By August it is clear that both John and Cedric have become involved in the Salamander project. Two witches are mysteriously rescued from hanging at Kerne Forth. A crippled and poverty-stricken beggar, condemned by local magistrates to be flogged for stealing half a barley loaf, vanishes before sentence can be implemented.
“The beggar is in John’s church crypt,” Anne tells me, joining me one day on watch on the Pike. “He’s being sent to Castle Clough, to recuperate and work on the farm. Would you like to help Cedric take him there? I know Edward would be happy to see you again.”
I look at her, and wonder about her motives. Has John asked her to find me something to take my mind off Hugh and Aunt Juniper? Anne herself was deeply affected by Hugh’s death, I know, and there has been a brittleness in her ever since. Yet she is managing to appear as elegant and composed as ever, whereas I have stopped bothering what clothes I put on, and whether or not I brush my hair. I feel ashamed of myself. I go home and change into a good blue gown and cream kirtle. I brush my hair, smelling the salt in it as I wind it back round my head. I lace up my bodice with a lilac ribbon, and put on a cream lace cap with matching lilac ribbons. When I look in the mirror I hardly recognise myself.
I ride over to the parsonage on Meadowsweet. In the kitchen Mother Bain looks round from stirring a pot of pea soup in the hearth and says, “Greetings, stranger.” She tries to straighten up, and I realise how long it is since I have seen her, and how much more bent she has become. She peers at me. “I’m glad to see you, lass, and I’m sorry for how you’ve been. John’s over at Mile Cottages. Old Tarver is dying.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Go and meet the lad. He’ll be right glad to see you.” She starts to add cream to the soup, and it curdles. She throws down the spoon. “A pox on this pottage!” She backs out of the hearth, and I see that there are tears in her eyes. “Will you fetch some pies from the alehouse, lass?” she asks. “This soup is ruined, and I haven’t the heart to start again.”
I put my arm round her, and pick up the spoon. “You shouldn’t be doing this. It’s too much for you.” I winch the soup off the heat and stir it vigorously. It remains scummy, but improves a little.
When I ride over towards Mile Cottages later, leaving Mother Bain lying down and resting, I realise that I need to make up my mind about a number of things, amongst them whether I am indeed going to marry John and move into the parsonage.
Mile Cottages lie outside the village. My mind is far away, and I do not hear the hoofbeats until Universe appears round the bend of the track. John and I both rein in. I feel suddenly happy to see him. It is like meeting an exciting stranger by accident. After greeting each other we are both strangely lost for words for a moment, then I ask, “How is old Tarver?”
“Dead.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. I shall visit his family.”
“Tomorrow would be better. They’re glad to see the back of him, and they’re all drunk.”
We both smile. “I thought I should do something towards the Salamander project,” I tell him, and instantly feel hopeless and pointless again, and suddenly deeply irritated by the pretentiousness of the watchword. I wish I could talk to John as I used to, but I feel too numb, and too sure that words will not help. All I can care about, and concentrate on, are Hugh and Aunt Juniper. If I stop thinking about them, then they will be truly gone. I dream about Hugh every night. I am five, playing in the woods with him; ten, riding our first full-sized horses; twelve, sitting with him on watch discussing the problem of our wayward parents. I look for him everywhere in my dreams, sure that I have only mislaid him.
Suddenly John dismounts, and comes over and lifts me off my horse. Dozy, patient Meadowsweet wanders away and starts eating brambles. “You will feel better,” says John fiercely into my face. “Don’t think about anything else. Bugger Salamander. It’s all right. You did your bit rescuing Robert.” He gives me a little shake. “Truly Beatrice, I should like to drag you off into the woods and comfort you properly, but you are looking too fragile and delicate, and I can see that it would not do.”
Meadowsweet comes up and butts my shoulder. Universe blows loudly through his nostrils. “You’re frightening the horses,” I tell John, unexpectedly wanting to laugh – such an unfamiliar feeling – and I know then, that one day, I shall feel better.
We go to the alehouse, buy some pies and drink some ale, though not as much as the Tarvers. We talk as friends, and I go home feeling peaceful.
I restart my lessons in healing, with Cedric. He has begun keeping bees, for their curative powers, and I spend afternoons swathed in muslin, tending bee skeps, smoking the bees into compliant drowsiness while I steal their honey and pollen to mix into cures for burns, the ague and the bloody flux.
One sweltering forenoon, at the end of summer, after the bees have not been very happy with me and I have been stung twice, I give up for the afternoon and go to visit Germaine at Mere Point. I find her upstairs in the weaving room, hanging wet woollen fabric on the tenter-hooks in the tenter-frame, to stretch and dry it. “It’s too hot for this, Cousin,” she exclaims, wiping her brow. “Let’s go outside and drink elderflower cordial and do nothing.”
We go and sit under a tree by the smokehouse, our bodices unlaced and our stockings off. The tide is coming in. Far below, along the pool-pocked shoreline, curls of clay with grassy edges are peeling away into the sea, part of the disintegration of this world of time and tide. Overhead, curved-beaked curlews utter their own name, in long, mournful whistles. Germaine still has some ice left in her ice cellar after the winter, and we drink the elderflower cordial through huge chunks of it.
After we have sat in silence for a while, Germaine says, “Beatrice, what are you going to do about John?”
“What?” I sit up, prepared to be angry, for this is not her business.
“There is gossip, Cousin. Are you aware of the amount of time he spends visiting Anne Fairweather at Hagditch, these days?”
I stare at her. Before I can retort she continues, “Beatrice, you are either betrothed, or not betrothed. You cannot neglect him like this.”
“For heaven’s sake, I expect he is offering Anne religious counsel. Don’t forget she was also very upset about Hugh. I expect John is comforting her.”
“Indeed. And it will result in a scandal.” She reaches for the jug and tops up my drink. “We all feel terrible, my dear. I have to listen to Gerald’s nightmares night after night. Could you not find comfort in John? I’d have thought he was the best person in the world to comfort you.”
I wrap my arms round my knees and look out to sea, at the heat-hover on the rocks of the cliff, at the gulls squalling along the tide-line and savaging to death little fishes as they wash into the bay. The world seems a very dangerous place. I glance at my cousin, and wonder if she could possibly understand. “John has such certainty,” I tell her. “Too much certainty sometimes. I can only bear so much of it.”
“My dear…” She tilts her head suddenly. There is a horse approaching at a gallop along the clifftop path through the woods. She shrugs. “Father-in-law will deal with it. Beatrice, the point is…” She stops as Cedric appears, riding the white horse which Edward gave him. He jumps to the ground, out of breath.
“Beatie, get away quickly! Go at once! Here, take my horse. The soldiers are coming.”
I jump up. “Where?” But we can already hear them, approaching fast. “Oh God!” I leap into Cedric’s warm saddle. Which way? I turn the horse’s head towards the densest part of the woods, but it is too late. The soldiers appear from the same direction as Cedric, about twenty of them. These are not Captain Foreman’s tired troops, but alert, battle-hardened warriors in uniforms of blue and green – Lord Allysson’s men. The next moment they have surrounded me. They dismount, grab Cedric’s horse and pull me to the ground. Two of them grasp my arms in a violent grip. I try to throw them off, but they are too strong for me.
The henchmen come rushi
ng out of the tower, swords raised. Uncle Juniper appears too.
“We are here to arrest Beatrice Garth of Barrowbeck,” says the militiaman who seems to be in charge. “Captain Leahy at your service, sir.” He looks at Uncle Juniper’s henchmen. “I hope we’re not going to have any trouble.”
Uncle Juniper leans forward and gazes at him incredulously. “Nay lad, what are you on about?” He pushes his way to the lean-to behind the smokehouse where his fighting dogs are kept, flings open the door and with a sharp word of command, sets them on the soldiers.
“Sweet Jesu!” Germaine runs screaming into the tower, and returns seconds later with her six foot longbow loaded. The dogs already have two of the soldiers by the arms, and are shaking them. Some of the soldiers are wielding swords and knives, and others are loading their matchlocks. There is a bang which seems to echo all round the bay, and a dog drops. With a roar, Uncle Juniper comes charging out of the smokehouse brandishing an axe.
“Lord save us!” Three of the soldiers turn and run for their lives.
“Get back south where you belong!” barks Uncle Juniper. “Spineless courtiers!” He swings the axe, bringing down a branch of a tree on the captain’s head. The henchmen are in hand to hand combat with some of the soldiers now, and Germaine is systematically shooting swords from soldiers’ hands. One soldier stands open-mouthed, watching her. I fight free of the soldiers who are holding me, and manage to get at my knife. I rip the sleeve of one of them with it, but he grabs me again, and twists both my arms behind my back.
Suddenly Gerald arrives. He jumps from his horse. “What in heaven’s name…?” He is unarmed except for a knife. He has probably been on watch somewhere. He seizes a sword from one of the henchmen and shouts to Germaine, “Who the devil are these people? Scots?”
She shakes her head, reloading her bow. “They’re after Beatrice,” she calls back.
The soldier who is holding me is trying to drag me away. Gerald brings his sword up against the man’s throat. “Let her go,” he orders, tilting it to and fro so that the man can feel its edge. I stagger as I find myself free. “Run into the tower,” Gerald commands me, and slashes the sword down the man’s front, so that all his buttons pop off. I run. “What are you doing fighting your own people?” I hear Gerald demanding. “You should be saving yourselves for the bloody Scots!”
I glance back as I reach the gatehouse. This is like being attacked by the Scots, but in the nightmare situation of not being forewarned or prepared. It is horrific. It quickly becomes obvious that we are hopelessly outnumbered and inadequately armed. There was no time to set up our usual defences – flaming arrows and boiling oil. There was no time to drag out Mere Point’s small, old-fashioned cannon from its cupboard. The soldiers are overcoming and disarming the Mere Point men very quickly now. I can’t go in and leave them to it. I grab a bow and arrows from the gatehouse. As I emerge again, I see Germaine fall with a sword wound to her shoulder, and Cedric with a blow to the back of his head. I hear Captain Leahy shouting, “We’ve no wish to fight you, foolish people. We merely wish to arrest the traitress…” and at the same moment I am lifted off my feet by unseen arms from behind.
It’s over very quickly after that. Two soldiers drag me off to where a sleek, military cart stands amongst the trees. The captain and cart-driver race along behind, but all the other soldiers remain, to prevent anyone pursuing us. The cart sets off as soon as I am in it. The two soldiers jump into the back with me, and before I can even sit up, we are rattling away along the clifftop path.
Chapter 33
Here is darkness such as I have never imagined it. The dungeon door has closed behind me. I can hear the bolts being shot on the outside. Now the big iron key is turning. Its metallic grating noise stops with a thud of finality.
I stand quite still in the silence that follows. Outside, I could hear small sounds from the other cells – shufflings and moanings. In here, I can hear nothing.
After a while I turn round in the black soundlessness. I feel as if my ears have been stopped and my eyes blindfolded. In the candlelight, when the soldiers pushed me in here, I could see that no one else was in this cell. Now I am starting to wonder. Perhaps someone else was crouching in the shadows. Or something else.
It is very cold. All my skin is gooseflesh; every muscle in my body is taut. Where is that hot summer’s day, just hours ago, when I lay on the clifftop? There was no time to lace up my bodice or put my stockings back on, before the soldiers took me. What would this place be like on a truly cold day? What was it like when Robert was here, through the winter?
I straitlace my bodice, to try to stop myself shivering. It makes no difference. I wish I had worn my sleeves, despite the heat, which seems so far away now. I wish I had not taken my stockings off. I was not allowed to go home to collect anything. I was not allowed to send word to my mother. No one here at the castle answered me when I asked whether anyone at Mere Point had been killed in the fighting. Perhaps they are all dead.
The stink in this cell is ancient and terrible, thick like fog. I am trembling, and I think I have to sit down. I take a few steps forward. The floor squelches. My shoe fills up with some unspeakable liquid. I jump back, towards where I think the door is. If I can find the door again, I shall be able to feel my way round the cell walls.
I urgently need to sit down now. The shivering has gone to my knees, and my legs do not feel strong enough to hold me. Yet I am afraid to move. At last, the rough wood of the door is at my back again. I start to feel my way round the walls. They are wet and slimy. I recoil as something soft drapes itself across my face, and I realise that huge webs are hanging from the ceiling. The ceiling itself is so low that I can touch it with the flats of my hands.
At intervals I come upon heavy iron rings set in the wall, and other metal fastenings too. I know I am later to be examined by a magistrate. I wonder if afterwards I shall be chained up to these.
I stop. There was a sound, a soft thud somewhere in the cell. I wait, but it is not repeated. I move again. My foot touches something. It feels solid but cushiony. I pause, and reach down with my hand. It is furry. It is cold. It is huge. It is a dead rat.
There’s no point in moaning – no one will hear me – but I do anyway. At least the rat is dead, I tell myself. I move more carefully, feeling my way with my foot in its cold, wet shoe. This is a tiny space. The floor is uneven. There are unnameable piles of putrid stuff everywhere.
I realise suddenly that there is a draught coming in. I follow it to a small iron grille near the door, above the level of my head. I reach up and tug, but it is firmly fixed, and far too tiny to get through anyway. Then, as I am holding on to the grille, something warm and furry brushes my hand, runs part way along my bare arm and falls on to my foot. It squeaks. I let go of the grille and scream. A small body knocks against my ankles. Then another and another. Rats.
I scream again, and totter backwards across the cell. I stand shaking against the wall, as far from the grille as possible. I do not know how many rats have come in, or how many were here to start with. The dark is no longer soundless. As well as scuttlings and squeakings, my ears are now attuned to other sounds – smaller sounds like spiders plopping to the floor, beetles’ legs clicking, things rustling amongst the piles of filth. I kick and stamp; I find the door and bang with my fists against it; I shout and scream. No one comes.
It is impossible to go on like this. Eventually I have to stop. I stand, huddled against the wall, my arms wrapped round myself. A lot of time goes by. I find I am drifting into sleep standing up. I tilt over as my concentration wavers, and wake sliding sideways down the wall. There are movements against my feet. Something creeps into my wet shoe and wriggles. I shriek, and wrench the shoe off, and shake it. That ensures I am wide awake again. After a while, though, sleep creeps up on me once more. Not seeing makes staying awake more difficult. I walk about, to endeavour to have some sense of place, to stay awake. I take the Dunbar book from inside my bodice, and try to re
member the words. It no longer smells of Robert, only of leather and of me. Here, in this foul place, I can hardly smell it at all.
Time becomes an abstraction. I think of John, teaching me to tell the time by the clock which my father stole. I wish I had learnt better, so that I could say, this feels like three seconds, five minutes, ten hours. I think about Robert. He was here in this blackness, this silence, for months. I do not know whether he was in a cell on his own, or with other people. I have never asked him. There has never been the right moment to talk of it, and now we never shall. Does he travel in his nightmares to this exact spot where I stand?
“Robert?” I whisper his name, then call it loudly.
Later, I do fall asleep on my feet, and dream of a green valley under a high, empty sky. There is no sound except for birdsong and the rushing of wind. At the bottom of the valley lies a tumble of boulders with heather growing between them, and there is a pele tower on top of a rise, one of its grey stone walls glowing in the last of the evening sun. It is not any place I know. When I wake, amongst the filth on the floor, it is still clear in my mind, like a bright memory left hanging here in the dark.
Muck clings to my arms and clothes as I haul myself upright. I work my way back round the wall to the iron rings. Webs heavy with dust flap in my face like Lenten veils. I find the rings, and hook my arms through them to stop myself from falling over in my sleep, and I hang there, dozing.
I wonder if Edward will be able to get me out. It would look rather odd if he did, I suppose, since he took me into custody once before, only for me to be found walking free a few months later. I wonder if he will indeed be endangered himself by all this. There must come a point when even the most respectable of justices comes under suspicion, if too many prisoners with whom he is involved end up inexplicably free. I remember Anne Fairweather’s words – we mostly need to catch them before they get into the castle, to have any realistic hope of saving them. Perhaps this is it then. Perhaps this is the end of me.
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