Eppie glanced at Gillow, keen to discern his reaction to the lovers. Making pretence of ignoring his son’s every move he was staring pokerfaced at the parson.
Aware that one or two of the elderly members of the congregation were snoring, the parson attempted to enliven the sermon. ‘The wicked shall not be saved!’
His resounding words were drowned by Lottie’s startled shriek. Irritable with her head cold, she struggled in Martha’s arms. As in sympathetic unison several of the congregation, all suffering autumnal ills, sniffed and wheezed, loudest amongst them Molly’s hacking cough.
The parson realised it was futile to continue his discourse against such a background of din and cried optimistically, ‘Let us recite the words of Psalm 14.’
Reaching the words, ‘… they will be filled with terror,’ Molly exploded into such a coughing fit that she fell back onto the bench, all looking anxiously upon her.
The parson deemed it prudent to wind up early. Eppie was delighted.
Compelled by social grace, the poor members of the congregation remained standing whilst they waited for the lord and his son to leave.
Gabriel looked ill.
Eppie, distressed by his indisposition, reached out comfortingly as he passed and gently brushed his fingers. Seeing him glance at her, her heart raced with pleasure.
Robert du Quesne was determined to curb any familiarity between Gabriel and this girl, who seemed to wield such an unnerving power over his son. He chanced to catch sight of this exchange of affection.
Blushing with discomfiture, sensing du Quesne’s eyes burning into her like red-hot pokers, she fiddled with the tail of the mouse carved onto the end of the pew.
All was cosy in the cottage. The fire crackled, giving off a ripe, sickly scent of dried donkey dung.
Nowadays, Wakelin spent most Sundays over at the Leiffs.
Eppie fetched the remains of Gillow’s birthday cake and ceremoniously placed it on the table before him, amongst the cold pork and cheese. ‘We’ve only a little plum cake spare after the parson helped himself, so you only have quarter of a wish.’
Gillow chuckled at his misfortune. ‘I wish for quarter of a kiss from your sweet lips!’
‘You’ll have to catch me first!’
Adorned in his fair-day ruff, Twiss was swift on their heels as they raced around the table, Eppie squealing with laughter.
The dog’s tail caught in Lottie’s pilchers ranged before the hearth and tore down the lot.
‘Calm down you nuisances,’ Martha cried, aghast, ‘you’ll wake the baby.’
Eppie turned and leapt into Gillow’s arm, lavishing kisses on him.
‘No more,’ he pleaded. ‘I’ll be washed to death!’
Diving to the table, she bit into the cake, the sticky sweetness of it melting on her tongue. ‘We’d better save Wakelin a crumb.’
‘Oh, yes,’ Martha said, ‘or there’d be big trouble.’
After a few melodies on his accordion, Eppie and Dawkin singing along to the jolly tunes, Gillow retired to his armchair. He heaved a sigh.
‘Feeling your age, old man?’ Martha asked cheekily.
Eppie plopped a sugar lump into his tea and passed him his pipe. Though a virtuous man, like most of the men in the village he abhorred the thought of having to give up on his little luxuries, chiefly his tobacco and ale, of a Sunday. That is, unless the parson was spotted approaching, when his bible would be taken up and all would fall silent.
‘It’s seeing young love that makes me feel old,’ he answered. ‘I reckon it won’t be long before Wakelin and Molly are wed.’ He rubbed a pinch of gunpowder onto his gums to lessen his toothache. ‘Though it beats me what the girl sees in him; he’s hardly eyeable, and he’s cursed into the bargain.’
Martha, finding it hard to be idle, was darning Wakelin’s work shirt. It helped to take her mind off the recent death of Fay Hix during childbirth.
‘With Molly taming the lad’s rebellious spirit, at least he’s started to act in a sensible manner,’ Gillow said. ‘She’s got him to attend church. And if she bakes fruitcake as well as you, she’ll make him a fine wife.’
‘What do you think Henry will do now?’ Martha asked. ‘After his years of steadfast service, Claire says it’s the meanness of his lordship that she finds hardest to bear.’
‘His lordship will come to regret it. It’s them like Henry who’ve been labourers and risen to positions of responsibility, who really understand how to get the value of a man’s wage out of him. The men have always felt comfortable speaking to Henry.’
Looking over at Dawkin, he asked, ‘If you don’t intend being a farm labourer, my lad, you’ll have to think about learning a trade. Have you thought about weaving?’
‘Fine by me.’
‘I only wish Wakelin was as even-tempered as you!’ He waved his bandaged wrist, which ached from hours spent working on the loom. ‘Mind you, it’s tough these days. My wages have dropped by a third and I have to work twice as hard.’
Eppie sat on the stool at his feet, knitting a shawl for herself in the same green wool as Martha’s. ‘The way you’re going about that,’ Gillow said, ‘it’ll end up identical to your mother’s, there are so many holes in it.’
‘It’s lucky for you it’s your birthday or I’d have punched you on the nose for that,’ Martha said.
‘I reckon Lord du Quesne ought to pay the labourers more,’ Eppie suggested. ‘That way they’d be able to afford clothes that don’t forever need patching. If a thousand labourers bought a thousand smocks, the cloth makers would be happier because they’d sell more.’
‘You could be right. Well, I’m off to The Fat Duck to get my birthday drinks in.’
Though the parson had demanded that Jonas did not open his tavern on a Sunday, few of the inn-goers acceded to his demand, enjoying their drink too much. Instead, the men took it in turns to stand guard on the lane, ready to alert the publican and the drinkers if the parson or du Quesne were passing by.
‘Coming to collect some more faggots for the fire?’ Dawkin asked Eppie.
The baby was making fretful mewing sounds.
‘Lottie’s only got a cold, hasn’t she?’ Eppie asked Martha anxiously.
‘Even a head cold has a way of turning bad, especially in this damp cottage.’
On her way out, Eppie stared at the dismal sight of the roof. Care of the cottages was low on du Quesne’s list of priorities. He would only allow the cottages to be re-thatched by the tenants once the roofs were sopping and thick with weeds.
Dawkin scrambled onto the lowest branch of a gnarled maple, its roots twisting down the steep riverbank. He peered through the autumnal canopy. ‘They must be roast chestnuts at the manor; every one of their chimneys is smoking. Want to see a pixie twirl?’ Whooping, he toppled backwards and landed with a thud beside her in the cushioning leaves. ‘That scared ya!’
‘Didn’t.’ She felt ashamed of her display of fright. ‘Anyhow, you can only twizzle once before reaching the ground; I can twizzle three times.’ Before he could dare her, she snatched the catapult from his hand. Whirling her arm like the sail of a corn mill in a gale, she let loose. To her dismay the stone fell short of the crow nest they had chosen as the target.
‘Remarkable,’ he said, resisting a grin.
‘Let’s see you do better,’ she goaded.
It was all she could do not to giggle at his deadly serious face as, eyes narrowed, he sized up the distance to the nest. Dexterously, he wielded the weapon. The stone hit dead centre with a resounding thwack. Twigs spiralled down through the canopy.
‘Ouch, that hurt,’ he said, having jerked a muscle. ‘I’m surprised my arm gives me trouble after all these months.’
‘How come you’re so good at slingshot?’
‘Practice. At the poorhouse I made a sling out of rags. There was this walled yard where lads took their exercise. I used to aim at the spikes along the top. Once, I saw Mr Crowe on the roof. He’d tied a rope around the n
eck of a live goose. He kept dropping the bird down the matron’s chimney and dragging it back up to dislodge the soot. It seemed a mean thing to do, so I ran off to see if I could rescue it.
‘I reached up the chimney and gave the rope a tug. When Mrs Grieve stormed into the room to find out why there was all this honking, the goose flew straight into her face. She told Mr Crowe he’d be doing the parish a favour if he took me off her hands.
‘I was in the soot cellar when this gentleman came to the house. I knew his voice. He visited folk at the poorhouse and often brought me a morsel of cheese. Later, in the dormitory, I’d share it with Dick Pebbleton and his brother, Jake.
‘I couldn’t believe my luck when I heard the gentleman ask Mr Crowe if he’d sell me. He said he wanted to offer me a better life. Mr Crowe told him that if there was anything he hated more than a meddlesome do-gooder, it was a lad with a smile on his face, and saw him off. Hey, what are they doing?’
Wakelin and Molly stood upon the packhorse bridge. Away from interfering elders, Wakelin’s countenance mirrored his inner happiness. With pride he embraced his love and placed a kiss upon her cheek. Taking him by the hand, Molly led him away. The last tantalizing glimpse the children had of them was when they disappeared into the derelict granary.
‘Let’s creep up on them,’ Dawkin suggested. ‘See what they’re doing.’
‘That wouldn’t be right.’
He sped off.
Picking up her basket, Eppie trotted reluctantly across the bridge after him.
Through a gap, where the wattle and daub had crumbled, they spotted the lovers.
‘Why won’t you shave off your stubble?’ Molly asked.
‘A wench-faced fellow don’t look like a man. Ya wun’t want to marry a wench would ya?’
Eppie tripped away. ‘This is tiresome.’
‘Wait on, Ep. It might get exciting.’
Huffing with irritation, she returned and resumed her squatting position.
‘I’ll be glad when we’re wed,’ Molly said, ‘then I’ll never have to work at the manor house no more. I’m that a-feared of his lordship. He shouted at me summat rotten after I broke his duck platypussy. I were ownee dusting the thing when its beak dropped off in me hand it were that old. He threatened Ben, one of Alf’s garden lads, with hanging after he caught him wolfing strawberries, so for sure he’ll have Tom string me up if he catches me cob-nobbling any more of his beasties.’
Du Quesne had made Tom and Jonas fix a scaffold in one of their barns.
‘Tom would never do no hanging,’ Wakelin reassured her. ‘Henry says that ramshackle gibbet is only there to worry the labourers into behaving so we don’t go poaching or demanding higher wages.’
‘It’s lucky his lordship’s staying overnight in Malstowe next Saturday. I’ve got the night off. I’ll be able to see you.’
‘Nay, I’m off to the baiting.’
‘Surely you can miss it this once?
Wakelin toyed with the trinket around her neck. ‘I wouldn’t have been able to fetch you this off Harvey if I hadn’t won me shilling.’
‘I know, but I’d rather see you. Besides, badger baiting’s cruel.’ She encircled her arms about his waist. ‘Say you’ll give it up, for me?’
‘Stop wittering on, you’re as bad as my old ma. You should be pleased I’m not at The Duck right now. At any rate I’m going this Saturday. Tom and me bagged some good un’s. Most of ‘em was ripped to tatters in last week’s baiting, but a couple of the females he’s locked in the barn look spirited.’
Eppie spoke in a hushed voice, ‘Wakelin can be so pitiless at times. I’ve a good mind to …’ A determined glint came into her eyes, and she set down her basket. ‘Right, that’s it.’
‘What’s it?’ Dawkin asked, intrigued.
Without hesitating to explain, she charged off.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A MEMORY REKINDLED
Bill Hix and other farm labourers, their heads bent together in conspiratorial confabulation, were so engrossed in their earnest plotting in the parlour of The Fat Duck that they failed to notice a golden-topped head and a shaggy brown poll appearing as Eppie and Dawkin, prising back a rotting window frame, sneaked a look in.
Eppie’s quick eyes picked out Gillow and Henry cosily ensconced in the inglenook with Samuel.
‘Looks like this estate manager has some kind of skin disease,’ Samuel said. ‘Not so much as a please and thank you about him. Shepherd, he says, don’t ya know nowt about black liver and how to cure it? I told him that only that morning Edmund and I had mixed a pudding of tar and oil to salve the flock. Scratching ‘emsens raw they’ve been. Glad to hear it, he says. From now on, though, every dead sheep will come out of your pocket, he says. How can I afford to pay for dead sheep out of my wages?’
‘What I want to know is why his lordship had to bring Maygott in in the first place,’ Gillow said.
‘Du Quesne’s latest venture is buying up failing businesses, so he has less time to organise the farm,’ Henry answered. ‘The estate manager soon made himself at home. His lordship gave him the choice of rooms in the manor house for his personal use. He chose the former nursery. He reckoned it has a pleasant view, especially now those yew stumps have been dug up and the garden redesigned. His lordship had Talia’s things taken out. He ordered Alf to burn them before he returned from Malstowe.’
‘How could he!’ Eppie whispered in shocked disbelief. ‘All of Talia’s beautiful dresses! And Spellbound! He was alive, sort of. And oh, the baby-house!’
With a resounding clonk Edmund’s ball smacked into the skittles sending the lot spinning.
Jacob was joyous at his son’s success, ‘Quart o’ ale for each of the winners, Tom!’
Edmund held coins aloft. ‘And a round for the losing team.’
‘It’s all right for the likes of you flinging your money about so freely,’ Bill grumbled. ‘You don’t give a thought to me having to scrape together every farthing. I’ve three children to feed and on what?’
Tom’s pewter tray of tankards rose and fell as he wove between the regulars. ‘Hush it, Bill. The only thing we want brewing around here is ale, not trouble.’
Jonas stood behind the counter, wiping tankards. ‘You can’t hold it against Edmund how he spends his lot. Besides, him squandering his pay on ale is good business for me.’
Bill was not pacified. ‘Now I’ve lost the missus what’ve I got to look forward to in life? At dinner last night all I got stuck before me was a woody half-stewed turnip what Wilbert found lying around.’
Jonas made a guttural, ‘Hmm.’ Yesterday he had caught Wilbert sneaking about the inn yard, pilfering root vegetables.
‘And things is sure to get worse now Maygott’s watching over us,’ warned Percy, Bill’s friend. ‘He’s threatened to fetch wandering labourers in if we don’t put our backs into it.’
‘His lordship sucks our blood drier than horseleeches,’ Bill said. ‘There’s no security in being paid casual. Measly parish hand-outs don’t help. Winter’s not far off. We need shoes for our bairns and summat warm to put on their backs. Let’s show du Quesne we mean business. I say we force him to pay fair wages. Tonight we’ll slit the throats of every one of his precious sheep. That’ll make him listen.’
Samuel leapt from his seat, horrified. ‘You’ll do nowt o’ the sort, ya scoundrel! Them sheep’s me own kith an’ kin!’
‘You can rest easy,’ Bill scoffed. ‘Milk and grain’s sold to you cheap on account of you being shepherd. You even get yer ‘tatie patch rent free.’
‘That’s as much as you know. ‘Them gains have been fetched away by Maygott. Says he’s saving pennies.’
‘An’ ya can bet ‘em pennies ain’t coming our way,’ Paxton Winwood said. ‘Du Quesne’s draining land and seeding cornfields like there’s no tomorrow. All he cares about is raking in a fat profit for himself.’
‘Winwood’s right,’ Bill said. ‘We have to make du Quesne realise how badly off
we are. I stick by what I say; using violence is the only way to force him to heed us.’
Gillow eyed Bill critically. ‘Didn’t you listen to the parson’s sermon this morning?’
‘Did I heck. I can’t understand half the words he spouts.’
‘He was speaking about revenge and evil acts being the vermin of our community. Killing and rampaging will serve no purpose other than ill. When you believe something is wrong you must fight to achieve your aims. Not with bludgeons and pickaxes, but with peaceful, passionate protest. That alone will secure your objective.’
Henry surveyed the solemn faces. ‘Gillow’s right. You’ve listened to me before. I want you to listen now. Like you, I’m finding things tough bringing in a low wage. I’m thrown back worse than when I started. If it’s fair wages we’re after, we need straight talking, and a harmonious solution, then I can speak at the next court-leet. Let’s toss a few ideas together. Come to some agreement about how best to get what we want.’ Heading towards the window, he grabbed a chair and motioned the labourers to gather around.
Ducking, Eppie and Dawkin scurried to the back of the inn.
Compared to the picturesque facade of the inn, in summer festooned with baskets of flowers, the yard was a shambles. In the middle of a fenced area, pigs rooted, their trotters sinking into mud around a feeding trough. Horses wandered freely between a bale of hay and a pail of water pumped from the well. Their feathers matted and miry, ducks dabbled in a shallow puddle from which arose the stench of stale from inn-goers horses.
With a sense of disappointment the children, upon searching for the badgers, found the nearest shed was simply a store for barrels and horse tackle. Behind an open horse shelter was a barn. Raised upon a brick plinth to keep out damp, the walls were constructed of wattle and daub. Where this had crumbled, slats of timber were nailed haphazardly. Dawkin leapt to the door bolt, trying to knock it back, without success. Though Eppie was taller than him even she could not reach it. So engaged were they in their quest that they failed to notice Bill, resenting Henry’s interference, step into the yard.
Eppie squinted through a hole in the timbers. ‘I can see them!’
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