Cunning Women

by Elizabeth Lee

  ‘Haven’t you gone and made a heap of trouble?’ he said. ‘Runt finally finds his backbone and makes a bigger mess than my little sister mixing water in the gutter.’

  ‘Should think you’re about ready to head home, aren’t you, Gabriel? You take such care of your poor mam, she’ll be wanting—’ Father said.

  ‘What mess?’ Daniel’s voice strident, overriding Father’s.

  Gabriel grabbed a chair, scraping it over the floor, sat with legs apart. ‘Magistrate. Only playing at hot cockles with that girl maid of his.’

  Father shifted, leaned back in his chair, stretched out a leg and brought it back in again. ‘Can’t be right – she’s just a lass, isn’t she?’

  ‘Bonny lass, though,’ Gabriel said. ‘Have you seen her? I wouldn’t—’

  Father slammed a fist on the table. His voice was dangerously quiet when he spoke and blood began to trickle from his nose. ‘Enough. You will not sit at my table in my house and talk about a young lassie like that. Understood?’

  Gabriel flushed and nodded, only daring to smirk when Father lifted the tankard to drink.

  ‘Is – is she all right, the maid?’ Daniel asked. He should have stopped, could have taken her to safety.

  ‘All right for now, but we’ll only know for sure when we see if there’s a babby or not come winter.’

  ‘He’s to wed her if there is,’ Father said. ‘’Tis the only right course. And I hope you lads would never get a lassie into trouble, but I know you’d step up as men if you did.’ He looked pointedly from Daniel to Gabriel.

  Daniel rested his head in his hands, fingers brushing the graze above his eye, pain flaring. Good. He deserved it. Phyllis was fourteen and would be shamed and shunned if she were carrying the magistrate’s child. Her tearful gaze would haunt Daniel’s nights, and no less than he deserved.

  He was mistaken. Daniel knew that his dreams had been spun through not with Phyllis’s eyes but the raging colours of Sarah’s. Against his will, the memory of her body pressed against his as they rode Bonny, the barbs and later softening of her words, had kept him awake and brought other sinful urges that he had struggled to resist.

  Daniel rose and dressed, too impatient to wait for the sun to break its slumber. The air still held a chill this early, but he knew from the cloudless sky that the day would be warm. On his way to check the pea field, the air laced with smoke as the bramble and bracken roots smouldered, Gabriel grabbed him from behind and shoved him against the wall of the house. Daniel glanced past Gabriel’s shoulder, relieved at least that no one witnessed his humiliation. Too exhausted to put up a pointless struggle.

  ‘Don’t think I’ve forgot you’ve stole my chance to have justice out with they devils up the hill,’ Gabriel said, face so close to Daniel’s that spittle splashed his cheek. ‘Don’t think I won’t find my time. That bitch will pay.’

  He left, and Daniel rested against the wall, catching his breath. The Haworths were feared, even hated, by some in the village, but he had never heard Gabriel speak against them until recently.

  He brushed himself down, cleared his throat, and walked to the field in a way that he hoped showed a lack of care. He did not know how he had turned the crowd from Sarah’s house once, and could not imagine doing so again. He had neither strength nor standing.

  Daniel worked all day, raking the remains of the root pyre and spreading it in preparation for sowing, the scent of smoke and soil not unpleasant as he smoothed an even grey coating over the ground. His eyes stung and watered, his throat was dry and tasted of ash. Back ached, hands blistered. The discomfort should have overwhelmed him, the labour exhausted him. Yet as he worked, as he washed and ate and settled to sleep, the image of Sarah would not leave him, nor did he wish it to. As though she stood at his side throughout the day.

  The knock at the door was unexpected. Daniel, Father and Gabriel had finished their morning tasks and were about to leave. They exchanged a perplexed look; they rarely received visitors and never on a Sunday morning.

  On her way out anyway, Bett opened the door.

  ‘Have you forgot it’s Sunday?’ they heard her ask. ‘I’ll be baking no bread for you today.’

  ‘’Tis not you I came to see,’ a voice answered.

  Bett looked at Daniel, jerked her head towards the door and left. He glanced at Father, who raised his eyebrows in a silent question, shrugged and stepped over.

  Molly stood there, wringing her gloved hands. An unpleasant thought about why she was here occurred to him. He simply stood, while Father and Gabriel shuffled behind him, straining to see.

  ‘I wanted to see you,’ she said.

  Neither a surprise nor welcome. Daniel gestured for her to step out with him; this was not a conversation he wanted witnessed. They walked across the field as the low strip of sunlight began to bleed into the sky. At last spring had fully arrived, warming the air and softening the tasks that filled his days.

  ‘Are you well?’ he asked. Awkward now, away from the festivities.

  ‘Come now, Daniel, don’t tease. You must know why I’m here.’

  He stopped and looked at her, lifting his shoulders slightly.

  ‘You know the tradition.’ She tipped her head so that the straw hat hid her eyes. ‘May Queen chooses a boy.’

  ‘Yesterday.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘The day after May Day, May Queen chooses someone to court, but that was yesterday.’

  ‘I came yesterday, I couldn’t find you. Is that really all you have to say?’ she asked.

  Her eyes were large, she bit her thumbnail through her glove, and Daniel could not help but be moved by her uncertainty. Behind her, the trees in the orchard were sprinkled with white blossom.

  ‘No, of course,’ he said. ‘I just didn’t think you would choose me.’

  ‘Well, I do.’ She looked up at him. ‘You’re happy, aren’t you?’

  ‘I’m – grateful for the compliment, but I really think you should choose again. Someone better, someone – else.’

  She laughed, stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. ‘That’s exactly why you’re the right choice,’ she said. ‘I have to go now, I must get to church, and so must you. I will tell my father afterwards.’

  And she was gone, running with one hand holding up her petticoat and the other holding down her hat, glancing once to smile at him over her shoulder. Daniel stood as the jay began to sing. His world had turned about and he had no idea how.

  Father and Gabriel hurried out of the farmhouse as soon as Molly left, an enthusiasm for church never before seen in either.

  ‘So,’ Gabriel said, shouting over the distance between them, ‘what did the May Queen want with you?’

  The teasing tone of voice was at odds with the narrow-eyed suspicion his face wore. Father on the other hand battled to control a smirk.

  ‘Oh she, ah, she just wanted to ask me about – about—’

  The blush that poured over Daniel’s face was answer enough.

  Gabriel snorted. ‘She’s an eye on the farm, then. Why else would that pretty thing choose you for courting?’

  Daniel shook his head. ‘I have no idea.’

  Father cleared his throat. ‘Are you away to settle your mam, Gabriel?’

  ‘Already done.’

  ‘You’re a good son.’

  Daniel remembered Gabriel arriving at the farm as a boy, asking for work of any kind, and they had grown together almost as brothers, albeit disjoined ones. Father had brought him in one summer to help with the hay mowing and been impressed with his strength and determination to earn a living to take home. Claiming this boy of twelve could carry out the work of two grown men and so save him wages, Father took him on permanently. Daniel knew he only made the decision after learning of the family’s plight, though.

  Gabriel shrugged. ‘No one else to do it.’

  Father nodded. In silence, they made their way to church.

  Father still revelled in the words of the King’s Bible, marvel
ling at their beauty and clarity, but it was all Daniel had known, and was this day delivered in an especially flat tone by the parson. Impossible to concentrate. He had glimpsed Phyllis Ross as he entered, hanging her head as the crowd nudged and whispered. Only Bett and Nathaniel stopped to speak with her. Sam Finch limped in, aided by his wife, suffering with the injuries Sarah’s brother had inflicted on him but days before. And Molly, sitting with her parents across the aisle.

  His mind churned, and not with the pure thoughts appropriate for church. The musty scent of damp and candle wax, the light splintered into rainbows by the window, served to shame but not calm him. Daniel could distract himself with thoughts of Molly’s soft-bread skin pressing into his, for sure. But every time he did, that sense of Sarah’s presence returned, and with it the feeling that there was something in him only she recognised.

  She was a girl like no other, whose hair danced untamed while all others’ lay demurely hidden under a coif or cloth, whose eyes raged bright. One he knew he should not crave. A girl who loved her sister with the ferocity of a vixen over cubs. Who saw in him a man, with the skill to tame wildness from any creature and the courage to mark out his own path.

  It was an easy life offered by Molly, if only that would satisfy. But he must have the storm. A path not just difficult. Impossible. He might as well tell Father he wished to court the mare. But he must have the eyes that truly saw him.

  Resolve landed in Daniel, complete and entirely fixed, a recklessness that would once have left him afraid but today gave strength. The sermon, hymns and prayers a meaningless hum, no longer for him. He would halt this course of events. He must speak with Molly now.

  Freed, the crowds spilled out across the churchyard like mice shaken from a sack. Just as Daniel spied her, Parson Walsh called them back.

  ‘There is an announcement to be made, on a subject I would not sully God’s house by mentioning in church.’

  Though his voice still carried, there was a weariness to his tone. Daniel held his breath. News would now come of the aftermath of the march upon the Haworths’, of Phyllis’s fate.

  ‘You know, I am sure, that Magistrate Thompson was discovered but two nights past behaving in a manner unfitting of his position, indeed unfitting for any of God’s children.’ He scrutinised those gathered. Startled glances and whispers passed between them. ‘In my humble role I have personally spoken to those in authority and arranged for his immediate replacement.’

  At this the murmurs grew louder, for Magistrate Thompson had looked away from sins of all kinds. The parson had never condoned such actions, and had taken his opportunity now to condemn the magistrate fully, shaming him by speaking truth so openly. Any other minister would concoct a story of sudden illness to explain such a departure. Daniel was sickened too, but because this was confirmation of Phyllis’s suffering, and his failure to stop it at the time.

  ‘The new man,’ Parson Walsh continued, voice straining, ‘travels as I speak, and shall arrive in no more than a day, God willing. He is reputed to be a character of great moral standing, and strict adherence to the law. News that brings great comfort to you all, I do not doubt.’

  His expression showed he was well aware of the fear his words caused. Seemingly exhausted by this speech, he walked back into the church, ignoring those shouting questions after him. Only then did Daniel remember the urgency of his cause, and realise Molly had left.

  Otherness

  Every morning I tell myself I will not go to the beck. Every afternoon I sneak away and look for the hag stone. ‘Good,’ I say when it is not there. The stinging in my eyes is caused by the breeze, nothing more.

  At last I see it, dangling among the catkins from a thin strip of cloth threaded through the hole.

  ‘I shall not come,’ I say. I take it anyway.

  He waits at the riverbank, looking out over the water so that I’ve the chance to watch him. The spikes of grass beneath my feet become soft and swampy. If I were to walk in, wash away the mark on my skin, and emerge on the other side, who would I be? A cleaner, better version of myself. That is the rebirth I long for.

  There is nothing to this. Nothing to come of it. One evening will not break down the fragile dependence Mam has built up between us and the village. I push away thoughts of her. This is not a betrayal.

  He turns and looks at me, though I make no sound, and waves then runs a hand through his hair. Awkward suddenly and regretting my decision to come, I walk closer. I don’t understand his interest in me; we are not the same kind, the path of our lives should not meet.

  His smile when I reach him and hand him the stone is so genuine it confuses me further. We’re silent for a moment, then speak at the same time.

  ‘I brought a poultice.’

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here.’

  I am holding out the pot of paste, arm stiff and unnatural. ‘For your …’ The words fade. I gesture to my own forehead.

  He takes the pot. ‘Thank you.’ He sniffs it and dips a finger in.

  ‘Camomile and thyme,’ I say.

  He tries to apply the cream, smearing it over his eyebrow and missing most of the cut.

  I laugh, and take the pot, at ease with him now though I cannot fathom why. ‘Here, let me.’ Without thinking I spread the lotion over his cut as I would with Annie, fast and gentle. ‘There,’ I say.

  ‘Thank you. Did you – who made this?’ he asks.

  ‘Mam.’

  He nods. ‘How does the cunning – what does she do?’

  I try to interpret his words, listen for the suspicion in them. Think again of the fear he showed when he first knew me, of the chafe of rope against skin. Perhaps this is all a trick, enticing me to confess our guilt. This would explain his interest, but as I stand here with him I don’t feel it to be true. I feel trust. I don’t know why. He leans forward, anxious to hear my reply.

  ‘Healing,’ I say. Sometimes. And more, so much more – a curse if you can pay for it, or if you’ve hurt her. A love potion, if your chosen one does not feel as they should. A brew of poppy seeds to bring lightness to the soul and pictures to the mind that only witchcraft can conjure.

  ‘That’s quite a skill,’ he says.

  Yes. One that I am also born to. A thrill of both yearning and foreboding burns through me. ‘Her grandmother taught her.’

  ‘I came prepared this time,’ he says. ‘Come see.’ He takes my hand and leads me up the bank to the trees. We’re careful not to look at each other. We’re careful to pretend that he has my hand only to guide me.

  Under the protective branches of the alder lie his boots and hat, a folded piece of grey material, a cloth-wrapped parcel and a flint and steel. He gestures to the neat stack as though it’s a pile of gold.

  ‘See. We shall have a fire and a feast tonight.’

  ‘A feast?’ My mouth fills and I wonder what food he offers. All I’ve eaten today is a bowl of watery pottage, flavoured with clam and nettle.

  ‘I brought a few bits but that’s for later, let’s start with the fire.’

  Looking around at the fresh green shoots of grass, I doubt his ability to light them. I care more to know what food he’s brought but don’t want to betray my interest.

  ‘This grass won’t light,’ I say.

  He pulls a handful of straw from the pile of his belongings. ‘I told you I came prepared.’ He’s so pleased with himself, I try not to be impressed and fail. The evening has cooled, the breeze chilling my arms, and a fire will be more than welcome. ‘We need wood, though,’ he says.

  ‘Of course.’ Does he think I’ve never lit a fire? ‘I will find twice as much as you, twice as fast.’

  ‘Oh really? You think so?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He pelts off into the trees at such a pace that I’m left standing, and I’ve given him an advantage already. I cry out, clasping my petticoat, following him.

  It is not the time of year to find good sticks for fire, they are too supple and green. Still, I have a pr
actised eye. Twigs are easy to come by and thin enough will always catch. And further in, where the branches above knot to make a roof that shields from sun and rain, I will find some old wood come down over winter. I know it.

  I race around, breathless, laughing and yet deadly serious in my aim to prove myself the better. Daniel runs through the undergrowth, darts between trees, his eyes bright.

  It does not take long for my arms to be filled with sticks. When I can carry no more, dropping as many as I pick up, I head back to the riverbank where he waits, a pile of wood at his feet. I cast my eye over it. He’s done well, but I am the victor.

  ‘We are evenly matched,’ he says.

  I am indignant. ‘Nay. I have more. Let us count.’

  I drop my pile next to his, but he’s laughing, hands held up in a gesture of appeasement. ‘No, I’m sure you’re right. You win.’

  He picks a leaf from my hair, and somehow steals victory from me by conceding it so easily. Crouching, he builds the thinner twigs into a frame with what I must grudgingly admit is an expert touch. I fight the urge to push him away and do it myself, just to show that I can. He strikes steel against flint, sparks hitting the straw which he coaxes into a flame and places under the sticks. The new light shows the angle of cheek and jaw.

  He looks up. ‘So serious,’ he says.

  ‘Did you say you brought food?’ I ask. I can wait no longer.

  He scrambles to his feet, runs to the trees and returns with the parcel, shoulders back and a look of pride. There’s bread, the best kind, with a clean top, not the black-crusted sort from the bottom. This is a smooth, golden colour that I’ve never seen before. There’s also butter, a luxury I’ve not had since we moved from the village, though the remembered taste immediately floods my mouth. Cheese, cold meat and radishes. I settle myself against a rock, facing the fire.