by Ann Swinfen
With Gideon and Nehemiah working in the village, all the farm tasks fell to Kitty and me, so we laboured hard all day. Mistress Morton, having spent the night at my mother’s bedside, was kindness itself, cooking meals for us, and even taking time to shut up the hens in the evening. The men returned after dark, hungry, although they admitted that Mistress Cox and Mistress Sawyer had fed them well while they worked.
‘Rafe managed to make an exchange with the woodsman,’ Gideon said, stretching his legs out before the fire. I noticed there was a hole in the toe of his hose. ‘He brought back as much as his cart would carry. All the beams for the base, and some of the uprights. He will fetch more tomorrow.’
‘All that for two fleeces?’ I was astonished.
‘The woodsman has trusted him with the timbers, in advance of the remainder of the payment. His wife died of the marsh fever two years ago and he has three young boys. He has ordered blankets from Alice, and warm winter clothes for the lads. He has no woman to weave and knit for the family. Alice will go with Rafe tomorrow, to measure the children.’
‘A good exchange for all, then,’ I said.
‘Aye, Rafe has been lucky. We should finish the foundations tomorrow, then we will start to put the frame together. Ned will be in charge of that, and the rest of us will be his apprentices and labourers.’
He grinned suddenly. ‘I only hope that Rafe has worked out his calculations correctly. He has planned it all in such a rush.’
‘Ned will set him right,’ I said with certainty. ‘He knows how to frame a house, though he cannot read and can only draw plans based on rule of thumb.’
‘Aye. Sometimes I am almost ashamed of my book learning, now that I am coming to know the skills of our unlettered neighbours all the better.’
‘Like cheese making?’ I gave him a wicked grin, and dodged when he threw a cushion at me.
The house building continued at a fast pace, for we had been spared rain for a few days, and everyone was eager to do as much as possible while there was the opportunity. The crops recovered a little under the thin sunshine, and we all hoped that it would mean there would be some food to be gathered when it was time for harvest. Kitty and I continued to run the farm by ourselves and were so busy making cheese and pickling eggs for the winter that we had no opportunity to deal with the rest of the fleeces. Mistress Morton stayed on with us, and turned her hand to some spinning. She also dyed some of the spun yarn with onion skins, woad and madder, so we should have a supply of different coloured wools when we had time once more for weaving and knitting. I saw nothing of Alice. Gideon brought word that she was working like a woman possessed, to make the goods for the woodsman.
‘She is determined Rafe shall pay for all the wood before the house is complete,’ he said. ‘He must not be foresworn!’
‘That is like Alice,’ I said. ‘She will always put those she loves before herself, but she should have a care. There is the unborn child to think of as well.’
‘She will do nothing foolish,’ Mistress Morton said, as she dished out our evening meal. ‘My girl has a sensible head on her shoulders.’
To our disappointment, the drainers had not returned to the mill since we had undermined it, and we began to worry that the tunnels might begin to collapse before they came. It was a relief that there was no more rain at present, for that would certainly have caused the weakened bank to crumble.
The whole framework of Rafe’s house was assembled and erected before van Slyke and his men returned to the medland. Shortly after they were seen, Jack, accompanied by Dick Waters, sauntered out to the flock grazing on the medland, well away from the ditch. Jack came that evening to tell us the tale, rubbing his hands in glee.
‘At first I thought all our labour would go for nothing,’ he said. ‘They were working on their ditch first, shoring up the banks which had collapsed. I began to think we could hardly pretend to go on tending the ewes for much longer, when at last van Slyke and about half a dozen of his men went over to the mill.’
He took a swig of the beer I had poured for him. ‘They seemed for ever to be poking about outside, then one of the men climbed up a ladder to inspect one of the sails, and came down shaking his head. I thought they would leave then, but at last they all went into the mill and closed the door. Dick and I stood there, holding our breath.’
‘And?’ I said. I knew Jack was teasing us by prolonging his story.
‘Then we began to hear a creaking noise. It reminded me of my time as sea. The ship used to creak like that in a storm. It’s the sound of tightly fastened timbers under strain. There was only that creaking at first, then a crackling, the noise you hear just as a felled tree begins to fall.’
‘Did the mill fall?’ Kitty was as impatient as I was.
‘Aye, Kitty lass, the whole mill keeled over like a felled tree and collapsed into the moss.’
‘We did it!’ she said with shining eyes, clapping her hands together.
I began to feel I was not setting her a good example, were I to gloat as well. There had been men inside the mill.
‘Were they injured?’ Much as I loathed them, I hoped we had not killed any of the drainers.
‘They all climbed out, eventually. The door had ended above their heads, so they must have had to scramble up through it somehow. Then they made their way crawling along to the base, which was the only part still on the bank, and slid down from there. A few of them were limping, and one man was holding a bloody clout to the side of his head, but none seemed seriously hurt.’
‘God be thanked,’ Gideon said. ‘We should none of us want to be a party to murder.’
‘Such considerations do not hinder them,’ Jack said seriously. ‘Remember how van Slyke shot at Tom. He could have killed him.’
‘That does not make it any better for us,’ Gideon said. ‘What state is the mill in?’
‘Badly smashed. It will need to be completely rebuilt.’
‘Do you think they will suspect what we did?’ I asked.
Jack shook his head. ‘There was such a mess of timber and earth and rushes, no one would think the collapse anything other than an accident. The ground is still very soft since the flood – their flood – and then all this rain. I think we may take it that they will believe it a natural disaster.’
‘Well, that will hamper them for a good while,’ I said, ‘since it is clear that Sir John has certainly used none of his powers as a Justice of the Peace to curb their activities. If only we can hold them back until Tom finds the charter.’ I sighed. ‘If ever he does.’
All of us would need to help with the harvest before the weather broke again, poor as the crops were likely to be, but we wanted to see the outside of Rafe and Alice’s house secure against the rain before then. The spaces between the timber framework would first be filled with panels of woven withies and rushes, like the hurdles we use for penning sheep. Then these would be plastered over with a daub made of clayey soil, sand, animal hair, and cow dung. Laid on thickly, inside and out, it would eventually harden, whenever we had any warmth in the sun. Afterwards it could be lime washed.
Even the women could help with the daub, so the next day, after Kitty and I had finished the milking, we donned our oldest clothes and walked to the village. Some of the men had already prepared several large heaps of daub, turning it with spades until it was well mixed, and everyone from the village crowded about to help. A few of the elderly sat on upturned barrels and told us we were doing it all wrong. The children ran about, gloriously dirty, but they were useful, pushing their small hands in where others could not reach. The younger men perched on ladders, coating the upper panels and sometimes dropping gobs of daub on unsuspecting heads below, not altogether by accident. Kitty and I found places out of their range, and began to slap and smear daub on to lower panels. If you do not think about where it has come from, cow dung does not smell too unpleasant, not like human waste. I think it is because cows feed on simple clean things like fresh grass or hay. And applying
the daub to the woven panels is like being a child again, playing in a sodden lane, making mud villages for imaginary games.
It is quite hard labour as well, for you must work the daub well in amongst the woven withies, not simply smooth it over the surface. We were all glad when it was time to stop for a midday break of beer, bread, cheese, and pickled eel. Some of the men ate theirs with their daub-covered hands, but I took Kitty firmly off to the Coxes’ house, where Alice gave us a bucket of water to wash in.
‘It is really beginning to look like a house now!’ she said excitedly.
‘If only there were more sun,’ I said, ‘to dry the daub. Then you could have it lime washed before harvest.’
‘Never mind,’ she said. ‘It will dry in time. I expect it is better for it to dry slowly. There are still the inner dividing walls for the rooms to build, and the floors, and the stairs. Once the house is water tight, that can be done even when it is raining.’
Involuntarily, I glanced at the sky. Clouds were gathering out to the east, over the sea. They would not reach us today, but perhaps tomorrow.
‘Toby and Ned and Robin plan to start thatching the roof this afternoon,’ I said, ‘on the far side, where the daub is finished.’
‘Let us hope they can finish this side as well,’ she said, ‘before the rain comes again.’
‘Nehemiah wanted to help, and he is an excellent thatcher, but the others said he was too old to go climbing about the roof.’
‘He would not be pleased about that.’
‘He was not.’
We all continued to work hard for the rest of the day, and by dusk all the daub had been applied. The roof was about three-quarters thatched, but the rain clouds were rolling nearer. The men working on the roof decided to continue by the light of lanterns, which they hung from the branches of nearby trees, not wanting to risk candles too close to the reed thatch. It seemed an impossible task, to complete it before the rain came, in the dark, but Nehemiah, ignoring the protests of the younger men, climbed up with a bundle of reeds on his back and the handle of his legget tucked into his belt, to begin work on the unfinished area. It was a delight to watch him, for I think no one understood the reeds as he did. Or perhaps the reeds understood him, waterman that he was. In any case, the layers of reeds fell into place smoothly and were tapped level with the legget, with none of the cursing and fumbling of the other men. Finally admitting his greater skill, the younger thatchers passed up further bundles of reeds and twisted hazel staples as he gave his orders.
Leaving them to finish the work, Gideon, Kitty and I began to walk up the lane to Turbary Holm.
‘I hope Mistress Morton has made us a supper,’ Kitty said. ‘I could eat an ox!’
‘And there is still the milking to do.’ I groaned. I had forgotten the milking.
‘I’ll fetch the cows in,’ Gideon said, turning aside to take the shortcut to the medland.
‘Can you manage without Jacob?’ I asked, for I had left the dog at home, fearing that he might find the heaps of daub irresistible to roll in.
‘Aye. If I lead Blackthorn, the others will follow.’
Kitty and I continued on our way, stumbling occasionally in the dark. A sudden rumble of thunder startled us.
‘A good way off still,’ I said. ‘I hope they finish the thatching in time.’
‘Nehemiah is very good, isn’t he?’ Kitty said. ‘For such an old man.’
‘He does not think he is so old. And he isn’t as old as he looks. He has had a hard life. I think he must be about five and fifty.’
Kitty’s eyes widened. To her Nehemiah at such an age must have seemed a true Methuselah.
The house was very quiet when we entered. Jacob was asleep by the fire, and there was something simmering in the iron cookpot hanging at the side of the fire. Mistress Morton would be up in my mother’s bedchamber. However, she must have heard us come in, for we had scarcely removed our muddy shoes before she was there, coming through from the stairs. Her face was pale, and streaked with tears.
She put her arms around me. ‘I’m sorry, Mercy. I was going to fetch you, but it happened so quickly in the end. I am afraid Abigail is gone.’
I looked at her in disbelief. My mother had been sitting up in bed when I left in the morning, recalling with Mistress Morton some adventure of their youth. She had even laughed a little and, looking up at me standing in the doorway, she had smiled. Not as if she knew I was her daughter, but merely sharing a happy memory.
Nothing seemed real. I took up a candle and began to climb the stairs, only aware that every joint ached. Below me, I heard Mistress Morton telling Kitty to wait. There were candles burning in my mother’s chamber, giving light where there was no one to see. In the big bed where once my parents had slept, the bed where I myself came into the world, there was only a tiny figure, who seemed no bigger than a child.
I set down my candle and knelt by the side of the bed. One of my mother’s hands lay, palm up, on the cover, and I took it in both of mine. It was not quite cold. I pressed it to my lips.
‘Oh, Mama,’ I said, ‘surely you must remember me now, wherever you are. I hope you find Father, and your sister Elizabeth.’ Her hand, which I had always known so busy, spinning, weaving, sewing, cooking, kneading bread, lay forever still. ‘I wish I could have comforted you these last terrible months.’ A sob rose in my throat, choking me.
I saw that her face looked peaceful, as though all the fear and confusion had been swept away. But I had never in all my life felt so forlorn.
The storm broke in its full strength that night, and raged for a day and a half. When the clouds finally blew away and a fragile sun peered out, Gideon rode to the village to see the Reverend Webberly and arrange the funeral. I went about my usual tasks automatically. Although my mother had been lost to us for months, yet I suppose I had always clung to the hope that she might find her way back to us, although I knew in my heart of hearts that it was a vain hope.
When it came to the time for the funeral, all the village gathered to support us, for my mother had lived here all her life. The elders of the village could remember her being born. And until the blight of a wandering mind fell upon her, she had been busy about the village and well loved. It was she who had taken in the foundling Kitty, and she who had provided many a meal for Joseph Waters and other paupers. I went through the service without truly hearing the words, only coming to my senses when clods of wet earth began to be shovelled down upon the coffin. Then I turned aside, feeling sick. Even Gideon’s arm, gripping me firmly around the shoulders, was little comfort. We held a modest wake afterwards, but the new rector disapproved of such things, so it was brief and quiet. Afterwards I went to bed and slept for a day.
The rain storm had flattened the crops. Although we had a week of mild sun, there was little hope of gathering much at harvest time. Before we attempted to reap what we could, I wrote to Tom, telling him of our mother’s death, and begging him for news, for I had not heard from him for a long while. I told him too that I was growing very doubtful of Sir John’s honesty. As more time passed and he did nothing to stop the adventurers or to send us any word about the search for the charter, I began to grow more and more fearful. Had Sir John somehow betrayed us? I wanted Tom’s opinion and I wanted to know what he was doing in London.
At long last we trailed out to begin harvesting what we could from our meagre crops. It was heartbreaking. The pitiful yields of wheat and barley were perhaps a quarter of what we could expect in a normal year, or even less. Much of the crop lay flattened and rotting on the ground. The beans had fared a little better. Some had rotted, while some, in the parts of the field that were better drained, had gone almost too far, so that the beans were large and tough. Still, if we dried them they could be added to pottage flavoured with an end of bacon or a beef bone, to make a dull but sustaining meal. The stalks that were not rotted we cut for forage for the sheep and pigs. I was worried lest our share of the hay we had cut earlier in the summer should p
rove insufficient for our cows. We had two male calves we would slaughter before winter for beef, but I was anxious to over winter all the cows, for our cheeses were one sure food which could sustain us, summer and winter.
The final day of cutting the wheat was coming to an end. Everywhere there were worried faces, and voices subdued by anxiety. The last cart set off to the village with its pitiful load as we shouldered our scythes and began to trudge homewards. As we reached our lane, I saw a figure approaching from the direction of the village and shaded my eyes from the mocking light of a sun which had come too late to do us any good. It was a young man, by the look of him, but limping and weary almost beyond endurance. When he drew nearer, I recognised him.
‘Ben!’ I cried. ‘It is Ben! Whatever can he be doing here? And where are the others?’
As he reached us, he seemed to stagger, as though he would fall, and I saw that that his left sleeve was blood soaked. There were the dark stains of dried blood and the fresh crimson of wet blood from an open wound. He took a few tremulous steps towards me and held out his hand pleadingly to me.
‘Mistress Mercy,’ he said. His voice was dry and cracked. ‘Help me. Please help me.’
Then he slid to the ground at my feet.
Gideon thrust his scythe at Nehemiah and stooped to lift the boy up.
‘He’s nothing but a skeleton,’ he said grimly. ‘He weighs no more than a child.’
‘We must get him home quickly,’ I said. ‘Run ahead, Kitty, and put water on to heat. Don’t trip over your sickle! We will need to put him in your room by the kitchen.’
She nodded and sprang away without a word.
We followed as fast as we could. Toby was still with us, and Alice’s brother Robin, who both offered to help.
‘Nay,’ I said, ‘we will manage. He is hurt, but it cannot be serious if he has walked all this way. You go back to the village and help with unloading.’