by Ann Swinfen
He fetched a small branch from the woodpile beside the fire and snapped off a piece about nine inches long, then whittled the end till it could be wedged into the smaller hole. Anne grasped the improvised handle and found she could turn the grindstone much more easily, though it was still hard work.
‘I mind,’ said Peter slowly, ‘that when she had ’un fairly turning, my grand-dam said ’twas the wheat itself that made ’un run smooth. She would sit there, turning and scooping in the wheat, and ’twas not so hard as you’re finding, mistress.’
‘Give me your stool, Margit,’ said Anne, ‘and pick up every last grain of that spilled wheat, for we cannot spare it.’
She sat down and tried to do at Peter had suggested. At first she struggled with the rough handle and blisters were beginning to form on the palm of her right hand before the stone suddenly, magically, began to move smoothly. She trickled wheat into the central hole from the palm of her left hand while she continued to turn with her right. The rolling grains and the natural silkiness of the flour had somehow oiled the quern so that it now turned quite easily. Her arm began to ache from the awkward movement, but she no longer had to fight the weight of the grindstone. The flour brimmed up and trickled slowly over the lip into the shallow dish Hester had placed there. Strands of hair were clinging stickily to Anne’s face when she gave up her place to Biddy, who took over dubiously, but soon agreed that the wretched thing did seem to be working.
‘Well,’ said Anne, her voice bright with relief, ‘thanks to your grand-dam, Peter, we will have fresh bread tonight!’
‘Hard work for us, all the same,’ she heard Biddy mutter, as she left the kitchen, but it sounded as though it was said merely for form’s sake.
It was snowing again the next morning, but not heavily, so Anne decided she would continue with her plan of riding to Weeford, although she was aching and tender from the previous day’s ride. She would not let herself give in to weakness and stay beside the fire which Peter had lit in the small parlour, though she was sorely tempted. Late the previous afternoon she had told Josiah to shift all the rotting hay on to the midden, and to wash down that part of the barn where it had been stored, lest the rot spread to the new hay.
‘I don’t understand why you kept it,’ she said. ‘It’s not fit for any beast to eat.’
‘It were not as rotted as this at the first. I thought us might have need of ’un,’ he said defensively.
Anne shook her head. Little as she knew about farming, she knew no animal could have eaten that blackening mess.
She waited at Swinfen long enough to see the first of the haywains from the bishop’s estate drive in, and fingered the hay anxiously.
‘Is it good enough?’ she asked Josiah.
‘Aye. As good as any this year. Those meadows belonging to the bishop are on good soil, and slope away to the south. They would’ve made hay there early, so maybe they ’scaped the rain that caught most of us.’
Mounted again on the mare Brandy, Anne rode south to the crossroads. There the Swinfen road met Roman Watling Street, which led away west to Wales and east towards Tamworth, and beyond that to Sutton Cheney, where John’s cousins lived. She nodded to a carter with a load of logs as he turned off Watling Street and headed for Lichfield, then she rode over the crossroads and south the short distance to Weeford. On the right hand lay the manor of Thickbroome where they had lived for twelve years, before John was elected to Parliament. They had leased the estate to the Sylvesters when they moved to London, but Anne looked eagerly at the familiar woods bordering the road before she turned left into the narrow lane leading down into Weeford.
This was her childhood home, for she had grown up at Weeford Hall in a large family, of whom six sisters and three brothers had survived infancy. They were married now and moved away, and when her parents had gone down into Kent, Mary and her husband had leased Weeford Hall and its manor from them. Mary Swynfen was just a year younger than her brother John, and the Swynfens and Brandreths had tumbled about like one family when they were children. The two girls had been friends since they could barely walk. Anne had been surprised and a little dismayed when Mary Swynfen married Thomas Pott nearly twenty years ago. Mary was just fifteen years old then, while Thomas was only a few months younger than her father, an old man of thirty-two. Thirty-two did not seem such a great age to Anne now, and the marriage had proved a happy one. Both John and his father had a high opinion of Thomas Pott, and Anne knew that if she needed help at Swinfen, she could rely on him, though she would not ask for it if she could manage without.
Mary embraced Anne joyfully.
‘I never thought to see you here! Are you all come home? Why hasn’t John ridden over with you? I’ll scold him surely! And the baby . . . surely the baby was due by now? Come into the parlour and I’ll ring for something to eat.’
Mary bustled about, her usual plump, energetic self, giving Anne no time to reply to her questions. A maid brought in a fine crystal flask of wine with Venetian goblets, and a plate of little currant cakes. The Potts, at least, seemed well provided for the winter. Anne, standing at the window and looking out at the familiar outline of her mother’s garden, turned as the maid withdrew, and noticed she was limping. The girl looked up as she closed the door, and caught Anne’s eye, but her face was carefully blank. It was Bridget.
‘Now,’ said Mary, urging Anne into the best seat by the fire and piling up a plate of currant cakes for her, ‘tell me all. Thomas will be so vexed to miss you, but he’s ridden over to Tamworth on some business or other and won’t return before nightfall. Why are you here?’
So Anne began with the struggle between Parliament and the army, and John’s part in attempting to negotiate the peace. When she came to the arrest and imprisonment of the Members of Parliament, her sister-in-law’s usually merry face grew grave.
‘We heard there was trouble in London, but we didn’t know that John had been imprisoned. My poor brother will be half mad. He can’t even bear to be confined to the house by bad weather. What will he do in this case? And have you heard from him?’
‘A short note only. I managed to send him clothes and money, but he had told me to pack and leave London with the children. He feared for our safety.’
She gave a brief account of the journey to Staffordshire, the birth of the baby, and the time spent in Oxford.
‘And then when we arrived at Swinfen, to find all in such disarray—your parents both ill and incapable, most of the servants gone, the house dirty and cold, and scarce any food . . .’
Mary looked uncomfortable.
‘When Father fell ill, we went over to Swinfen, of course, Thomas and I, but, well, it has been difficult. My mother and I have somewhat fallen out of late. I’m afraid we quarrelled, and she sent us off. Since then the weather has been terrible . . . I didn’t realise that matters had come to such a pass. My mother said some unkind things . . .’
‘Perhaps her wits were already straying,’ said Anne. It was the kindest assumption. ‘She’s become like a little child, but sometimes she has terrible rages. I find it very strange. Your father . . . I’m not sure. He’s managing to take a little food now.’
‘The ’pothecary said he would never recover.’
‘That may be so. We must just wait on God’s will.’
‘As for the manor,’ Mary said, ‘I’ll send Thomas over tomorrow. He’ll soon have everything set to rights.’
Again, Anne felt that reluctance. Thomas would no doubt take over the manor and, very kindly, set her aside. She found she did not want that.
‘I’d be glad to see Thomas at any time, of course, but I’m managing very well. The house is much improved, and we’re contriving what we can in the way of food, though the children complain a good deal about having to eat porridge! Yesterday,’ she said, trying to conceal her pride, ‘I rode into Lichfield and bought enough hay to see the breeding stock through the winter.’
Mary looked shocked, and her dismay only
deepened as she listened to the full story of Anne’s visit to Lichfield, a story she exaggerated a little as she described the hostile reception she had received from the yeomen farmers.
‘But, Anne, you must not deal with such people yourself! It’s most unseemly. John would not care for it at all.’
Anne looked down at her hands. She knew very well that John would not care for it, but would he like it any better if Thomas Pott took over the running of his manor, however kindly?
‘I shall have no need to deal with such people, as you say, for much of the time. I can use Josiah as an intermediary when it’s suitable. Yesterday it was important that he should mend the roof of the barn to keep out the winter weather.’
Their talk turned to other family matters. Mary had only four children who had lived, the eldest, Richard, being a year older than Anne’s Dick.
‘I look at him,’ said Mary, ‘and cannot believe that I was younger than he is now when my first babe, my little Ann that I named for you, was born and died. He seems such a child.’
‘Our Dick is still a wild lad, but I hope he’s hard at his lessons,’ said Anne, and told Mary of her unsuccessful and humiliating encounter with the Master of Charterhouse.
They had finished their wine and cakes when Anne broached the real reason for her visit.
‘Bridget?’ she said.
‘Ah, Bridget,’ said Mary, once again looking uncomfortable. ‘You understand, Anne, that it was not my wish. My mother had taken the notion that Bridget . . . she thought Bridget took it for granted that she should live a gentlewoman at home. She said Bridget must not remain dependent, she was lazy . . .’
‘Bridget!’
Anne thought of the many hours Bridget used to spend in kitchen and stillroom, labouring over preserves and family medicines. The hateful task of rubbing the curing hams every day with salt and saltpetre—a task which turned the hands raw and bleeding—that had always been Bridget’s task, when it should have been a servant’s. Who mended the family’s finest silk clothes and French lace? Mistress Joane would never have trusted them to a servant. It was always Bridget who spent evening after evening in the poor candlelight, restoring them with her fine stitches. In fact, since it seemed Bridget had been here at Mary’s house for more than a year, that might account for why the household supply of preserves was so low at Swinfen. It might not be entirely due to the depredations of the soldiers. Indeed, it was a wonder Mistress Joane had wanted to be rid of her, so valuable were her services. No doubt it had all been done in a moment of pique.
‘I know,’ said Mary. ‘It was cruel and unfair. But you know how it is with my mother. She looks at Bridget and she feels guilt, and that makes her angry.’
‘Why should she feel guilt?’
‘Didn’t you know? She wouldn’t send for the physician when Bridget was ill, that time when she was a child. Perhaps he could have done nothing to help her, but I’m sure my mother half blames herself for the fact that Bridget has a twisted leg, so she can’t bear to look at her.’
‘But Bridget has the sweetest nature of anyone I know,’ Anne protested. ‘She blames no one. I can’t think of anyone with a kinder heart.’
‘That’s true. I don’t say that my mother is justified, only what I think she feels. At all events, about a year ago—aye, it was in the dull days after Christmas, a year ago—she makes up her mind that Bridget is to go into service as a gentlewoman to some upstart merchant family in Tamworth. The shame of it! The disgrace to the family! And so far away, she couldn’t even have walked home to visit us. So Thomas said we had better have her here. I already had a waiting gentlewoman, as you know—Elizabeth Wyatt, cousin to your Patience. I couldn’t dismiss her. Bridget must come as an upper servant. It has been very trying for us both. I know I feel it keenly. Bridget will not talk of it. Indeed, she will not talk to me at all, although I’m her sister. We didn’t need another servant, and did it only out of kindness, that she might not be sent out of the family, but I think she resents it.’
And so she might, thought Anne. It was not unheard of for a youngster to spend time in the home of a relative, usually a richer relative, being tutored with the children of the family and instructed in courtly manners, but Bridget was a woman grown, and her position was clearly different.
‘I would be happy,’ said Anne hesitantly, ‘to take her home to Swinfen with me. If you truly don’t need her. She could take up her old place as a daughter of the house, and welcome.’
Mary gave her an odd look.
‘You are very certain of your position to command in my parents’ house,’ she said sharply.
Anne recoiled as if she had been slapped, and felt the blood rising in her face. She did not think she had merited that. But perhaps Mary was still feeling ashamed because Anne had discovered the house and household at Swinfen to be in such a fearful condition, not two miles from Mary’s own home.
There was an uncomfortable silence between them, which neither seemed willing to break.
‘You must decide what you think best,’ Anne said quietly at last. ‘At the moment there’s none else but myself to take charge at Swinfen. Your father is robbed of speech and movement, your mother seems to have lost her wits, at least for the time. When John returns, he will, of course, act as the eldest son must in such circumstances. In the meantime, I am only contriving to see that we all, men and beasts alike, live through the winter.’
Mary avoided her eyes, but gave a small nod.
‘It seems to me that you find it difficult to have Bridget here,’ Anne continued. ‘Your mother, in her present state, will be quite unaware of whether Bridget is at Swinfen or here in Weeford. Why don’t we ask Bridget herself what she would like to do?’
‘Very well.’ Mary tinkled a little silver bell, and Bridget herself knocked at the door and came in.
Before Mary could embarrass them all by addressing Bridget as a servant, Anne leapt to her feet and embraced her young sister-in-law, and told her that she would gladly take her back to Swinfen that very day, if she wished to come.
‘But Mistress Pott may need my services here,’ Bridget said.
Anne ground her teeth at this form of address, but, without saying anything, turned and looked at Mary.
‘Of course you must go home to Swinfen, if that’s what you would prefer,’ said Mary. ‘We only wanted to give you a home.’
With a little more skirting around the niceties, it was established that Bridget would go home with Anne, on a pillion saddle which the Potts’ stableman would lend them. As if ashamed of her outburst at Anne, Mary filled a pair of saddlebags with potted beef, dried fruits, honey and cheese. Bridget took off her long apron and her servant’s plain cap and donned a cloak. Apart from a small bag of linen, she left her clothes behind at Weeford Hall to be sent on.
As they rode out past the church, Bridget wrapped her arms around Anne’s waist to save herself falling off.
‘This mare is somewhat crowded,’ she said, ‘with two women and a pair of saddlebags. I don’t think her back is built for such a load.’
‘We haven’t far to go,’ said Anne. ‘I’m sure she will survive as far as Swinfen. Do you mind that I came to fetch you away?’
‘Anne,’ said Bridget, ‘you are a true friend, a Sir Galahad, a Perseus rescuing the maiden from the monster . . .’
‘Oh come,’ said Anne, ‘Mary is become mighty proud now she has got Weeford Hall, but to call her a monster . . . !’
Bridget quickly resumed her old place at home in Swinfen Hall, and took charge of the nursing of her father. She had the patience which Biddy lacked, and the time she spent feeding him and reading to him freed Anne for the many other tasks that had fallen to her lot. Anne was overwhelmed with guilty relief. With Joane Swynfen they would need to proceed more cautiously, for her moods were changeable. She might still retain her venom towards her crippled daughter, but Anne hoped secretly that Bridget might also relieve her of that distasteful duty. On the first
afternoon, when she brought Bridget up to her father-in-law’s room, she was sure there was a gleam of pleasure in the haunted eyes looking out of that distorted face.
‘Bridget is come home, Father,’ she said, unnecessarily.
They had no need of her. Bridget limped to her father’s bedside and kissed him on his withered cheek. She had not seen him since his illness, and she had to turn aside to hide her tears, but soon made herself busy with the tray of food and the straightening of the bedclothes. Anne left them alone together.
The most urgent of her tasks in feeding the household was to convert some of the winter milk into cheese. Biddy made curds by setting a pan of milk by the fire and waiting for it to curdle, but the process often failed. The milk drew the hibernating flies, wood ash fell into the dish, and by the time it was sufficiently separated for the curds to be strained from the whey, it had developed an unpleasant sour taste, which not even salt and the precious pepper Anne had brought from London could disguise.
While they were riding back from Weeford, Anne had asked Bridget if she could remember the method of cheese-making without rennet.
‘For,’ she said, ‘there will be no new suckling calf for rennet until spring, and even then I would sooner not kill any of the calves. The herd will be small enough as it is.’
‘I’m sure you are right,’ said Bridget, ‘but I have forgot what herb the cottagers used in the old days. I can tell you who would know.’
‘Who is that?’
‘Old Goody Lea, who lives in that cottage the far side of Packington Moor. She’s the wisest woman in these parts for herbs and old remedies.’
‘Aye,’ said Anne, somewhat reluctantly.
Agnes Lea was an ancient crone whose husband had built the cottage on part of Packington Moor that belonged to the Swynfens. The Leas were squatters, with no rights in the land, which Goodman Lea had claimed was common land, though it was not. John’s grandfather had threatened him with the law and with eviction many years before, but the man had died, gored by a bull when he was crossing a field over Freford way during a poaching expedition. He had left his wife and nine children destitute, and John’s grandfather had not pursued the case.