North Side of the Tree
Page 24
The second night we sleep for a short time on a stony mountain, wrapped in our blankets, with red deer moving silently to and fro just beyond the firelight, and wolves howling to the north. I lie curled up, with the fire at my front and Robert at my back, and burn with fever. In the dawn twilight we mount up again, and on our horse grey as twilight, we cross the Scottish border.
Reality seems far off now. I do not know whether I am in the dungeon or in Scotland with Robert. “You’ll be all right as soon as we get home,” he whispers, his chin rough against my ear. “We’re nearly home now. My mother will know how to make you well again.”
We ride through the day. In the light of a golden evening we halt on top of a grassy hill. There is no sound except for birdsong and the rushing of wind. Below us stretches a green valley under a high, empty sky. 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.
Now I know that I am truly ill, because I can see John coming up the hill towards us, astride his horse. I wipe a corner of the blanket across my eyes to clear the feverish vision.
Robert dismounts. “I ran Salamander’s errand, my friend,” he says. “You’re welcome to stay as long as you wish.” He turns to me. “Aye well, Beatrice. I’ll be seeing you at the tower, then.” Without waiting for me to answer, he sets off down the hill, following his kinsmen. I watch him go away into the dream landscape, this man who was a dream in my mind all these months, whilst my betrothed lover paced and raged.
A screech owl shrieks from the treeline. The vision of John approaches, solid and human, his riding clothes dusty, his hair untidy. He walks his horse alongside mine and reaches out his hand. “Are you all right to ride down the hill?” he asks. I nod. Shadows swoop across the valley. The sun dips behind enemy battlements, and John and I ride down the darkening slope in the tracks of the raiders.
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Glossary
barmkin walled enclosure
blackjack leather jug
boote compensate, benefit
broderer embroiderer
brukle frail
carretta small cart, rather old-fashioned by Beatrice’s day
cates party food
chemise-smock women’s light full-length garment worn with other garments on top
cupshotten drunk
doublet men’s upper garment, sometimes padded, worn with a ruff
fain gladly or glad
firkin cask holding nine gallons
fluke flatfish
forespoken silenced, forbidden
galiard formal dance
ginnel alley
goblin bread rye or barley bread infected with ergot, a hallucinogenic fungus, used to speed childbirth
grimalkin old woman
hastening cupboard warm cupboard where bread was left to rise
hearte raithe soul
henbane plant whose seeds were used as an early anaesthetic
jerkin men’s jacket, sometimes padded, often sleeveless
kersey coarse woollen cloth
kilderkin cask holding eighteen gallons
kirtle women’s decorative outer petticoat, sometimes padded
Lady Days four days in the year (one in each quarter) on which the hiring of workers traditionally took place
lanthorn lantern
mak mate
mantle small cloak
matchlock firearm
mayhap maybe
mislike dislike
moss-trooper border raider
mummer actor
nightgown dressing gown
nightsmock nightdress
pavane formal dance
pocket small purse or bag usually attached to belt
posset drink made from curdled milk, wine and spices
pottage soup or stew
proving oven warming oven
rackencrock apparatus for suspending cooking pots over fire
recognizance money, or an undertaking, pledged for bail
remove course of a meal
shawm woodwind instrument
slee sly
straitlace lace up tightly so the edges meet
thirled open in a snarl
Timor mortis conturbat me Fear of death troubles me
tinderbox box in which a spark is struck from flint with steel to ignite tinder (charred linen or dried fungus) creating a flame for lighting candles, torches, fires
venetians glasses
ypocras spiced drink made from wine, spirits, herbs and honey
The stanza by William Dunbar (c1456 – c1520) is from his poem Lament for the Makaris (Lament for the Poets) written about 1507.
Acknowledgements
My warmest thanks for items of historical information go to
Christo Groenewald, David Pile, Lindsay Warden,
Susan Wilson of Lancaster Reference Library and Local History Archive,
Andrew White of Lancaster Museum Services,
Andrew Thynne of Preston Public Records Office and
the staff of Aylesbury Library and Senate House Library.
Special thanks for valuable feedback and opinions go to Deborah
Groenewald, Daniel Groenewald, Sarah Molloy and Alison Stanley.
Praise For Raider’s Tide
‘…plenty of period flavour, along with characters you care a great deal about. This book will surely become a firm favourite.’ Bookseller
‘First person, present-tense narrative gives immediacy to the story… vivid evocation of landscape and domestic detail, and a heroine whose desire for independence will strike chords with teenage girls.’ TES
‘This brilliant, pacey and stylish historical novel crackles with tension and secrets.’ J-17
‘page-turning excitement with a warm strong story of a young woman’s first love at its heart.’ Jonathan Douglas, Library Association
Also by Maggie Prince
Raider’s Tide
Memoirs of a Dangerous Alien
Pulling the Plug on the Universe
Here Comes a Candle to Light You to Bed
Copyright
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins Children's Books in 2003
HarperCollins Children's Books is a division of HarperCollinsPublishers
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Hammersmith, London W6 8JB
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Text copyright © Maggie Prince 2003
Maggie Prince asserts the moral right to
be identified as the author of this work
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Source ISBN: 978000713085
Ebook Edition © DECEMBER 2013 ISBN: 9780007393176
Version: 2013-12-11
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