Cunning Women

by Elizabeth Lee

  ‘Pretty,’ Gabriel said.

  ‘Did I not tell you I’d have new clothes, Daniel?’ she asked.

  He glanced at the three faces surrounding him. Bett wore an expression of amusement, Gabriel one of confused irritation and Molly one of – admiration. Could it be?

  ‘Well,’ she said. ‘What do you think?’

  Her eyes shone, only for him, and he was a confused brew of unease and pleasure that was strengthened by the knowledge that she ignored Gabriel and chose to speak to him.

  ‘It’s – it’s …’ The cloth was light, in both colour and substance, unlike the grey woollen petticoats usually worn. He understood her pleasure in it. ‘Very nice.’

  Bett laughed and he flushed, aware that his response was insufficient. Molly did not seem to mind, dipping her head and looking up at him. She began to speak but was distracted by the call for those girls hoping to be picked as May Queen to gather.

  ‘Wish me luck,’ she said, grasping his arm briefly before running to join the others.

  ‘Good luck,’ he called, catching Gabriel’s eye and allowing himself, just once, to enjoy his sour expression.

  ‘Ah,’ Bett said, a playful ring to her voice. ‘May Day and love blossoms already.’

  Daniel basked in both her words and Gabriel’s scowl as they all turned to watch the choosing of the May Queen. The girls lined up in front of the ribboned well, giggling and jostling, licking their lips and slapping their cheeks. Young Phyllis Ross, old enough this year to be included for the first time, clapped her hands in excitement and pulled faces to make her little cousins laugh. Molly waved. Through the pocket of his breeches, Daniel felt the stone Sarah had given him.

  Magistrate Thompson had flowers threaded into the band of his hat, as always for the judging of the May parade. One of the rare tasks he showed eagerness for, walking up and down the line of girls, stopping to flick a curl or caress a cheek, asking whether they were in need of a position in service, for he had an opening for a maid. Again.

  The magistrate made a show of inspecting every girl, tipping the chin to observe each face, commanding them to twirl and display the sweep of breast, waist and hip. It was a difficult task to choose a winner, he declared. This year as every other. But a decision was made.

  When her name was called, Molly squealed, covering her mouth with her hands and turning triumphant eyes on the friends standing in line beside her. A group of boys, Gabriel at the head of them, rushed to lift her on to the cart. She clasped her hat and kicked her feet so that her white stockings showed. Though she looked right at him, Daniel turned away. Glanced at the cursed hill, beyond the green and path. Could not help himself.

  ‘You should go and wish her well,’ Bett said. ‘She wants you to.’

  ‘What do you know of the Haworths?’ he asked.

  Bett frowned at the turn of conversation. She shrugged. ‘Cunning folk. Herb-knowledge and the like. The mam, she’s a skill for sure, but I’ve heard stories of the lad that’d chill your blood.’

  ‘And the girl?’

  She shaded her eyes from the sun. Behind her there was laughter and shouting from the crowds around Molly. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Oh – I only …’

  She squeezed his arm. ‘Don’t fret of the Haworths today.’

  ‘But what if – what if I’m not fretting? What if I’m—’ Drawn. He could not speak it.

  Bett narrowed her eyes. ‘Trouble that way, lad. They’re to be called on by those in need, and none other. Molly’s took a shine to you, and though I grant it’s hard to find a sillier lass, she’s a pretty one, surely?’

  Her words made sense. Yet he could not heed them.

  She wagged her finger once, and left to find her husband.

  The smack of Gabriel’s hand on his shoulder sent him staggering. ‘Didn’t get your hopes set that the May Queen will choose a whelp like you for courting tomorrow, did you, Danny?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘’Tis me she’s her eye on, and it’s long past time some good came my way. No more toiling that’s left unnoticed, no more cursing by filthy whores. A sweet summer of shaking the tree, eh?’ He winked. ‘You know I had hold of her. Felt the warm of her through her clothes.’

  Daniel stepped past him, made his way to the path. ‘I have to be somewhere.’

  He walked away from the sunny green, where everyone he knew had gathered. From the pretty girl on the cart, from the parade down the street, children throwing flowers ahead of the May Queen as the whole village followed.

  From the shadow of the cursed hill, where the remnants of the plague hamlet squatted, ground tainted by the poisoned flesh that rested there, the laments of the spirits that still lingered drifting through the air. Where the girl with the stormy eyes and sharp tongue lived. The girl who saw in him what others did not.

  He had never been master of his own destiny. What difference did it make to hand himself over to her? At least he was choosing who wielded power over him. There was a wildness to the thought, a freedom, that set him alight as much as it chilled him to the core.

  Teeth

  John crouches in the shadows at the corner of the room next to his mat, a plank of wood in his hand, the bones of his shoulders pressing through the worn cloth of his tunic. He waits to catch the mice that make their beds in ours. This is his habit only when in the vilest of moods.

  ‘Thought you were looking for work,’ I say, heaving the bucket to the wall, stained with soot and turning to mould at the top where the roof leaks. Bending over, I press my hand to my side, catch my breath. I might as well throw mutton fat on to smouldering embers. I see well enough in the dim light to notice Mam falter as she sits at the table, mashing worms and purple flowers for her May Day love potions.

  ‘I looked, I asked, I begged as no man should be made to. Not one’ll have me. All I got was a split lip.’

  ‘Brawling?’

  He remains hunched over, eyes focused on the mat and voice low so as not to scare away the mice, but there is venom in each word. ‘I knocked on every door and asked to fix the roof or chop wood or even fetch water, though it’s a job for a woman. And after I’d borne every insult from rogue to loiter, that dolt-headed netter said he’d not stink his dwelling by letting me through the door if I was to pay him and threw a pot of water over me. So yes I took my fee in blood and teeth. Beat him until he sniffled worse than Annie. His sneer’ll not look so pretty now.’

  ‘He’s dead?’ I ask, words sticking in my throat, mind tumbling with what will happen to us if this is true.

  John snorts. ‘Would he was, but nay. He’ll live to skit me another day.’

  I think of John’s humiliation, knowing how every insult cuts him. How he feels his duty to replace Father, and his failure to do so keenly. I remember John, not long after Mam had told me what my mark meant and began teaching me about plants. His thin arm outstretched as he pointed to the ground. ‘My familiar is a brock, a big one, and it’ll punish any that harm me with its teeth and claws.’

  Mam swept past with an armful of poppies, ready to strip the seeds. ‘Nowt there, John. ’Tis not your fate, I’ve told you.’

  He looked at me, tears running down his face.

  ‘Why am I not chose?’ he asked.

  I swallow down my sympathy, for I cannot afford to feel John’s pain. It will weaken me. It is my anger that gives me the strength I need.

  Mam stands, wiping her hands down the front of her petticoat. ‘Did you bring them?’

  ‘What?’ John asks.

  ‘The teeth.’

  ‘You’re asking if after I’d beaten them from his head and he lay hollering on the ground in a puddle of blood, and I standing with it dripping from my fists – did I bend and pick his teeth up?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘I didn’t.’

  ‘What use are you? Returning empty-handed to this house when you know I can use a tooth for a curse or to sell.’

  There is a crack as the plank of wood smacks d
own, crunch as the mouse meets its end.

  ‘And you, lass? What have you brought?’

  I think of the hag stone I gave to the farm lad, that she could have sold. ‘Water.’

  She crosses her arms, lifts her chin. ‘Last us a day, two perhaps. Won’t feed us.’

  ‘I meant to bring nettles but—’

  ‘Meant to is no good to me. Teeth left on the ground, no good. Nowt comes through that door that doesn’t have a use, that’s how we live, and yet here are you two, not a thing to offer between you.’

  John swings the flattened and bloodied mouse by its tail. ‘This for your pot if you like it.’

  ‘Any more and I’ll pull that clever tongue from your head. Your wit won’t feed us, John.’

  ‘I’ll bring nettles,’ I say.

  ‘We need more than nettles from you. You asked to be taught the ways you’re born to. It’s time you used the gift you’ve been given.’

  Her words fall through me like stones. The weight of them holds me still.

  Mam does not take her eyes off me. Her voice is soft but tipped with ice. ‘Nay? Then you must be what use you can. Villagers are busy with feasting and drinking, you can fetch the teeth I’m owed.’

  There is no arguing with her. And I would rather endure this punishment than face what she asks of me. But I don’t do it willingly.

  ‘What about John?’

  ‘It’s May Day, folks won’t be so watchful. John can see what’s been left for the taking.’ She meets my eye and holds it, daring me to challenge. ‘A lamb left wandering, say.’

  I keep myself still so I do not fling myself at her, fling words of accusation that she makes us what they claim we are, that what she speaks of is theft, no better, and we all know the punishment John risks. She knows my objections. Speaking them will make no difference.

  ‘You fetch nettles now and when night comes go to the village and bring what I need,’ she says. ‘Make sure you’re not seen.’

  I know the netter’s house well enough but I hate to be in the village. Would she had me foraging hedgerows or even seashore over this. I am angry at her foolhardy plans for John, angry at my own silence in the face of them. Mam is lucky I do not yet fully embrace my power, which now calls to me with images not of reconciliation, but of those I despise bending to my will, cringing in fear. Every child that’s hurled a stone or spoke a cruelty, every person that’s turned away from Annie when she begged for food, will kneel and weep and beg as I mete out fit sufferings. And I imagine, just for a moment, that Mam is among them.

  Gather and Stalk

  Daniel stood in a corner talking to Bett and watching those dancing to the fiddle music. She drained her wine and leaned unsteadily towards him, reaching out to her husband to balance herself.

  ‘Come, heart-root,’ Nathaniel said. ‘Leave this poor lad be and dance with me.’

  She frowned up at him. ‘He likes my company.’

  Daniel laughed. ‘True.’

  ‘We all do, my love. But there’s other lasses he should be entertaining tonight.’ He jerked his head towards the dancers.

  ‘Aye, and one in particular,’ Bett said over her shoulder as Nathaniel pulled her away gently.

  Daniel glanced over just as Molly looked in his direction. Yellow curls framed her flushed cheeks. He drained his drink. Her apple-eyes did not hold him the way the crashing colours of the witch-girl’s did. She was bonny, though, and all the lads craved to court her. Perhaps Bett was right. One dance would not hurt.

  As he stepped towards Molly, a wailing and hollering, unmistakeably female, cut through the merry chaos and the music stuttered to a halt, the dancers stumbling and turning towards the sound. Daniel felt it like a fist in the stomach. He thought once again of the witch-girl’s eyes. She had been dragged there by Gabriel, perhaps, in his conviction that she had cursed him and stolen the lamb, that he might punish her in front of the whole village.

  The taste of ale soured on his lips. He shoved and elbowed through the gathering crowd, past the tree decked with ribbons for the dance, to the edge of the green where the sound came from, standing uncomprehending when he came upon the sight.

  It was not her, but Nelly Finch, the netter’s wife, shrieking and sobbing. Blood smeared across the front of her best clothes, though Daniel could see no injury on her. Not Sarah. Relief swept through him, though why he cared so deeply he could not say. He began to walk away. There were plenty others coming to Nelly’s aid, Father and Gabriel among them. She was calming enough to form words.

  ‘Come quick and help, my Samuel’s hurt,’ she said, clinging to the parson’s sleeve. ‘That devil. One of those devils from up the hill half-killed him.’

  Her words set the world turning. Daniel willed himself to keep a clear head. He had seen the blaze in Sarah’s eyes when she felt threatened. Perhaps Sam had taunted her, or worse, and she attacked him in response. The village would not stand for this. They would hurt her. It was just the chance Gabriel was looking for.

  The crowd stirred, moving with the sudden activity of a disturbed bees’ nest, and some of that noise too; hollering in anger that a being so low should dare to hurt one of their own, shouting of the revenge they would exact, the burning of the home and beating like for like, prowling to gather lights. Each man shouting louder than his neighbour of his own courage in the face of such cowardly evil and warning the women to stay behind, they marched in a ragged line. They were on the hunt. She needed him now. He must find courage, for she had no other protector. The farm was between the green and the foot of the cursed hill. He would pass it on the way.

  The mare had never been ridden and would be on an unfamiliar path in fading light. It was a risk he would never take. And his only chance.

  The mare did not bend to his will in an instant. She reared and kicked, almost pitching him to the ground. He wound his fingers through her sweat-dampened mane and forced his voice to be soft, steady. She calmed a little, still pacing but more slowly, blowing into the cooling air. His plan was almost certainly doomed to fail – the horse was wild still, and he one voice against many. But he must try.

  He remembered the village gathering and stalking like this once before, to chase out a pedlar who had bedded another’s wife. Daniel was a child then, and recalled only vague images of great, loud men shouting in the night, faces lit by flame and fury, the odour of smoke and sweat. Father among them. He had imagined the terror of the man pursued by such a crowd, but was too small to offer protection. No longer.

  Their lights flickered now between trees, marking the progress of the village men. He could not take the path up the hill. Were they to reach her first she would be pulped beneath their fists. Or worse. Daniel pulled on the horse’s mane and pressed her sides. She jerked and kicked, swinging her head, resisting his attempt to exert his will. Desperate, he yelled and thrust his heels into her side until at last she succumbed. There was no time to be gentle. He knew exactly what to do; he would go through the woods.

  The mare pranced and rolled her eyes at a fox slinking through, the crack of branches underfoot, swoop of a bat above her head. Daniel leaned forward and urged her on. The chanting of the crowd beat through the night. They were ahead of him. The horse’s hooves pounded the ground and Daniel clung to her mane as the air raced past. All the while he pictured Sarah at the hands of the villagers, stoked as they were by anger and ale. One look and she had possessed him, fool that he was, charging ahead now on a treacherous mission that might see him killed, would certainly leave him regarded with even more suspicion by the village. And yet he did not think to stop.

  He kept to the edge of the thicket, hidden, but close enough to see flames ahead. To his right a thatch of twisted trunk and undergrowth blending to shadow, to his left the empty path. He had not reached them, could not pass them. They would be upon her.

  Every pounding of hoof, lift and fall of branch ahead, flicker of path through the trees brought him closer. Scent of wild garlic and bracken broken beneath the
galloping horse.

  At last, lights on the path. Through the black web of branches he glimpsed faces as he passed, disjointed; a bearded cheek, a bobbing hat. Flicker of fire and shadow revealing expressions that burned with a brutal hunger. Daniel hunkered to the mare’s neck. Surely they must see him. Surely they must hear.

  A sound to his right, no more than a whimper, and turning he saw, a flash that was gone, the soft white back of Magistrate Thompson in his flower-strewn hat and behind him, against a tree, the pale face of little Phyllis Ross. It was not unusual to find couples in the woods on May Day, but he knew immediately she had not chosen this. Her eyes met his briefly. Tears. A cub in need, and he knew he should stop, any other time would not hesitate to, but he must choose and, in the brief moment it took, he chose Sarah. Phyllis must have another rescuer this night.

  A branch cracked him on the eyebrow, a sting that stole his breath and snapped his head back, sending his hat spinning to the ground. He passed the last of the villagers, finally pulling ahead. Daniel raced on until he reached the ruined hamlet, searching for a house that might be hers. Blinking blood from his eye, he searched in the darkness.

  He had never seen the house up close. There was only one with roof still intact, cowering against the hillside, a battered shack keeling into the ground, surrounded by ten or so crumbling remains. No animals. Nothing to show it a home. The hill below aflame with lights. Ignoring his fear of the spirits that surely drifted through the empty doorways and rose from ground furrowed where bodies lay, he dismounted and ran across the scrub, beating on the door, praying this was the place. It opened to reveal a slight, female shape. A sibilant, cracked voice took him by surprise.

  ‘Not often we have a gentleman riding up on horseback. A fine creature, sir. After an amatory? I’ve a potion that will make a honey-sop of any girl.’ She looked him up and down. ‘Or boy.’ She held out a bowl of grey paste that stank bitter-sweet and writhed slowly.

  ‘Where’s Sarah?’