‘I am come to speak with Mr. Crabtree,’ she said to the ever-moving figure of Agnes Crabtree.
‘Well, now’—the woman spoke without bothering to look at Bess—‘Mr. Crabtree be engaged at present, so thee’ll ’ave to address thyse’n to me.’
The smell of hot and unclean bodies was beginning to permeate the smoke and reach Bess’s nose. She gave no outward sign of the revulsion she felt.
‘I would not trouble him more than a moment. I have cider to sell.’ She kept her voice level but pleasant.
Now Agnes turned to frown at the provokingly attractive young girl before her.
‘Dosn’t thee think I know about zider, then?’
There was a murmur of interest from the men standing close. Bess quelled panic as she felt one man stand so near behind her she was aware of his body against hers.
‘I see that you are yourself busily occupied, Mrs. Crabtree. I would not wish to bother you. My mother told me…’
‘Oh! Well, if thy mother told thee!’ Agnes cruelly mocked Bess, causing the drinkers to let rip a cacophony of laughter and coughing. Some joined in the taunt. ‘Mother told her! So she did, Mother told her!’
The man behind Bess pressed himself shamelessly to her. Bess blushed as she distinctly felt the hard length of him against her buttocks. At once, any fear she had felt was replaced by fury. What right had he to treat her that way? What right had any man? She spun on her heel, startling the man with her swift movement so that he staggered back a little.
‘Sir! I did not invite your attentions, and I do not welcome them!’
A chorus of surprise and delight rose from the assembled group.
‘Hard luck, Davy!’ mocked one, laughing. ‘The lass doesn’t welcome thy attentions!’
‘At least she called thee sir!’ put in another.
The man himself bridled under the ridicule. He stepped forward, pinning her against the bar.
‘Mibben thou favors a more direct approach,’ he said.
Bess felt physically sick at further such intimate and aggressive contact.
‘Step away from me, sir.’ She felt her own fury building and knew she must keep it in check, no matter what the provocation.
‘Think thyse’n too good for the likes of me, then? Fancy thyse’n to be mistress up at Batchcombe Hall one day?’ As he spoke, fine drops of foul-smelling spittle rained on Bess’s face. She resisted the urge to wipe them away.
‘I warn you…’
‘Warn me, girl?’ He laughed at her. ‘What must I fear? That simple brother of yours going to come for me, is ’e? Or will I be set about by old man Hawksmith himse’n?’
At the mention of her father’s name, many standing near fell silent. It was clear some of them knew of her family’s fate, even if her tormentor did not. Bess opened her mouth to speak, but such a rage boiled up inside her she could find no words to express it. She had never felt such fury, and now the loathsome man was moving his hand toward her breast. She wanted to unleash her anger, but there was a small part of her that was afraid to do so, unsure of what the consequences might be. Instead, she snatched up a stoneware jug from the bar and swung it through the air. When it connected with Davy’s face, there was a fearsome crash as the pottery smashed, quickly followed by a thud as the man toppled sideways to the floor. Shouts and peals of laughter filled the space. Agnes elbowed her way through the crowd.
‘Get ’im out of here, somebody, afore there be more trouble, and you’—she scowled at Bess—‘if thou has such a desire to see my husband get through that door, and quick about it.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the far corner of the room.
Bess did not wait for further bidding but hurried through the door, her heart racing at what she had just done, at the power of her own anger.
On the other side of the door was a narrow passageway. In the gloom Bess could make out steps to the cellar on one side, and another door at the far end. She felt her way along the wall and pushed open the second door. A scene of wild excitement greeted her. The space, which might once have housed beasts or been stabling for horses, had been altered to accommodate a circular pit. Around this arena was assembled an agitated crowd intent on the action within the circle. Bess edged forward through the shouting, gesticulating men so that she could see what it was that whipped them into such a frenzy of yelling and swearing. In the center of the pit, two cocks hurled themselves at each other. Both were bloodied, and both wore viscous false spurs of bone strapped over their own. The birds seemed evenly matched in weight, but one had far more vigor than the other. The stronger cockerel had feathers of copper and purple that stood out in a great ruff about his neck. He leaped into the air and launched himself, talons and spurs foremost, at his weakening opponent. As the failing bird fell beneath the attack, blood poured from a fresh wound in its side, eliciting a cheer from the audience. Bess looked from the hapless creatures to the men around her. She saw money clutched in fists and eyes gleaming. Was it the gambling that excited them so or the sight of blood so cruelly spilled? Her nerves already greatly affected by her experience inside the inn, Bess now found herself near overwhelmed by the lust for violence all around her. Her anger returned. She looked at the glistening faces of the men and the pitiful state of the birds and could stand it no longer. She closed her eyes. Uncertain of what precisely she was trying to do, Bess followed her instincts and summoned her will, her strength, her rage. She gathered it up and then released it, her eyes snapping open as she did so. The doors on either side of the room flew open. A frenzied wind blew through the enclosure, stirring up a storm of dust and straw, blinding the shouting mob, swirling in a vortex of chaotic noise and choking detritus thrown up from the floor. It lasted no more than half a minute and then stopped as suddenly as it had started. Amid much coughing and swearing, the air cleared, revealing the pit to be empty. The birds were gone. After a collective intake of astonished breath, the crowd began hurling abuse and accusations at one another, whilst a fruitless search was mounted for the missing cockerels. Bess stood calmly amid it all, scanning the throng for Mr. Crabtree.
As she let her gaze rove the room, she caught her breath at the sight of a tall figure in a wide-brimmed black felt hat at the back of the room. Gideon Masters. What drew such a solitary man to an event of this nature? He met her eye and a small smile played on his face. Bess looked away again quickly, certain that he and he alone was aware of what she had done. She was jostled by the men as the atmosphere grew more and more violent. Fights broke out, and very soon the scene was that of a riot. Bess spotted James Crabtree standing next to Gideon, shaking his head in disbelief at the madness around him. She took her courage in both hands and made her way to him.
‘Mr. Crabtree.’ She had trouble making herself heard. ‘Mr. Crabtree!’
He looked at her now.
‘Lord’s truth, what ’ave we here?’
‘Bess Hawksmith. I have some cider to sell, if you are interested.’
‘Has thee now? And where might that zider be?’ He glanced about her as if expecting her to produce it from beneath her cape.
‘Why, on our mare, to the front of your … inn.’
Crabtree laughed. ‘I dare say mibben that be where thou left it, Bess Hawksmith, but I’d wager my night’s winnings it be there no more!’
‘What?’ Bess was appalled. ‘What do you say? Surely no one would take it?’
The landlord began to walk away, still laughing to himself. ‘Count thyse’n lucky if they left you the nag, lass! ’pon my word!’
Bess stared after him, then at Gideon. She was certain he was enjoying her distress, even though his face remained unmoved. She turned and fled through the back door. Outside, the wind had strengthened. She ran round to the front of the building. Whisper stood asleep, resting a hind leg. The panniers were empty.
‘No! Oh no!’ At that moment Bess could not decide who she hated most, the thieves who had robbed her or herself for her own stupidity.
She sensed sh
e was not alone and then heard soft humming, a familiar tune sung in a low voice. Even without the words, she knew the song to be “Greensleeves.” Her father had often bade her sing it herself. Bess stiffened as Gideon came to stand next to her. He stopped singing and watched her. Bess fought back tears, determined she would not humiliate herself further in front of him.
‘It seems there are people hereabouts not to be trusted,’ he said, his words softly spoken but in a voice that contained unmistakable strength.
Bess ignored him and untied the horse.
‘Such a pity,’ he went on, ‘that a trusting nature should be so taken advantage of. It is a rare thing to find innocence in these dark times. I do not enjoy seeing it abused.’
Bess looked up at him, unsure whether he was mocking her or showing genuine concern. She could not read his expression. She finished untying the reins and started to turn the horse.
‘What will you tell your mother?’ Gideon asked, making no attempt to move from her path.
‘Why, the truth of course.’
‘Will she not berate you for your foolishness?’
‘Would you have me lie to save face? What sort of a daughter would I be then?’
‘A clever one, maybe?’
‘Better foolish and honest than clever and false.’
‘Fine sentiments, Bess. I applaud your integrity.’
There was something about the way he spoke her name that Bess found deeply unsettling.
‘I have no need of your approval, sir.’
Now he smiled properly, plainly amused by her show of defiance. His angular features and dark eyes were softened and transformed by his wide smile. His eyes crinkled, and it would have been easy to believe in that moment that the man’s natural disposition was one of gentleness and merriment. Bess found this new, pleasant, charming version of the man more unsettling than his usual self. She looked at the ground and made as if to push past him. He held up a hand, stopping her silently with the gesture.
‘I will buy your cider, Bess,’ he told her.
Bess felt renewed anger lending her strength but reminded herself that he had witnessed the results of her rage. The knowledge that he had seen this secret part of her, that she had somehow unwittingly revealed herself before him disturbed her.
‘Will you stand aside, or must I drag the mare about for your further amusement?’
‘Why so cross? All I did was offer to buy your cider.’
‘When you know full well I have none to sell.’
‘Really? Are you certain?’
She frowned at him, then turned back to look at the horse. The panniers were full. She grabbed at them, unable to take in what she was seeing. A moment ago they had been empty—she was certain of it. Yet now the flagons were returned to the pack, and each, judging by the weight, was full. She plucked out a stopper and sniffed the contents. There was no mistaking the sweet fruity scent that greeted her. Bess felt the skin over her spine wriggle. She turned slowly back to Gideon, who was casually stroking Whisper’s ears.
‘What trickery is this?’ she asked, her faint words snatched up by the wild wind that pulled at her cape and caused her eyes to water.
Gideon watched her as he spoke. ‘Not trickery, Bess. Just simple magic. You do believe in magic, don’t you?’
‘I believe such talk is blasphemous and people have been hanged for less.’
‘That is because you are a God-fearing young woman who has been taught well the ways of the world. Between all those books your mother forced upon you and the dry words of Reverend Burdock, what else are you to think?’ He stepped closer to her, his body blocking the wind so that between them was a small pool of stillness amidst the wildness of the fading day. ‘But you know, Bess, in your heart, you know the truth. There is magic all around us. In the boiling clouds. In this wicked wind that even now delves beneath your clothes to set its chill fingers on your soft young body. In the cider that goes away and comes back again.’ He lifted a hand slowly and lightly touched a lock of hair that had come loose from under Bess’s hood. ‘And you, Bess, there is magic in you.’
‘I do not know what you mean.’
‘I think you do. I know what I saw. I know what you did. Do those words sound familiar? They should. You spoke them to me not so very long ago. We are not so different, you and I, Bess. I wish you would see that. Don’t pretend to me you haven’t wondered why you survived the plague when the others did not. How often do you hear of anyone so ill, so taken by the vile disease, how often do you hear of them returning to good health, hmm? With not a blemish upon their pretty pink skin.’
‘I was fortunate.’ Bess could hear the tremble in her own voice.
‘Fortunate? Do you think God spared you, perhaps? Why would he do that? Are you better than the others, d’you think? Is that it?’
‘I know only that my mother nursed me back to health.’
‘Indeed she did. Indeed she did.’ He nodded, then let his hand drop. ‘Surely that must have been strong medicine she found for you. Has she told you how she did it? Have you asked her what herbs she used?’ He made the word herbs sound ridiculous.
Bess could not make sense of what he was saying. He seemed to be implying that her mother had used magic to save her. But that was nonsense. Her mother knew no magic. Her mother was no witch. And yet it was as if he knew more than she, as if he had some knowledge of what her mother had done. Of how she had done it.
Gideon reached into his pocket and took out four coins. He pressed them into Bess’s hand.
‘For the cider,’ he told her. ‘Hurry home now, the light is dwindling.’ So saying, he touched the rim of his hat as he inclined his head toward her and then brushed past her, striding away. Bess looked at the coins. It was a good price.
‘But, the cider…’ she called after him. ‘You have not taken the cider.’
He replied without looking back, ‘Oh, I think you’ll find I have. Good day to you, Bess. Until we meet again.’
Bess whipped around, her mouth gaping as she saw the panniers empty once more, hanging loose and flat against the mare’s flanks. She turned back, her mind in chaos, but Gideon had gone.
5
When Bess returned home, she had intended to tell her mother the full tale of what had happened. Why should she not? And yet, when the time came, she found herself reluctant to mention Gideon Masters at all. Her own reticence puzzled her. In the end she simply said she had sold the cider, and her mother, being pleased with the price, had not questioned her further. As the days slipped by, the moment for telling more went with them, so that Bess soon convinced herself there was nothing more to be said. In quiet times, however, when she had occasion to let her mind wander back to that wind-beaten place in front of the inn where she had watched magic performed, Bess knew there were a hundred questions screaming for answers. What powers did Gideon possess that he could do such things? And what did he know of how Bess had been saved from the plague? Bess turned such queries over and over inside her head, yet something prevented her from voicing any of them to her mother. This, she knew, was the most perplexing question of all: Why could she not bring herself to speak to her mother of what Gideon had told her? What was it that she feared to hear?
The long winter plodded on with leaden feet toward an ever-retreating spring. The barren cow sickened and died. The chickens showed no inclination to resume laying. The solitary pig had quite lost its mind and added to Bess’s heavy workload by regularly escaping the confines of the yard and having to be retrieved from any number of haunts. It was on just such an occasion, when Bess was shoving and shooing the wretched animal back along the lane, that a visitor came calling. There was no wind or rain that day, so that Bess heard the thud of approaching hoofbeats. She left off cajoling the pig and peered down the twisting path, watching the gleaming mount cantering closer.
William, she thought. Just that. She had not the energy to form an opinion of his presence after so many months of not seeing him. He brought his hors
e to a halt and slipped from the saddle, greeting her with a formal bow. Bess stood impassive, watching him. As he straightened and came to look at her properly, she saw in his reaction how much the preceding months had taken from her. She had known, of course, that she could not endure all that had happened without some outward sign of her suffering, but it was hard to see it so clearly declaimed on William’s handsome young face. It was true she bore no marks of the plague itself, but grief and heartbreak had been compounded by a winter of hardship. She knew well she was not the same girl William had walked with in the churchyard the autumn before. Her skin had lost its youthful glow, her figure its early promise of fecundity and pleasure. Indeed, her flesh hung loosely on her bones, her naturally angular frame now looking poor and frail rather than lithe and elegant. She put a hand to her hair, knowing it to be sullied and unkempt. She let her palm fall against her skirts but made no attempt to brush the dirt from her clothes. She set her jaw. Let him find her as she was. There was no purpose in pretense.
The Witch’s Daughter Page 9