Salvation

by Harriet Steel

  Meg’s pulse slowed. She should have known she could trust Beatrice to keep her promise not to divulge the whole story.

  ‘Thank you for saying that, Alice,’ she said quietly.

  ‘That’s all right,’ Alice shrugged. All briskness again, she lifted the pastry into the dish, filled it with the cut-up chicken, onions and sage then sprinkled cinnamon and a dash of nutmeg on top.

  ‘We must be getting on with this pie or dinner will be late,’ she said. ‘It will have to be apples and custard afterwards. We haven’t time for jellies or tarts. I don’t know where Bess has got to with my eggs. She knows I need them and I sent her to the farm an hour ago.’

  Meg went to the kitchen door and looked out. There was no sign of Bess. ‘Shall I go and find her?’ she asked.

  Alice nodded. ‘And tell her she can expect a piece of my mind when she gets here.’

  ‘Don’t be too cross with her. It’s such a lovely day and she does work hard most of the time.’

  Alice made a harrumphing noise.

  Taking the route through the kitchen garden, Meg had not gone far before she saw Bess with the basket of eggs over her arm. At the sight of Meg, she broke into a trot.

  ‘Alice is after you, Bess,’ Meg smiled. ‘Where have you been?’

  Bess lowered her head. ‘Nowhere, madam, just to the farm as she told me,’ and without another word, she hurried on in the direction of the kitchen.

  15

  Hooves thudded on the turf and the ground beneath Meg’s feet shook. Some instinct told her the rider was Ralph Fiddler. Her heart hammering against her ribs, she ran into the woods to escape but he pursued her. Sharp brambles snaked around her bare legs and pulled her down into the mud, which filled her mouth and half-blinded her. Struggling up, she stumbled on and reached a deep pool. She stepped in and the coldness of the water made her gasp. It swirled around her, pricking her skin like shards of glass. Then something moved and a face rose slowly to the surface. Its skin was the colour of pewter, and where the eyes should have been, eels swam in and out of empty sockets. The creature reached out for her with skeletal arms. Filled with horror, she knew it was Ralph. She felt hot breath on her neck and the smell of tallow invaded her nostrils.

  ‘Wake up, Meg!’

  She struggled to sit up.

  ‘Is he here?’ she gasped.

  ‘What are you talking about? It’s me – Beatrice.’ Candlelight flickered over Beatrice’s anxious face.

  Meg was suddenly wide awake. ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘It’s Sarah, please come.’

  The bitter, cleansing aromas of wormwood and rue pervaded the room. Sarah’s breathing was laboured, her face grey as a November morning. She looked no bigger than a child in her cocoon of quilts and coverlets.

  Meg knelt by the bed and saw flecks of blood on her lips. She reached out and stroked the damp hair away from her forehead but Sarah seemed oblivious to everything around her.

  ‘I’ve seen this before with one of our old servants,’ Beatrice whispered. ‘Poor Margery suffered for months then we thought she had rallied, but we were mistaken.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  Beatrice bowed her head. ‘We did everything we could, but it was hopeless.’

  Sorrow rolled over Meg like a stone. ‘Have you woken Richard?’ she asked.

  For a few moments, Beatrice seemed reluctant to answer. When she did, her voice was hesitant. ‘Richard has ridden to Exeter.’

  ‘But doesn’t he want to be with her, now of all times? And anyway, why can’t we call the doctor from King’s Barton?’

  Beatrice’s voice was very quiet. ‘Richard hasn’t gone for a doctor, Meg. He’s gone to fetch a priest. He promised Sarah.’

  Meg stared at her.

  Beatrice frowned. ‘Meg, I know it’s dangerous, but Richard cannot break his promise.’

  ‘No, it’s not that. They were so often together, I thought. . .’

  ‘You thought they cared for each other?’ Beatrice said quietly. ‘I suppose in a way they do, but it is not love as you mean it. The bond between Sarah and Richard is their faith.’

  ‘But Sarah has no use for priests. She’s told me many times how she begged her husband to give up the old beliefs. They were the ruin of her family and she always said she wanted nothing more to do with Catholics.’

  ‘Her feelings altered as the illness took hold. Richard has helped and guided her over the past few months. They’ve talked a great deal about death and he says she begged him many times not to let her die unshriven.’

  A dry cough racked Sarah and her eyes opened; they were full of pain but the ghost of a smile quivered on her lips. Meg stroked her hand and leant forward to try and hear what she was saying but it was impossible and she drifted away from them once more.

  ‘Did none of you trust me, Beatrice?’ Meg asked bitterly. ‘I feel such a fool.’

  ‘It wasn’t that. We didn’t think it fair to burden you with knowledge that might put you in danger.’

  ‘But you and Richard attend church.’ She stopped seeing the distress in Beatrice’s eyes.

  ‘Richard does so for my sake even though it is against his conscience. Our family has lived at Lacey Hall for hundreds of years. I couldn’t bear the prospect of losing everything. If we were not seen to attend, the recusant fines would ruin us as they did Sarah’s husband. She shivered and lowered her voice. ‘Fines might not be the worst fate we suffered.’

  ‘How does Richard know where to get a priest?’

  ‘You remember the night we found you on the road?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We were coming from a house where the family were hiding one. Richard wanted to speak with him and I thought we should travel together. It might arouse less suspicion. Richard believes that same priest is with a family close to Exeter now. It’s a day’s ride from here. If he’s right and the priest agrees, they should be back in time.’

  ‘In time?’ Meg’s throat filled.

  Another bout of coughing turned their attention to Sarah. She was paler than ever and the blue-grey tinge around her lips spread like a fresh bruise. Her breathing was quick and shallow.

  Panic seized Meg. ‘We must do something! How can we help her?’

  ‘I have some medicine in the stillroom. It can be dangerous and I did not want to use it, but I fear there is no choice. Will you stay here while I fetch it?’

  Left alone, Meg clung to Sarah’s hand as she tossed and moaned. Tears pricked her eyes. How little she really knew Sarah, or Beatrice and Richard for that matter. Why could they not have trusted her?

  ‘Meg?’

  Unnoticed, Beatrice had come back into the room. Meg wiped her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she sniffed.

  Beatrice put an arm around her. ‘Don’t be, I understand. We all love her, but we must be glad for her if she can find peace.’

  The door creaked and Alice hurried in, a shawl thrown over her nightclothes and her grey hair straggling to her shoulders. ‘Oh, the poor lady,’ she gasped. ‘Yesterday morning she seemed so bright and cheerful.’

  ‘I fear an illness like this worsens very suddenly.’

  Sarah groaned and Beatrice bent close to her ear. ‘Sarah? Can you hear me? Try to drink this. It will help with the pain.’

  She held the cup to Sarah’s lips. Its contents gave off an unpleasant, mousey smell. Sarah managed to take a small amount but then turned her head aside. With a piece of linen, Beatrice dabbed a trace of the dark liquid from her chin and tried again but it was no use.

  ‘What is it?’ Meg asked.

  ‘The Italians call it ‘beautiful lady’, belladonna. It is very powerful so you should only use a little.’

  ‘Will she sleep?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Gradually, Sarah quietened; her pale features settled into repose and her breathing slowed. Meg suffered a pang of dread. Sarah’s stillness reminded her of the effigy of Mathilda de Lacey in the church. She wanted to rouse her, to see the old
Sarah’s gentle smile and hear her laughter.

  Alice’s voice broke the silence. ‘Both of you must rest. Let me watch over her now.’

  ‘You promise you’ll call us if she wakes?’ Beatrice asked.

  ‘Of course I shall.’

  *

  Alice did not call her and Meg slept until the sun was high in the sky. That day, she and Beatrice took turns to sit with Sarah. After the restless night, she was quiet, so quiet that at times Meg feared she might slip away before Richard returned.

  Towards evening, dark clouds gathered in the west. Soon rain swept in and a strong wind rattled the windows. Richard arrived after dark with the priest. He was a head shorter than Richard, pock marked, with prominent grey eyes that reminded Meg of a startled hare. As soon as dry clothes had been found for him, Beatrice and Richard took him to Sarah’s room. Beatrice came back alone, her expression full of sorrow.

  ‘I hope she knows he’s there and can take comfort from it, but it’s very difficult to be sure.’

  ‘Do you think Andrew and Agnes should see her?’

  Beatrice nodded. ‘When Father Weston comes out. Poor children - I shall never forget the night my mother died. I was not much older than Agnes.’ A look of disquiet crossed her face. ‘Richard says he had a hard job persuading Father Weston to come. He thinks there are priest hunters in the area and he didn’t want to leave the house where he was hiding.’

  Meg remembered Edward talking about a priest who had been caught in Winchester. She shuddered at the image of the horrible fate he had suffered. It was no wonder Father Weston looked frightened. When he left Sarah’s bedroom, he asked to rest for a while. Alice had prepared a room and she showed him to it. Meg could tell from her tight-lipped expression that she did not approve of the man.

  ‘Shall I find Andrew and Agnes now?’ she asked Beatrice. ‘I’m sure the sight of them will do Mistress Sarah more good than anything.’

  ‘Thank you, Alice.’

  When Alice had left the room, Beatrice turned to Meg with a sigh. ‘I confess, Father Weston is not all I had hoped for, but we had to respect Sarah’s wish to see a priest.’ She bit her lip. ‘I only hope we shan’t regret it.’

  Alice returned with Andrew and Agnes and Meg’s heart went out to them both. From their stricken faces, it was clear they understood their mother was rapidly sinking. After a while, Beatrice gently told them to say their goodbyes and Alice led them away.

  A few times in the night, Sarah stirred, confused and in pain. On each occasion, Beatrice administered careful doses of the medicine to soothe her again. Watching helpless, Meg blessed Beatrice’s calm presence. It horrified her to think that if matters had fallen out differently, they might still have been wanderers.

  Just before dawn, Sarah’s breath became more laboured and her chest heaved. There was a rattling sound in her throat then silence.

  ‘What is it?’ Meg asked anxiously. ‘What’s happened?’

  Beatrice took Sarah’s wrist between her thumb and forefinger and waited a few moments. Deep furrows creased her brow.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Meg,’ she whispered. ‘It is over.’

  Tears coursed down Meg’s cheeks. Beatrice took her hand.

  ‘We must pray for her.’

  *

  Two days later, John the steward, Father Weston, Richard and Andrew carried the coffin to the old family church and Father Weston conducted the service in accordance with the Catholic rites. Afterwards, they all went to the churchyard where the open grave waited. Andrew had studded the sides with Sarah’s favourite violets.

  The four men lowered the coffin into the ground, making the sign of the cross, and Father Weston pronounced a last blessing. John came forward and threw the first shovel of earth onto the coffin. It fell like a shower of hail on the wooden lid.

  When the task was done, Andrew placed the small wooden cross he had made at the head of the plot then stood up. He wiped his eyes. John put a hand on his shoulder. ‘We’ll find a good piece of stone and see she gets a proper marker, won’t we, lad?’

  Andrew mumbled something and nodded.

  For a few moments, no one spoke, lost in their own memories. Silently, Bess helped Agnes lay a bunch of wild flowers at the foot of the cross.

  ‘We should go back to the house,’ Richard said at last. ‘There is nothing more we can do here.’

  *

  ‘Father Weston has decided to return to France,’ Beatrice remarked a few days later as she and Meg picked flowers to take to Sarah’s grave. ‘There are still rumours of priest hunters in the area. Richard is sending Andrew to Exeter to see when there’s a ship sailing.’

  ‘But will it be safe to travel?’ Meg asked, adding another flower to her bunch.

  ‘Remaining here is very little safer if the rumours are to be believed.’

  Meg felt sorry for Father Weston. Even the crack of a log in the fire made him start. He rarely spoke and then only when he was spoken to. She found it hard to understand how such a nervous creature had ever contemplated the dangerous life he had set himself to lead. Perhaps his faith explained it.

  The household’s usual routines helped the sad days to pass. As was his custom, Richard spent them in his study. Alice and Bess took turns to be with Agnes and see to it she was consoled.

  ‘I wish Andrew was back from Exeter,’ Beatrice sighed as she and Meg worked in the stillroom late one afternoon. The citric tang of bergamot oil hung in the air. Outside, long shadows lay on the grass and feathers of cloud dappled the sky. ‘I don’t understand why he hasn’t come home yet. I hope nothing is amiss.’

  ‘I’m sure no harm has befallen him,’ Meg said soothingly. She paused, listening, her pestle resting on the cloves she was crushing to make a poultice for Alice’s toothache. ‘That can’t be Alice coming in such a hurry. If it is, her toothache must be much better.’

  But it was John the steward who rushed in, his weather-beaten face flushed and his hat crumpled in his big, farmer’s hands.

  Beatrice dropped the glass stopper of the bottle of oil she was holding. It rolled off the table and smashed on the stone floor. Her hand flew to her mouth.

  ‘M’lady, Jed and Abel have just come from Forty Acre Wood. I’d sent them down there with the wagon – the trees we felled last week needed fetching in.’

  ‘Never mind the trees, John, tell me what’s happened.’

  ‘Horsemen, m’lady: seven of them. They came upon Jed and Abel all of a sudden in the part of the wood closest to the house. Didn’t look too pleased to see them, Abel said. The one who seemed to be in charge – youngish fellow, but ordering the rest about as if he was born to it – told Abel they were travelling to Exeter and had lost their way, but Abel didn’t like the look of him, so when he’d sent them back off to the high road, he came straight up to tell me.’

  Meg’s heart gave a jolt.

  Beatrice looked grave. ‘Find Master Richard, John, tell him what’s happened and ask him to join us in the Hall.’

  As she and Beatrice hurried through the screens passage to the Great Hall, Meg’s head hammered. ‘Who do you think they are?’ she asked Beatrice as they waited for Richard.

  ‘I’m not sure but I don’t like the sound of this,’ Beatrice frowned.

  When Richard came in, she ran to him. A few paces behind, Father Weston’s spare form seemed even more swamped than usual by his black garments.

  Gently, Richard put his hands on Beatrice’s shoulders. ‘You mustn’t be afraid.’

  ‘Oh Richard, how can you say that? These men - suppose they mean us harm?’

  ‘We were always aware this might happen. If they are priest hunters, we shall be ready for them. God is with us.’ He touched Beatrice’s cheek and regarded her solemnly. ‘You mustn’t betray the smallest hint of fear. Do you promise me you won’t?’ He turned to Meg. ‘And I need the same promise from you.’

  Meg nodded. This was a Richard she had not seen before, no longer reserved and scholarly but decisive and commanding.


  ‘Come, Weston, we must eat,’ Richard went on. ‘If we have to hide, it may be some time before we have the opportunity to fill our stomachs again. John, send two of the farm workers to the top field so that they can keep a lookout on the road. Tell them to watch for riders cutting across country towards the Hall as well.’

  John bowed and hurried away.

  Father Weston seemed rooted where he stood. When Richard shook his arm, he blinked owlishly.

  ‘What? Yes, yes - you’re right.’

  At the hastily assembled meal of cheese and bread, Richard ate swiftly and in silence but Meg noticed Father Weston barely managed to swallow more than a few mouthfuls.

  Richard put down his knife. ‘The maids should be sent to the village,’ he announced. ‘Will you see to it, Beatrice? I don’t want them questioned. They’re young and fear is likely to make them indiscreet.’

  He pushed his plate aside. ‘Weston? Shall we go to the chapel? When my sister has dealt with the maids, she can bring your belongings to be hidden as well. Beatrice, you know what to do with my books.’

  There was a commotion in the screens passage and John the steward burst in.

  ‘They’re already at the farm! They must have come over the heath from the Barton road.’

  Father Weston gave a low moan and his legs crumpled. Richard grasped him by the elbow. ‘Help me with him, John, we need to make haste.’

  Dragging the priest like a sack of flour, they hauled him in the direction of the chapel, his boots scraping over the stone-flagged floor.

  ‘It’s too late to send the maids away,’ Beatrice said urgently. ‘Find Alice, Meg. She must make all the servants understand it’s of the utmost importance they don’t tell these men that Richard and Father Weston are in the house. If they are asked, they are to say that Richard is in Exeter on business. Tell Alice everyone should carry on with their duties as if nothing has happened. When you have done that, come to Father Weston’s room and help me.’