walked steadily enough though, pausing in the stable doorway to watch him unobserved.
Benjamin was on his knees by Lady May’s farthingale chair, which lay in three separate pieces before him, his back turned, so that he was completely unaware of Jenna’s presence. She remained where she was, relishing the moment, admiring his small capable hands, the wiry frame, the delicious way in which his hair — the warm bright brown of a Spanish nutmeg — curled about his neck.
She felt such a sudden rush of love that she let out a cry, and Benjamin glanced up. Just for a moment, before he had had time to register who it was, she saw a welcoming look in his blue eyes, then they clouded over.
‘Oh, it’s you, Jenna,’ he said.
‘Yes.’ She felt herself flushing awkwardly and could just picture herself, tall and bony, her black hair falling forward over her eyes, and her skin the colour of beets. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, Benjamin. It is just that this stool has broken and the master cook wondered if you could mend it.’
He stood up, brushing his hands against his breeches. ‘Let me look.’
She advanced towards him and handed him the stool, only too cruelly aware that her unusual tallness must make her seem like a giant to a man of only average height.
‘Oh yes, I can easily repair this,’ he said, turning the splintered wood in his fingers.
She hesitated, knowing that the carpenter was regarding her in a dismissive manner, but determined to remain where she was. ‘My father remarked only the other day that he had not seen you for an age. He wondered if you might like to come and sup with us.’
Benjamin paused, and if she had not cared for him so much Jenna would have been angry that anyone should waver over an invitation from Daniel.
‘Yes,’ he said eventually, ‘thank Daniel from me. I will come soon.’
‘Tomorrow?’ Jenna answered, refusing to be put off. ‘Or the next day? Which?’
‘The next.’
‘Then we sha
ll expect you.’
‘Yes,’ he said. He turned away, ‘Farewell Jenna.’
She ran back to the kitchens without daring to look over her shoulder, afraid that Benjamin might call out to her that he had changed his mind. But once inside the high-ceilinged room, now full of delicious smells — the great rotating joints mixed with the comforting aroma of pastry and fresh quivering custards — her confidence returned.
The girl who had broken the stool looked at her slyly. ‘Did Benjamin say he could mend it?’
Jenna remained blank, lost in her thoughts.
‘Benjamin. Your friend. Did he think the stool could be mended?’
‘Oh ... yes. I have given it to him.’
‘They say he’ll be taking a wife soon.’
‘What?’ Jenna turned an expression of such horror on the girl that her companion laughed.
‘My sister saw him walking in Byvelham Woods with Debora Weston. She said they were kissing one another.’
‘Lucy, are you saying this to annoy me?’
The girl’s face softened. ‘No, it’s true enough. I think he has always had a fancy for her. Jenna, if you want him you will have to act fast.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘That you will have to snatch Benjamin away from her.’
‘But how can I do that?’
‘Surely there must be ways?’ Lucy lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘Couldn’t you witch him?’
‘Don’t even say it. You know the penalties as well as I do.’
‘Aye, but with your great aunt being that way I thought they might not find you out.’
Jenna looked away. ‘My aunt died in gaol for her sins. I have no mind to follow her.’
‘Then you will have to think of something else. Otherwise you’ll lose him to the sweetest little meat of them all.’
‘Is that how men talk of her?’
‘Aye. My brothers say she looks good enough to eat.’
Jenna pulled a face. ‘Don’t! I wish the horrid creature at the bottom of a pit.’
Lucy chuckled. ‘Perhaps you could witch her too.’
‘Oh stop it,’ said Jenna, hiding the solitary tear that had begun to trickle down her nose.
*
Having finished his work at the palace, Benjamin Mist carefully placed in a bag those pieces of wood that he needed to take home with him and walked briskly out through the arch of the gatehouse, pausing for a moment to look about.
To his right lay the cottages that stood close to Maighfield’s main track, while on his left a well-trodden path went steeply downhill, passing a few dwellings, on its way to Cokyngs Mill. Benjamin frowned with indecision. If he called on Debora Weston without previous arrangement, might he be given supper? Or, as his stomach was rumbling furiously, would it be better to go home and eat first? Deciding that a meal was a small sacrifice to make for love, Benjamin finally shouldered his carpenter’s bag and took the track to the left.
Behind him lay the descending sun, while the sky was luminous, a pinkness merging with the deepening blue. Every bird seemed to be giving full throat as above Benjamin’s head a thrush suddenly began a strange and exotic chant to the day’s end. From the slopes above the river a sweet, clean wind carried in it the scent of wild flowers. It was an evening that held in its heart the sweet essence of spring, and, there, ahead of him, he could see Debora Weston running up the path to meet him.
She was as pretty as a snowdrop and as delicate: tiny in both height and figure with a mass of golden hair, while her eyes were the colour of spring violets. The whole impression was flowerlike even down to the petal fairness of her skin.
As she came nearer, Benjamin took both her hands in his, pulling her close to him. But the sound of her mother’s voice from the cottage doorway interrupted them. ‘Debora, who’s there? Is it Benjamin?’ and Goodwife Weston darted into view, a little dark, shrewish woman, quite the opposite of her delicate daughter.
Benjamin gave a polite salute and she smiled broadly, her face wrinkling into what seemed a thousand lines, her blackberry eyes gleaming. They stood for a moment smiling at one another: she thinking what a good catch Benjamin Mist would be, with his own cottage inherited from his father; he, remembering the old saying that girls grow like their mothers with the passing years, and wondering if it would happen to Debora.
But, undeterred, he whispered to the girl as her mother disappeared indoors. ‘You are sure you want to marry me?’
Debora’s face changed. ‘You know I do. But there is someone who will want to kill me for it.’
‘What do you mean? Who?’
‘That evil Jenna Casselowe. She was so jealous when you took me to the fair she pushed me into the river.’
‘I know. I’ve despised her ever since.’
‘I think she has a passion for you, Benjamin. I hope she will do nothing to get her revenge.’
‘How could she?’
‘Her great aunt was a witch and died in gaol.’
‘But that does not mean Jenna takes after her.’
‘My mother says it runs in families, like madness. Oh Benjamin, I feel so afraid.’
He put his hands firmly on her shoulders. ‘You can leave Jenna Casselowe to me. She will not dare lay a finger on you.’
‘But are you not terrified of her?’
‘Of that great horse?’ answered Benjamin angrily. ‘Why, she is nothing but a joke. She wouldn’t be capable of bewitching a mouse.’
‘I am not so sure,’ answered Debora slowly, as hand in hand they went in to supper.
Nineteen
Crouching so that she would not hit her head on the bedroom beams, Jenna Casselowe stared solemnly into the mirror, given her by Lady May, her finger tracing the bones of her countenance as if feeling them for the very first time. An unusual face looked back: long and angular with high arched cheeks and slanting green-gold eyes, surrounded by a mass of heavy black hair, silken and straight as a rod.
The hand that reached for the crude hairbrush was also bony. Yet, in its way, it too was beautiful, the fingers long and delicate and at the same time strong and capable. In fact the person who now left the mirror and crossed to her truckle bed was unquestionably striking, the kind of woman that a man of perception would be unable to forget.
But Jenna thought none of this as she doubled her long body and drew from beneath her bed a large, locked wooden box, the key to which hung on a chain about her neck. After glancing over her shoulder, she unlocked the heavy clasp and putting her hand within, drew out a leatherbound book and turned the pages, each filled with cramped, dark writing, until eventually she found what she sought. Then she swiftly started to read, her hands reaching for her basket of herbs as she did so.
Unlike many of her contemporaries, Jenna was literate, tutored by her father who had learned from his aunt, Alice Casselowe, who bad been taught, in her turn, by Lady Gresham in return for mixing beautifying potions. This was the aunt who had been accused of bewitching her neighbours’ oxen and pigs and who had been found guilty and died in Horsham Gaol before her sentence was served.
Holding her great aunt’s book and seeing the writing leap from the pages as if it had been inscribed yesterday, Jenna shivered. On the throne of England sat a Scots king so conscious of the Prince of Darkness that he had written a book in three volumes entitled Daemonologie. And in the first year of his reign King James’s parliament had passed an act giving the death sentence to all those who used witchcraft to kill or injure another, and imprisonment to those who bewitched cattle, gave love potions or used their powers to discover the whereabouts of treasure. The very possession of Alice’s book was a danger in itself.
Yet Jenna knew every page of it almost by heart: innocent herbal remedies, potions, salves, cures lay at the beginning, followed by other things more dangerous. Lists of herbs that could bend a man to one’s will, bring him to one’s bed, keep him there forever. And darker things too: poisons to kill, paralyse and madden, and spells to achieve one’s
heart’s desire.
Jenna had hardly ever dared glance at this part of the book, and now she looked only at the content which dealt with beautifying the face and body, rubbing into her skin and lips the crushed leaves which her great aunt recommended for colouring the cheeks and mouth and brightening the eyes.
Then she turned back to the mirror questioningly, thinking that, perhaps, she did look a little more handsome than formerly. But before she put the book back in its box she could not resist one final touch. Following the instructions given, Jenna had previously prepared a heady mixture of herbs and flowers which she had left to stand overnight in a fairy-ring beneath the light of a day-old moon. Now she took the bottle from the bottom of the chest and splashed the liquid liberally on to her neck, her hair and finally her breasts. The smell was overpowering. She locked the book away and descended the ladder to the room below.
Jenna had left the palace early, saying that she must return home to tend the animals, but really hurrying back to prepare supper for Benjamin Mist. Too poor to eat meat more than once a week, she had persuaded Daniel that this afternoon should be the occasion for a truly grand meal: a roasted chine of beef, served together with a neat’s tongue, and — by begging items from the master cook — Jenna had also contrived a Tansy: a dish of eggs, cream and spinach mixed with the juice of wheat blades, and violet and strawberry leaves, topped with grated bread, cinnamon and nutmeg. This noble repast would end with a custard and would be quite unlike anything normally eaten by the family.
Pleased with her preparations, Jenna began to sing as she set the table with wooden platters and knives, and was startled and surprised when a voice behind her said, ‘Very pretty, you have a tuneful note.’ She turned rapidly, thinking, just for a moment, that Benjamin had come early and that she was to be allowed the pleasure of being alone with him. But the man who stood in the doorway eyeing her was not the carpenter, nor even one of her friends. His elegant dress — a short velvet cloak hanging from one shoulder complete with standing collar — denoted him at once to be a gentleman of means.