Cunning Women

by Elizabeth Lee

It’s all I can do to resist grabbing a piece of everything and stuffing it into my mouth. I wipe my lips.

  ‘Did you bring all this from home?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘They won’t mind?’

  He smiles. ‘They won’t know.’

  I cannot imagine. To have so much that whole chunks of bread and cheese and meat can be taken unnoticed.

  ‘Here,’ he says, ripping the bread, dipping it into the butter and handing me some.

  I hold it for a moment before tasting, trying to delay, trying not to show my hunger, my ignorance of such foods. Watch as he bites, copying his slow, casual chewing.

  The taste of it, the feel in my mouth. Crunch of crust, softness of bread with the deep, earthy taste of rye and salt tang of butter. He offers me slices of meat, pieces of hard cheese, sharp radishes. I taste each one, letting the flavour spread over my tongue, brush crumbs from my lips.

  ‘Good,’ I say, covering my mouth with my hand to hide the chewing.

  ‘I’ve saved the best till last.’

  What could surpass this? I’m not convinced. He walks back over to the tree and returns with a smaller parcel, half-unwrapped, and sits next to me. It’s some kind of pie he holds out. I recognise the pastry but not the creamy filling. There are two slices and he hands me one, saying, ‘Flawn.’

  I’m none the wiser.

  I sniff the pie, catch him looking at me with an expression of gentle amusement, and bite in to hide my discomfort.

  The flavour is like nothing I’ve ever tasted, sweet with a faint sense of rose, so that I close my eyes and wait for it to fade. I imagine what it must be to have a life of such ease; of a warm bed and spare clothes and a full belly. Of tastes such as this. Had I not been chosen for a different life.

  ‘You like it?’ Daniel asks.

  I grunt my approval, mouth too full of another bite to speak.

  ‘I brought something for you,’ he says. ‘If – you were cold before, so …’

  He walks to the trees and comes back, holding a square grey cloth out to me. I sit with it in my arms, unsure what to do.

  ‘Why do you give me this?’ I ask.

  ‘It was my mother’s neckerchief,’ he says, voice soft so that I can barely hear. ‘We have no use for it.’

  The evening darkens and flames spit into the night. All through the village people will be blowing out candles and settling to bed. No one shall disturb this peace.

  ‘You must miss her,’ I say.

  He stares into the fire, light and shadow flickering over his face, and I know he sees there a life in which his mother lived. ‘I didn’t know her,’ he says.

  Not an answer, really, but I don’t pursue it. ‘She died when you were young?’

  ‘She died having me.’

  It’s a wonder his father hasn’t found another wife; he’s a wealthy man, there must have been plenty to choose from.

  ‘I remember my father.’ I’m surprised to find myself mention him. He reacts as though I speak of nothing more significant than the weather.

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘He was so tall. Or at least, he seemed tall but I was small at the time, so perhaps not.’

  Daniel drops a branch on to the fire. I feel the flare on my face.

  ‘He smelled of the sea. His boots were always wet and stained by the salt, he used to leave them by the door. I think I remember his boots better than his face.’

  ‘He was a fisherman?’

  I nod. ‘We lived with the others by the shore. I hardly remember now.’

  ‘I didn’t know.’

  The air at my back is cool, heat from the fire near-scorches my face. I shrug. ‘He went out one day and didn’t come back. And Mam, well she did what she could.’ The memory smothers me as though I am there once again, the men and the noises they made, the coins left on the table. Mam squatting in the sea, washing and washing, face like a closed fist. The sweaty hand on my bare skin.

  At first I didn’t understand. She told me different stories of what it was – a special potion that made them leap like mad dogs and call out, or dance untamed until they dropped to the ground. Always, it was something that children must never see. Only later, when she warned me of men and what they want, of the results, did I realise.

  I tell him nothing of this.

  His gentle touch on my arm makes me start, and I realise I’ve been sitting with my eyes closed, fighting the memories, the cloth bundled tight in my arms. These I will never share, not with anyone. I pull myself away from the past, to the riverbank and the warmth and to him.

  ‘Why don’t you put the neckerchief on?’ he asks.

  He is kind to bring it, but I’ve never had one and am not sure how to wear it. I remember Mam’s from years past, falling to points over her shift, but cannot see how to make this cloth hang that way. Reluctantly I stand, shaking it out and trying to place it over my shoulders, as I imagine it should sit, desperate not to show my ignorance. It doesn’t feel right, too much at my back and too clumsily bunched at the front.

  Daniel stands, giving a loud bark of laughter that sets a flush of shame running over my cheeks. ‘What are you doing?’ he asks.

  I have never felt my otherness more keenly.

  He takes it from me, folds and places it over my shoulders neatly. His arm brushes my burning cheek. The cloth is fine, and smells a little of mildew, sitting softly against me like no other clothing I own.

  ‘There,’ he says.

  What must he think of me, knowing now that I am so poor I’ve never owned a thing so common for every village woman? So stupid I don’t even know how to wear it. Hot, angry tears spill down my face, shaming me further.

  I rip the neckerchief from my shoulders, throw it at his feet, and run.

  ‘Wait,’ I hear him call behind me. ‘Wait, please, I don’t – what have I done?’ There is desperation in his voice, but he does not follow and I am glad of it.

  Flawns and neckerchiefs and farm lads are not for me, as Mam has always warned, and I was foolish to come. Tearing over the scrubby ground and through the trees to the hill, I stumble but don’t stop, running so quickly that my chest burns, taking myself away from Daniel as fast and as far as possible. I need now to be with my own kind.

  Frost Burn

  Market day down by the harbour was the usual buzz of shouts and greetings, the scent of brine and salt sting of sea-whipped air. Daniel watched as Bett negotiated the price of a bundle of herring with mock disbelief, trying to put aside thoughts of Sarah. He had not dared to leave the stone these past days, knowing she would not come. He had embarrassed her, and was shamed by his own clumsiness.

  ‘You think I came down the beck in a bubble, Hannah?’ Bett said. Daniel pulled his thoughts back to what was happening in front of him. ‘I can’t pay that, the master’s standing right here, he’ll think I’ve lost all sense and I’ll be out of work. Isn’t that so, sir?’

  She wore a light expression. This game was one they both enjoyed. The fisherman’s wife eyed him with disdain, for what kind of master put in an appearance at market, a place only for women? He frowned and cleared his throat to rid himself of laughter. ‘Seems an unreasonable high price. Would have to be taken from your pay.’

  Bett shrugged at the woman, who sighed and added two extra fish. Staring past them she gasped and dropped the silvery bundle into the basket, pressing her hand to her mouth. Turning, Daniel saw a group gathered around a man who held a sobbing boy by the neck of his tunic.

  Moving before he really knew why, Daniel pushed through the crowd. Many stood aside willingly. He would one day inherit the only farm in the village, after all, whatever they thought of him. He recognised the child, a boy whose father was recently lost to sea, face pale and mouth stretched wide, hanging from the fist of a man Daniel had never seen. The child’s fear drove him to act, and the words were out of his mouth before thought of the consequences even occurred.

  ‘Unhand that boy.’

  The man looke
d Daniel up and down. ‘He is a thief.’

  ‘He is no such thing.’ The boy’s family now lived with his mother’s sister and her husband. One small wage and many hungry mouths. ‘He is on an errand for me, I forgot to give him the coins.’

  A claim not supported by the fact that the child had already eaten most of the radishes he had taken and his mouth and hands were smeared with juice and mud. Nevertheless, Daniel handed a coin to the seller. He crouched before the child and gently pulled him free of the man’s grip. The boy wept and gulped.

  ‘Who are you? His father?’

  ‘A friend to the family. Who are you, stranger?’

  A cold light flared in his eyes. ‘I am your magistrate, boy. I have come to introduce myself in the village. And not before time, I see. Thieves must be punished, not indulged.’

  The boy wriggled free of his grip and darted away. Those gathered around whispered and jostled. He had given them even more to tattle over than usual.

  ‘He is no thief,’ he said. ‘He was helping me with an errand.’

  The magistrate cast his chill gaze around the crowd. ‘I have observed enough to know there is much work to be done. Your ways have grown slovenly and corrupt. Do not think I cannot see what passes amongst you. Know now. It will be stopped. Those that transgress shall be punished, and I shall ensure I learn all there is to be known of this foul and wicked place. You may well look afraid. A turning of fortune was due and it arrives today.’

  Daniel broke from the crowd and walked away. The magistrate remained where he stood, his anger like frost burn against Daniel’s back.

  ‘Be warned, young man,’ he called. Daniel did not stop. ‘I will be watching. Your insolence shall not be forgotten.’

  Maggots

  Annie and I sidle among the crowds down by the harbour, peering at the fishes and cockles and mussels on display. There are but a few selling radishes and baby turnips, though most will grow them in their own scrubby wind-beaten gardens and have no need to buy. Today the sea is flat and grey, appearing placid, but I know it cannot be trusted. In but a moment it may turn, and claim its next victim.

  I catch an eye or two, searching out a soft-heart. Women are more likely to give but less likely to control where the coins go. Market day, when men are scarce, can be good to us. Not today. To a one, they step away, casting a disgusted look at Annie and wrinkling a nose at me.

  This we’re used to. But now there is a boldness in their cruelty that is new.

  ‘Get away,’ one seller yells, charging round to where we stand and shoving his face in mine. I pull Annie behind me. He shakes a fist and I do my best not to flinch, not to let the anger take me over, confirming all they think me to be. ‘Away, shoo. We don’t want your kind with your filth and spells.’

  More gather behind him, stepping out from behind the wares they sell. Looking us up and down, whispering, curling their lips. There is an angry face wherever I glance. I hold tight to Annie.

  A woman shoves me so that I almost knock Annie over. ‘Should’ve finished the job after your brother set about Sam Finch,’ she says, turning to bask in the approving nods and jeers from the others. ‘Should’ve burned that dirty plague shack to the ground that night, and all you in it.’

  I cannot find my voice, and am appalled to feel tears rise in my eyes.

  ‘There are other nights,’ the man says.

  I swallow, draw myself up, willing my tears to stop. We’ve been hurt by villagers before. We’ve been sent away. But never have I been feared as I am now. Never have I looked to find a friendly face, a kindly hand to offer protection.

  I spin around. A small way off I see the farm housemaid, Bett, bending over a pile of fish and arguing with the seller. Next to her stands Daniel.

  The last person I want to meet. He must not see more of my humiliation.

  I step back. ‘Come, Annie,’ I say. Feel the stalking of he that chose me, calling to the loathing in me – willing me to act. I drag myself away from the urge to do his bidding. ‘We shall leave.’

  The crowd simply stand silent, watching us. I pull Annie away, glancing again towards where Daniel stood. He is no longer there. We need to leave now, before there’s worse trouble, but Annie taps a woman on the back and asks for a coin.

  The woman lashes out and Annie sprawls on the ground.

  ‘That was not called for,’ I say, before I can stop myself, lifting her and dusting her off. She glowers at the woman, the blacksmith’s wife who stands with her daughter, both in coloured petticoats, staring at us as though at maggots, with arms folded.

  ‘Away,’ she says. ‘This is no place for your kind, but for those with honest earnings to spend.’ She pushes Annie again. ‘Shoo.’

  Annie stamps her foot and it’s all I can do to prevent myself from joining her. I catch my breath and calm myself.

  The daughter smirks. ‘Don’t touch them, Mother,’ she says, behind her hand but loud enough for me to hear. ‘They’re riddled with lice, at the least. Just look at them.’

  There is a cruel joy lighting her eyes. ‘Is that not the new magistrate?’ she asks, head tilted towards her mother but gaze fixed on mine. Annie squirms at the strength of my grip. ‘Let’s call him, he shall not abide with this, shall he? Let’s see his views on begging. Perhaps he may ask again of those not seen attending church.’

  We are nothing more than a moment’s amusement to her. I do not know how she can look upon Annie and see anything but a hungry child. I do not know how she can lack pity.

  But they are both quickly turning towards a commotion on the other side of the market, hurrying to see the new entertainment. The space they leave is immediately filled with the farm housemaid, bustling in and ushering us both away.

  ‘Leave here,’ she whispers.

  ‘But we’ve no—’

  ‘Take this.’ She bends and gives a coin to Annie. ‘And away. No one is like to look kindly on you today.’

  Annie stares at the coin, then back up at the housemaid, remembering a previous kindness from her. ‘Thank you,’ she says. Blinks. ‘That cake was very nice, is there any cake?’

  ‘Hush,’ I say.

  The woman laughs. ‘Another time.’ She looks at me, flapping her arms as though I’m a crow stealing her seedlings, and turns away.

  I pull Annie back up the path that skirts the green and the Taylors’ farm. Dare not stop by the beck and look for the hag stone. Only when we reach the foot of the hill, where our home nestles amongst the decaying remains of the hamlet, do I breathe free again.

  Annie hands Mam the coin, earning leave to play. She scampers off, not to the woods today but through the empty doorway of a nearby shack. The weight of grass and ivy creeping over it have caved in the roof on one side, and bright spatterings of forget-me-nots and scarlet pimpernel burst between fallen stones. This is her favourite place to play at having her own home, creating food with mud to place on leaf-plates. Sometimes I hear her talking to the imagined friends she shares these meals with and I try not to think of what spirits Annie in her childish innocence might see, tethered still to the place they lived and died.

  Mam runs a thumb over the coin, and her face softens a little. There’s no better feeling than returning home with an offering for her, a coin being the best of any, though she will say she expects no less.

  ‘Where did it come from?’ she asks, as I sit at the table with John.

  ‘The housemaid at the farm, you know her?’

  ‘Aye,’ Mam says. ‘Kind soul.’

  John blows dust from the wood he carves. ‘Remember that time she gave Annie honey cake? She’d have flit and moved in with her, given half the chance.’

  ‘So would I, for honey cake,’ I say. ‘Mam, dust know of a new magistrate arrived in the village?’

  Her head snaps towards me and she clutches her chest.

  ‘No,’ she says. Not in answer to my question, but a denial, a dread, that this can be so.

  She yanks out a stool and collapses on to it. Al
l colour gone from her face.

  John looks up. ‘Aye. That old boater Henry Thompson got caught in the woods on May Day with his serving girl, just a young lass. New man’s here, then? You always knew he was a lecherous old dog, didn’t you, Mam? Always said so.’

  ‘Gone?’ Mam asks, rising again so quickly that her stool falls to the floor. ‘No, no. He kept us safe, kept his distance. Could never accuse us because I knew, knew everything he was and I held my tongue, I dealt with the girls, gave them the brew free of charge, and he was safe and so were we.’ She mutters the words, fast and quiet, so that I can barely grasp their meaning. My mind reels. What has she done, all this time? Served this beast to keep us safe? And what will become of us with him gone? Her footsteps quicken as she paces, agitated, breath ragged.

  John catches my eye, his expression one of confusion and misgiving. ‘Hush, Mam,’ he says, voice gentle. ‘Happen we’ll be all right, just as now. Same law, another man is all.’

  He doesn’t understand. But I do. I close my eyes but cannot hold back the memory that is always within me.

  Eleven years old and I was to be out of the house because Mam was with the men, but it was mizzling and I returned. I stood outside, soaked and shivering, building courage to defy her and step in. I can still see my own hand reaching out, pushing the door open. Can still feel that sure, sickening knowledge that whatever lay behind it was shadowed in shame. She was with one, the blanket hung in the doorway and I could hear the noises, so I stayed in the other room.

  He was waiting. Bright little eyes stared at me from folds of flesh; sweat glistening, then beading, then running down the quivering jowls. He heaved to his feet, hand outstretched, and I didn’t know what he meant to do, so I remained there.

  Then the sound of tearing cloth as if from far away, the stench of his breath in my face. Hot, clammy palm against my skin. I can feel it now, jerk back in revulsion.

  Mam behind him, arm around his neck, point of the knife digging into the doughy ripples under his chin. The only time I ever saw her driven to real violence. Red trickle that ran and pattered on the floor. Wet glisten of his lips as he prattled and begged, offered Mam whatever she asked if only she let him be. I understand now, this was my first meeting with Magistrate Thompson. And our reason for safety all this time.