‘To earn a few pennies I helped at the manor when Hannah, the cook, was busy. In the years before Talia died the master and his lady used to hold splendid balls.
‘My mouth fair waters recalling the sumptuous meals Hannah prepared for the banquets: turtle, caviar, swan and cygnet. His lordship loves his food and eats enough for a battalion at one sitting. I especially remember the last ball. Folk were dressed in their finery and musicians played. There were fireworks with odd names like skyrockets and mines.
‘I was carrying a tray of brandy cherries into the dining hall when I saw his lordship at the bottom of the grand stairs, bemoaning to Lord and Lady Wexcombe about the disgraceful antics of the children’s aunt. She had disturbed the quadrille by running in and cursing his lordship for his arrogant ways.
‘Talia crept down with this ghastly dried-up thing, a vampire bat Hannah later told me it was, from the Americas, and hung it on the back of her father’s tailcoat. His lordship was ashamed of Talia on account of her being born a mute. He never permitted her to go beyond the house or garden, and told her she would not be allowed to attend the balls when she was older, so I suppose she did the bat thing to ridicule him in front of his guests.’
She passed the darned stockings to Eppie.
Wearing Anne’s moth-eaten funeral frock and shawl, Eppie stood in the lane, staring longingly at Claire’s cottage.
‘Hold fast of my hand,’ Betsy said, leading her away.
With the help of other villagers, Gillow had been busy in the morning, washing everything in the cottage that was muddy. It seemed odd to see the familiar furniture ranged alongside the lane to dry.
Broken branches bowled along the brown river. Braving the foaming spray, wagtails searched for drowned insects beneath the packhorse bridge.
Betsy shivered. ‘Let’s mog on; it’ll keep us warm.’
In silence they ambled along the riverside lane. Drifts of wild daffodils and purple saffron edging the common lay battered. A hornbeam had fallen beside the stocks.
The Fat Duck, the whitewashed stone tavern, was suffering the same fate as the medieval granary, sinking into the soft ground. None of its gable windows were level.
‘A little further?’ Betsy asked.
Lost in her sad thoughts, Eppie trudged on. Twiss’s tail thumped her legs as he trotted alongside. Occasionally, he nudged her hand for a stroke. Gradually, she became aware that, the cottages left behind, they were passing through bleak hilly lands littered with isolated boulders. Trees grew at tortured angles, bent from bitter winds.
Betsy’s footsteps faltered. ‘Deary, why’ve we come this far? Best turn back.’
Twiss growled deep in his throat. Hackles raised, he bolted across the wet, hillocky ground, heading toward the river. Eppie charged after him, Betsy’s plea for her to stop ignored.
The dog disappeared from view. Eppie pelted in pursuit along narrow, sheep-beaten paths. Wind tore at her billowing shawl and moaned in the skeletal branches of stunted hawthorns.
Leaping into a rain-washed gully, Twiss barked frenziedly. On the opposite bank, Miller’s Stream tumbled in a dramatic torrent over the steep rocky face. Here the thundering waters cut deeper and faster. Stones dislodged by the dog’s paws plummeted into the ravine.
Catching up, Betsy chided breathlessly, ‘What’s your mam forever telling you? No running off.’
Eppie trembled uncontrollably. By the stern look on the old lady’s face, she guessed that she had not seen Talia’s ghostly body buffeted upon rocks in the ravine.
Head lowered, Twiss whimpered.
‘Whatever is the matter with him?’ Betsy asked, her voice shaking. ‘Why’d he run off?’
At Twiss’s paws lay a bird. Eppie picked it up. In her cupped hands its body felt cold, its feathers damp.
Betsy frowned. ‘How odd. It looks like a white robin. Toss it in the river or a cat might chew it.’
The instant the bird touched the heaving waters, its wings opened. They watched in amazement as it rose towards the ragged, racing clouds.
‘Well I never!’ Betsy said. ‘I could’ve sworn it were dead.’
Relieved to be back in her cottage, Betsy fretted. ‘I must’ve been barmy taking you so far. Now my ankle looks more bruised than one of yer pa’s soaked ‘taties.’
Thinking about the bird, soaring like an angel to the skies, lent wings to Eppie’s feet.
Parson Lowford, Gillow and Claire were seated at the bedside, gazing mournfully upon Martha’s blue-tinged face. The parson spoke quietly, his palms pressed together in prayer. ‘O Almighty Lord God let it be thy pleasure to restore Martha to her former health. If thou hast decreed it otherwise, let not my will but thine be done.’
Sobbing out her heart, Eppie raced in and pressed her cheek against Martha’s neck. ‘Don’t die, Mammy!’
Betsy appeared, puffing and distraught. ‘I couldn’t stop her!’
Upon hearing the commotion, Martha’s eyes flickered open. She smiled weakly, though her voice was filled with pain. ‘Eppie! For once I’m glad you got to wandering, leastwise as far as the parlour.’
CHAPTER NINE
CRUSADER OAK
Eppie slopped whey into the trough. ‘Uncle Henry says that Mister Lord’s prize pig is nine feet long and eight feet round its belly. You’ve both got to grow bigger than that.’
Though she tried to interest the cow in a handful of chopped root vegetables, Celandine lethargically lowered her head.
Fetching the wicker basket that Haggard the hurdle-maker had made for her, she sprang across the stepping stones that spanned the stream.
Gillow tied the outer leaves over the curd of a cauliflower, shielding it from the sun so that it would not run to seed. ‘Don’t eat them all afore you get back,’ he called, guessing she was off to collect more blackberries from beside Shivering Falls. ‘And don’t be long; I could do with some help.’
Skirting the wood, she came to the open glade. Gushing over a stone lip, the waterfall glistened in the morning sun. Fragrant petals of wild rose swirled in knotted confusion with blackberry briars. Careful not to scratch herself with the thorns, she plucked the firmest berries and placed them in the basket.
Twiss soon lost interest. A pheasant fled, squawking, at his homeward dash.
Uncomfortably hot and sticky, she knelt beside the pool and splashed her face.
Last night being the hottest of summer, she had slept only fitfully. Overcome with tiredness, she lay in the shade beneath a white willow. Above her head, skeins of midges hung in shafts of light.
A myriad of sunlight and shadows played upon her face, flickering, lulling her into an ocean of dreams.
Around her a fey princess, apple blossom sprinkled in her golden hair, danced to the haunting lilt of a flute, which played as happily and brightly as the chirping birds.
Abruptly the quivering trill died.
A boy, of noble appearance and attire, squatted on a boulder above the pool. His flaxen hair was caught back in a ponytail.
‘Don’t stop!’ Eppie cried, seeing him lay the flute upon his knees.
‘I don’t feel like it anymore.’
Scrambling up the rocks, she plonked herself beside him.
Around his blue eyes was a red-rimmed soreness.
‘You’re Gabriel, ain’t ya?’
Crushing the tails of his scarlet jacket in his hands, the boy stared transfixed into the pool.
‘I see you in church. I’m Eppie. I live in the cottage beside Miller’s Bridge. Twiss came with me. He’s Wakelin’s dog. Tipsy was from Aunty Claire’s cat. Have you gorra dog?’
He let out a shaky sigh. ‘I have a brown and white Angora cat called Prince Ferdinand. Father says my cat is a drawing-room-pet-only, but I smuggle him into my bed at night. I chose his name from Shakespeare’s plays.’
‘Wakelin’s supposed to learn his letters. Mr Strutt, the master cropper, slaps him when he won’t think. Pa wants to learn Wakelin the accordion so he can play in the church concert
. Wakelin told him he’d rather go blobbing for eels.’
In silence, they watched grey wagtails dart from rock to rock at the poolside. Red admiral butterflies flitted among the yellow petals of marsh Saint John’s wort.
‘I’ll be off. Pa told me to give him a hand with his caulis.’
‘Don’t go!’ he implored. ‘It’s just,’ he faltered, ‘you see, I’m not used to other children. Mother likes me to talk to her, though she’s sickly.’
‘My mam was sick a year ago. She skidded and squashed my baby brother. I’ve not seen you at the Falls before.’
‘Father says I’m to keep away from the cottagers. He says they’re ill-disposed, though I think Samuel Cobbett is friendly.’
‘He’s my Grumps.’
‘Your what?’
‘My grandfather. I’m supposed to call him Gramps. When I was little I called him Grumps. It sort of stuck. If you’re not meant to talk to villagers, why didn’t you pelt off scared when you saw me?’
‘It seemed all right because Talia wasn’t frightened of you.’
‘The girl dancing?’
‘You saw her? I thought only mother and I could see her. She used to be my sister. I mean she still is.’
‘How come she melts away like that?’
‘She just does. I used to sleep in the nursery. Now I’m in the bedchamber next door. There’s a secret panel in the wall. When I’m lonely I crawl through to be with her. She rides on Spellbound, her rocking pony. Mother visits Talia in the nursery. We call it the Swan Chamber because mother, Talia and I used to like standing together at the window to watch a flock of mute swans fly over. I still watch them - on my own. Their snowy feathers look a beautiful blue against the setting sun.’ He hesitated, unsure whether it was safe to develop a friendship with this village girl, knowing his father would be enraged if he found out what he was up to. ‘If you like, I’ll show you some mushrooms called faerie clubs.’
‘I’d love that!’
Although still early, the sun’s rays beat so fiercely that the children were relieved to run beneath the shady canopies. The green depths of elm, ash and field maple seemed to stretch to the end of the world.
‘Here!’ he cried.
‘What a great ring!’
Not far off was a leaning tower, crosses etched into its stonework. Its arched windows were like those in church, although some were boarded over.
Skirting around brambles, Eppie headed towards it. ‘What’s this place?’
‘It’s my grandfather’s folly. He had it built to resemble medieval ruins. He sometimes had poachers locked in here as their punishment.’
Crumbling walls abutted the tower. Inside, pigeon droppings daubed a large metal star which was attached to a heavy iron pole.
‘One rainy night, when my aunt must have been sheltering in here, the star fell through the rotten roof and killed her. Her body was not discovered for days because no one really missed her. I overheard Doctor Burndread telling father that her skull had been smashed in. I never liked Aunt Zelda. She used to creep up on me whilst I was studying at my desk and pretend to snip my hair with her fingers. Once, when I heard her arguing with my cousin, Thurstan, I peeped through the keyhole into her bedchamber. I saw her piercing her head with a knife and ripping out hairs from the puncture wounds. After glaring at each hair, she would strike and bite off the roots as though she were decapitating an enemy.
‘Whilst we were dining, father spotted the bald patches on her scalp. They’d become infected and swollen. He asked her what was ailing her. She said that each evening a vampire bat flew out of father’s study, called the Brown Room, and attacked her. He forbade her from partaking of future meals with the family. Father wanted to put her in an asylum. Thurstan told him that he’d already sent his father to his death and he did not want to lose his mother as well, though I think it was more that Thurstan enjoyed seeing my aunt vex my father. Would you like to see my tree house?’
‘You have a tree house! How wonderful!’
‘You won’t have been in the wood this side of the river,’ Gabriel said as they spurted across the woodland floor, their feet kicking up fallen leaves. ‘Villagers aren’t allowed in here. This is where Thurstan and my father shoot deer. I hate the killing.’
‘I hate it when Wakelin tells me about how the men bait the badgers.’
A magnificent ancient oak stood in the middle of a clearing.
Eppie clapped in delight. ‘His trunk’s a bull with bulging eyes. That twig’s a pipe sticking out of his mouth.’ Over their heads swept a stout, curved branch. ‘I could crawl along that.’ She pressed her ear to the mossy trunk, listening for the spiritual life throbbing within. ‘I can hear his heart beating.’
‘I was reading one of father’s documents in the library. It said that this tree has been pollarded for hundreds of years. That’s why it’s this odd shape. It was planted in the twelfth century, at the time of the crusades. I call it the Crusader Oak.’
‘I’ve found his tongue!’
‘This fungi looks like beefsteak.’ Gabriel fetched out a rusty pocketknife and slashed the smooth, reddish fungi. Juice spurted from the cut.
Eppie poked fungi growing on a branch which had fallen within a clump of enchanter’s nightshade. ‘These are cramp balls. When I was little I thought they were brown buns and ate one. I like the wavy skirts on these horns of plenty.’
‘I’m beginning to think you know as much about woodland life as I do.’ He sighed sadly. ‘Well, I’d better go home.’
‘What about your den?’
‘I forgot. Quick, see if you can find the way in.’
Clumps of fern grew in rotting parts of the bark. Eppie wrenched them aside. ‘There’s no way in.’
‘Try there.’
‘A hole!’
‘Squeeze in.’
‘By, it’s dark n’ spooky.’
‘Feel for a rooty sort of branch that sticks out.’
‘Got it!’
‘It goes up inside the tree. There are handholds. I’ll come behind, should you fall. Ouch! Watch where you’re putting your feet; you’ve just crushed my fingers.’
‘Sorry!’
She scrambled onto the flattened area within the tree. ‘It’s like Wakelin’s loft. It’s even got his tiny window.’ She peered through the opening where a branch had been hacked centuries ago. In the distance the river pounded.
Fetching down a tin, he passed her a biscuit. ‘I keep a good supply of victuals for when I come here, wishing to be alone. Make yourself comfortable, my lady.’
She sank onto a heap of green velvet cushions. ‘Does anyone else know about your lair?’
‘When Talia was alive, she and I sometimes sneaked off here when we knew father would not catch us. Thurstan played here when he was a boy. He and his mother came to live with us after the death of Uncle Charles. My father encouraged Uncle Charles to invest in a shipping company owned by a man called Jared Grimley. The company traded in diamonds, lapis lazuli and other precious stones. Jared was married to Augusta, Lady Bulwar’s only daughter. After pirates attacked the ship, murdering all aboard, including Jared and Augusta, the company collapsed. Uncle Charles went bankrupt and committed suicide.
‘I think father feels guilty about the death of my uncle so he goes overboard to please Thurstan. I’m pretty sure that Thurstan hates father, though it doesn’t stop him bothering him when he wants something. Father bought him Bullet, a thoroughbred black stallion. He even gave him the money to buy The Rogues’ Inn in Litcombe.’
‘Wakelin says Thurstan is horrid to him.’
‘Prince Ferdinand once became stuck on a branch. He’d gouged his paw. I climbed out of this window to rescue him. Thurstan must’ve trailed me into the woods. He was in one of his vile moods. He shouted that he’d soon have my cat down, and hurled a stone. It must’ve hit me because the next thing I knew it was nightfall and I found myself sprawled over the branch like a tiger in the jungle.’
‘Why
hadn’t anyone come to look for you?’
‘Thurstan had lied to my parents, telling them I was sick in my room and didn’t want to be disturbed. My clothes were damp from the drizzle. I couldn’t stop shaking as I climbed down. I was terrified of finding my cat dead, like the time I found Genevieve, my sister, dead. Luckily, Prince Ferdinand had tumbled onto a vixen’s bed of dry bracken. I had often seen your grandfather tend sick sheep, and he had once cared for Prince Ferdinand as a kitten, after father had tried to drown him. So I took my cat to him. He made him better. Ever since that time I have been afraid to climb trees.’
Eppie tried to cheer him. ‘If you like I’ve got some blackberries in my basket.’
‘I’ll fetch them.’ He was glad of something to do to distract him from his unhappy thoughts.
She was unscrewing the ivory mounts of the boxwood flute when he crawled back up. ‘I’d love to play the flute.’
‘I like to play the flute because it makes it seem as though I live in Talia’s world, a magical place where only agreeable things happen to me.’ He reddened, self-conscious that his words might seem whimsical, suggestive that he lived purely in the realms of fantasy. ‘I could teach you to play the flute, if you like.’
‘No!’
‘Why not?’
‘My pa’s a weaver.’
‘Why should that be an impediment?’
‘I’m too small.’
‘I began when I was little.’
She smiled brightly. ‘Well, all right, if you’re sure. Who teaches you the flute?’
‘Mrs Hester Grimley. Occasionally, mother and I visit her and her husband in Malstowe. They live in an odd house. It is built on a bridge.’
‘I thought your mam was stuck in bed.’
‘Agnes, my former nursemaid, is mother’s sick-aid. She helps push mother about in a wheeled chair.’
Eppie wafted midges. ‘A fly’s landed on my blackberry.’
‘Higher up there’s a bat roost. The bats eat thousands of flying insects. Last spring, there were four wren eggs in a nest outside this branch-window. The fledglings were brave, swooping off for the first time. One became so tame that it would perch on my hand when I whistled to him.’ He took a blackberry and stared blankly at it in his palm. ‘When Thurstan returned from Oxford he whistled my tune and the wren flew to him. All the way back to the stockyard I shouted at him to let it go. He chopped its head off with a cleaver.’
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