North Side of the Tree

by Maggie Prince

  “Beware the sin of pride, Brother Leofric,” murmurs Father Wolf, as he escorts us through to a garden at the back. We sit on a worm-eaten bench and sip our steaming drinks. The singer is standing with his back to us, under the remains of a ruined rose arbour, reading music from a battered manuscript and experimenting with a complicated succession of notes. He turns and nods to us, then moves away up the garden. This beautiful place seems to be reclaimed from some long-lost building. Ruined walls are visible amongst the flowering shrubs. A metal cross, buckled as if it had been burnt, leans against a logpile. Early roses run riot along a wattle fence, filling the air with scent. Next to where we sit are medlar trees, mulberry bushes and a crowded herb garden. A robin sings in a willow tree, untroubled by a young monk shaving strips of willow bark into a basket below.

  Suddenly Cedric puts down his drink. “Beatrice, don’t go. There are places for you to hide. The soldiers needn’t find you. Hide in the caves on the shore, or in the hermit’s cottage in the woods. The soldiers will eventually go away and forget you.”

  I did not mean to cry. This is not the moment. I pick up a small, leather-bound book which one of the monks has left lying on the bench. It seems to be poetry by a Scot, William Dunbar. I read where the page has fallen open.

  Our plesance heir is all vane glory.

  This fals warld is bot transitory,

  The flesche is brukle, the Fiend is slee:

  Timor mortis conturbat me.

  I read the words silently, then aloud. Cedric shakes his head. We are both in tears. Father Wolf appears, takes the book from me, sits down. “There there now,” he says severely. “We’ll take care of your friends. We’ll see them well. Look at this now! Whatever have we here?”

  Cedric and I turn. Two apparitions are emerging from the longhouse – Robert and Jonathan in rough, unhooded black habits even shabbier than those of the monks. Robert’s is threadbare and far too short for him. His bare feet and ankles stick out below the hem. Both men are washed and shaved and have had their hair trimmed. Although they are still stooped and trembling, their eyes are brighter and there is colour in their cheeks.

  “What do you think of our new novices?” demands Father Wolf. “They’ve had a good scrub. I think that this on its own will render them unrecognisable.”

  I have to laugh. I go over and kiss Robert. “My, but you make a wonderful-looking monk.”

  He smiles. It is like a miracle.

  I realise suddenly that I have been hearing a new sound, far off in the distance, for several minutes, without knowing what it was. Now a young monk comes running round the side of the longhouse, his face red and sweating.

  “Brother Wolf!” he shouts. We all turn to look at him. Father Wolf goes over and the young monk whispers in his ear. With a feeling of chill I realise what the sound is that I have been hearing. Hoofbeats.

  “Oh for heaven’s sake, not again.” Father Wolf hesitates, rubbing his hands together, then comes quickly back to us. “There are soldiers coming. I assume it is you they are after? Go with Father Oswald at once. He will hide you in the crypt beneath the ruins of the priory. All of you. Go on now, quickly. Brother Leofric! Shift that cart from round the front. Drive it out of town. Anywhere. Quickly!”

  The young monk Father Oswald rushes up to us, his robes swinging, and grabs my arm. He is not much older than I am, but he says, “This way, daughter. Come along. We’re used to this sort of thing. We’ll get rid of those nasty soldiers for you.” He leads us at a run up the garden, stumbling over neat rows of vegetable seedlings, and through a small hurdle gate at the top. The horsemen sound very close now. I can hear jangling harness metal and shouted orders. Beyond the hurdle gate is an area of scrubland, and beyond that the priory ruins. We are halfway across the scrubland when Captain Foreman steps out of the bushes.

  Chapter 28

  It is degrading and horrible. I try to unsheath my knife, but my arms are grabbed from behind. A few of the soldiers have gone to the front of the longhouse, but the rest have crept round here to lie in wait for us. We all put up a fight, even Father Oswald, who proves remarkably handy with his fists. Robert finds new strength from somewhere, and manages to lay low several soldiers before a blow from a matchlock brings him to his knees, half stunned.

  The soldiers tie our wrists behind us, and drag us back to the longhouse. There we find the monks lined up under armed guard.

  “Shoot the lot of ’em, captain?” enquires one of the soldiers, a lout with an ale-paunch bulging under his doublet, and his codpiece half undone.

  Captain Foreman shakes his head and laughs. “Heavens no, Victor my man. Where would we come to look for renegades if we were to shoot them all? No no, just keep them quiet whilst we load the traitors and the Scots on to the cart. You won’t be driving it this time, madame,” he adds to me with a chuckle. “Though we might travel faster if you did.”

  I look at the armaments cart, come back to haunt me. “Your wit is overwhelming, captain,” I mutter. “Cannot you untie our wrists? We will hardly escape, with your men so heavily armed.”

  “Now now, Mistress Becker, or should I say Mistress Garth, for you do seem to have deceived us on a number of matters? Dear me, the decadence of you West Moorlanders extends even to the clergy, it would appear. I shall be glad when my men and I are back in civilisation.” He signals to his soldiers. “Load them up! Gently with the lady now!”

  We are herded out to the front. Several villagers have gathered to watch. They point and stare. “Scots,” I hear one woman telling her children. “They’re Scots, my darlings, but don’t worry; they’re being taken away.”

  I see that Father Wolf, Father Oswald and some of the other monks are praying silently. The soldier Victor snorts in disgust and spits at them. Robert is staggering, scarcely able to stand. The side of his head is bleeding. Cedric wrenches himself away from the soldiers’ grip. “At least let the brothers tend that man’s wound before you take us away,” he demands.

  Captain Foreman looks as if he is going to agree, but just then Jonathan makes a run for it. Because he is small and slight, he has been temporarily overlooked. He gets as far as the trees on the far side of the track, sending screaming villagers scattering, before two soldiers haul him back. He kicks at them, weeping and shouting, “Kill me, English bastards! Kill me and be done with it!”

  “That can be arranged,” Captain Foreman tells him wearily. “Indeed, I would shoot you now if it were not that you must be seen to be brought back and dealt with according to the law. Unfortunately, the Lord Justice of Assize was most emphatic on this matter.” He turns to the soldier, Victor. “Tie their feet, Victor. This lot are going to be more trouble than they’re worth.”

  The ropes that bind my wrists are tight and already chafing, and my hands are going numb. “Please don’t!” I beg, before I can stop myself. There is a frightening, stifling feeling about being tied, which threatens to overcome me.

  Victor eyes me up and down, then picks me up and throws me into the back of the cart so that I land on my bound wrists. The pain is excruciating. Then he winds a rope several times round my ankles and ties it in a bow. “Pretty for a lady,” he coos. “You want to look your best for this journey, for sure as hell and damnation, no one will see you in them there dungeons.”

  I am gasping with pain as Cedric, Robert and Jonathan are pushed in after me, also bound at the ankles. Robert is now only half conscious from his head wound. “Please! Captain Foreman!” I call. “This man is going to die if you do not allow him to be tended.”

  The captain droops an elegant arm along the side of the cart. For once he is not looking arch or ironic. “Do you not think that dying now would be better for him, considering what lies ahead?” he asks me quietly. “These men have already been tried. There is no further reason to delay their execution when we return to Lancaster.” He is very close. I see that his doublet is dusty and grimy, his eyes tired and dull. There is silence as we reassess one another. I am his prisoner, no
longer ‘a lady’ requiring rehearsed notions of gallantry. He is an ordinary man in a stale uniform, exhausted and far from home. I feel something that is almost warmth towards him, until he adds, “Your own fate will take a little longer to implement, but I fear it will also be as inevitable. You are certain to be found guilty of treason and burnt at the stake, Mistress Garth. It would be better for you all if you were to drown in the quicksands. Unfortunately I cannot allow that either, since we shall be going the long way round the bay.”

  I close my eyes for a long moment. When I open them, he is still there. “How did you find us, captain?” I ask, my voice shamingly tremulous. “How did you know where to search for us?”

  He looks now as if he wants to be gone, as if this conversation were undermining him. “Your henchman, Michael I think his name was.” He steps back and signals to the cart driver. Over his shoulder he adds, “A patriotic fellow, Michael. He followed you back to the cave, then came to the healer’s cottage to tell us. We crossed the bay in your tracks.”

  The moment of shared humanity is gone. I hate him. I hate him so much. I hate Michael and Widow Brissenden too. I’d have been better off in Scotland. I should have gone with Robert two seasons ago. I should have kept going now, instead of coming here. I feel sick from the pain of my bruises and chafed wrists, sick with fear and fury. The soldiers mount up and form a guard round the cart. I try to sit up so that my arms do not hurt so much and my elbows are not pushed so painfully against the wood. Cedric and Jonathan shift too, trying to ease their positions. There is despair on their faces. Victor checks the fastenings of the tailflap, then mounts up to ride directly behind us. Captain Foreman climbs on to the passenger seat of the cart. The horses ahead move off, and with a jolt, the cart moves too. Robert lies against me and I wish I could put my arm round him. Instead, with every movement, our elbows and shoulders jab each other or bang against the side of the cart.

  We go in the opposite direction from the way we came. Once beyond the village the country becomes wild. I want to ask Jonathan about being imprisoned in the castle, about the dungeons, so that I can be prepared, but when I see the lost look on his face, I remain silent.

  I wonder if John will still be imprisoned in the castle when Cedric and I arrive there. I wonder whether I will be allowed to contact my family. I wonder what it is like to burn.

  The soldiers ahead are slowing down, though we have scarcely gone any distance.

  “Halt!” The horses skitter and the cart judders to a stop. A horseman has ridden out of the woods at the crossroads. For a moment of confused disbelief I think it is my father, recovered, and wearing his highway robber’s disguise. Then I see that it is merely some stray lordship in fancy furs, mounted on a stocky white horse, probably wishing to gloat at the sight of prisoners. Yet, there is something familiar about the voice which calls out, “Captain Foreman, well done! I congratulate you. I do declare I thought they might be over the border by now.”

  “Sir Edward!” Captain Foreman jumps down and salutes.

  “Oh-oh, you’re in right trouble now,” chortles Victor. “’Tis the Lord Justice of Assize. As nasty a piece of work as you’ll find this side of the border. He tortures prisoners with his own bare hands, they do say.”

  Edward. It is Anne Fairweather’s cousin, Edward. I recognise the voice now, and the chubby profile, visible briefly between milling soldiers on their horses. Edward walks his horse over and stares down at us. “You’ve done well, captain. I have serious matters on which I intend to interrogate this woman. I’ve long since suspected her of the most grievous treachery towards queen and country.” He addresses me directly. “Did you imagine, madam, that I was deceived for a moment by your foolish pretence of innocence, at my cousin’s house? I know your family very well for what they are.”

  “Edward… Sir Edward…” I search desperately for the right words, for some semblance of the polite, safe formality which we shared in Anne Fairweather’s house, for something of her wit and boldness which so clearly captivate him. I can think of nothing. I am dirty, bruised and exhausted. My hair is over my eyes and my clothing torn. I have no resources, no words, to save myself or any of us. Edward is looking at me with a sneer. At last I manage to stammer, “Sir Edward, do you have news of Parson Becker, I beg you? He was taken into Lancaster Castle after an incident with a matchlock.”

  Edward looks at me incredulously. “I have no interest in parsons with matchlocks, madam.” He turns away to speak to Captain Foreman. “I have no fancy to travel all the way to Lancaster just now, captain. Yet I fear there is a plot afoot here, of which these conspirators are only a small part. Kindly follow me to Castle Clough, where we will deal with them.”

  Captain Foreman hesitates. “Sir, we are due in Lancaster. We must return the Scots for hanging. Your castle is north, and it will delay us if we must wait while you… interrogate the prisoners.”

  Edward glares. “If you hang these men I cannot interrogate them, can I? Where is your sense, man? There is a conspiracy to be investigated here. Scots are being smuggled to and fro across the border. The queen’s security is at stake. Of course you must wait. You will be well housed and fed at Castle Clough. Now, no more nonsense. Follow me!” He wheels his horse. Captain Foreman stands in his path.

  “Sir Edward, my men are exhausted. We are on loan from Lord Ravenswyck and due home a week since. Lord Allysson’s soldiers have already arrived in Lancaster to relieve us. Sir, kindly understand, this is our last mission, and it is over.”

  Sir Edward looks down at him in exasperation. “Oh, very well then. You may escort the prisoners to Castle Clough and leave them there. I will send for Lord Allysson’s men to take them off my hands when I have questioned them.”

  Captain Foreman looks relieved. He salutes. “Thank you, sir.” He climbs back on to the cart. “Follow on!” he shouts to his men. They re-form into an escort and we move again, following Edward on to a track which leads into dense woodland. I look at Edward, riding ahead straight-backed, and feel a rush of the most terrible fear. He hates us, because of Hugh’s involvement with Anne, and now he is in a position to take revenge.

  I whisper to Cedric, “Is it true he tortures prisoners?”

  Cedric looks grim, and shrugs, but Victor has overheard me. He laughs. “Should’ve thought of that sooner, shouldn’t we, Mistress High-and-Mighty. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say. It’ll save us a few yards of rope.”

  Jonathan starts sobbing. The horses ahead are slowing as we enter a clearing. Victor dismounts and levels his matchlock at us when the cart stops, as if we might suddenly burst our ropes and take off into the woods. Ahead of us, on a rise, stands a pele tower much like Barrowbeck, though a little larger.

  “Welcome to Castle Clough,” says Edward, riding once round the cart and looking at us with satisfaction. “Take them into the compound, captain.”

  I can hear the watchman on the battlements shouting for the gates to be opened. “It seems to me you overstate the matter, calling this a castle, Sir Edward,” I mutter. A look of viciousness crosses his face, and I decide that I had better be silent. The cart enters a gatehouse, then veers off into an open compound on the left, and stops. Victor lets down the tailgate and hauls us to our feet, one by one. Robert falls to the ground at once, and the rest of us can scarcely stand, with our feet so tightly tied.

  Victor struts round us. “I reckon I’d better say goodbye then,” he grins. “You tend not to see folks again once they vanish into Sir Edward’s dungeons.”

  “Your codpiece is undone,” I inform him. He makes as if to strike me, but thinks better of it as Captain Foreman approaches.

  “Goodbye, madame,” says the captain. “You kept bad company, and now I fear you will pay the price. As for you…” He looks at Robert and Jonathan, then shakes his head and turns away.

  “Captain,” I call after him. “Will you please inform my family, at Barrowbeck Tower, what has happened to me?”

  He hesitates. “I regret it, mada
me, but I cannot, in case they come after you.” He turns away quickly before I can implore him further. “Mount up!” he shouts to his men.

  They are gone in a moment, the cart clanking behind them. I wonder whether Father Leofric managed to escape with our carretta, and where it is now.

  Sir Edward’s henchmen come clattering down the stairs into the compound. He hands his horse to one of them and says to the others, “Untie these people and put them in the gatehouse tower. Send Flo up to deal with them.” He indicates Robert. “That one needs to be put out of his misery.” I give a cry, but Edward is already walking away.

  Flo. The name is terrifying. A torturer called Flo.

  I cannot feel my feet when the henchmen untie them. It is like walking on hollow blocks of wood. It takes us a long time to totter up the spiral staircase to a tower room over the gatehouse. Robert has to be carried all the way. The henchmen lock us in and leave us.

  The tower room is small, with oak settles round the walls and a carved, circular table in the middle. As soon as we are alone, Cedric and I go to look at Robert’s head wound. He groans, and tries to sit up. “Bea, I am so sorry for all this,” he mumbles. “Are you all right?” He tries to open his eyes.

  “Yes, I’m all right.” I take hold of his hand.

  “Why cannae I open my eyes?” He grips my fingers.

  “They’re stuck with blood. We’ll wash it off. You’ll be all right.”

  “It’s just superficial. His skull isn’t shattered,” Cedric murmurs. “I think the effects of the henbane are still in his system. He’ll come out of it.”

  “Good.” The voice comes from the doorway. We turn. It is as if the world has gone away behind glass, behind a wall of sleep and dreams. A small plump woman stands in the doorway, holding a bowl and cloths, and behind her is Anne Fairweather. “Let’s sort him out, dear,” says the plump woman, who is wearing a nurse’s apron. “Dearie me, you all look simply dreadful.”