Widdershins

by Helen Steadman

  * * *

  Bill Verger and Jim Driver carried Tom up the hill on a board as though he were no weight at all. When they took him into Mam’s pantry, I wanted to go and help, but Mam would hear none of it.

  ‘Jane, you’ve saved Tom’s life and his leg. But you will go to bed straight away and I won’t hear another word from you about it.’

  ‘But, Mam, he saved my life by pushing me up a tree out of the hunter’s way.’

  Bill Verger and Jim Driver exchanged glances. Jim addressed me.

  ‘Jane, tell us what you remember of this man, for we must send up the hue and cry before he does kill someone.’

  ‘We never saw him, just his brown mare – off and on like your Andrew’s.’

  Jim Driver leaned close to me. ‘But it can’t have been our Andrew, since he’s been at Hexham the past two days.’

  ‘Of course it wasn’t Andrew. He’d have haled us. And he’s Tom’s best friend, so he’d never shoot him. It was just the same colour mare. But we never saw its rider.’

  Bill patted me on the shoulder. ‘We must send up the hue and cry then, for an unknown man riding a brown mare.’

  Jim Driver turned. ‘Aye, but first make sure that our Andrew isn’t taken.’

  ‘Of course, Driver. Come, we should go, although the man will be long gone if he’s an ounce of sense, and we must fetch Meg.’

  ‘Aye, but shorten your stride, Verger, as Meg Wetherby’s not going anywhere.’

  Once the men left, Mam held out a bowl. ‘Here’s some hot pottage. Not that you deserve it. Now, get it down you while it’s warm and then straight to bed with you.’

  The pottage was most welcome and it warmed me. ‘But, Mam, I want to see how Tom is.’

  ‘How many times must I tell you not to speak with your mouth full? Tom is perfectly well. He’s a strong lad, and he’ll recover nicely. He just needs his rest. And so do you. Now off to bed with you, unless you want to explain why you were out in the woods all night with a lad–’

  ‘But it was only Tom and he’s my best friend. And we had to check on Meg.’

  ‘Well, perhaps it’s time you got yourself a friend who’s a lass. It might bring less mischief.’

  My eyes welled as Mam retrieved the empty bowl. ‘But Mam, Tom would never harm me. I can’t just stop being his friend. Not on top of losing Meg. He saved me from being shot by that hunter.’

  ‘And you saved him, so you’re square – more than square. I forbid you from going out in those woods and you’re to keep away from Tom Verger.’

  ‘But Mam–’

  ‘Enough. Do not disobey me, Jane. Say your prayers. Be sure to give thanks to God for your safe deliverance and then not another word from you.’

  I opened my mouth, saw the hardness in my mother’s face and closed it again. Eyes downcast, I kicked off my clogs and knelt in front of my pallet in the alcove, hands clasped before me. Warm, safe, with a full stomach and Gyb by my side, I tried to feel grateful. Yet God had played no part yesterday. Meg was dead and the only blessing was that she’d not died alone, even if she had suffered alone for days. God hadn’t helped Meg. If Tom hadn’t pushed me up the tree yesterday, who knows what might have happened? If I’d not kept my wits, Tom might have bled to death. And he must still be weak and sick from losing so much blood. He was home and Mam would heal him, but I wanted to see how he fared.

  When my knees began to ache, I decided that God would forgive me for not being more grateful. Once in bed, even my concern for Tom couldn’t keep me awake. My eyes wobbled, quickly followed by my mind, and I fell fast asleep, never mind the daylight and Mam’s sharp words.

  * * *

  I slept all of that day and all through the night. My stomach woke me just before dawn – it was so hollow that it pained me. Quietly, I put on my clogs and crept into the kitchen. There was a heel of bread and some ale left in the jug, just enough to soak for pap as if I were still a bairn. It was tempting to bite straight into the bread, but it was as hard as the hobs of hell. These words made me smile. They were words that Tom would use about day-old bread, which made me blush, but I secretly enjoyed his impertinence.

  While the bread softened in the ale, I went out of the kitchen door and brushed my hand across the dew-drenched fennel stalks. With fragrant, wet hands, I washed my face and smoothed my hair. The smell of fennel was refreshing and woke me up properly. I peered at Tom’s dwelling. He’d be lying in there, suffering. More than anything, I wished to see him and tend his wounds. But he might be sleeping, and Mam would be crosser than she already was. The best idea would be to stay out of her way until she was calmer. Then she might forget about not letting me see Tom anymore. It gave me a sick feeling inside to think of not seeing him again. It was bad enough never being able to see Meg again. I hugged Gyb to me, because he was all I had left of Meg, and he gave me some comfort. And it didn’t bear thinking about what the man in the woods might have done to me. Even now, I could be lying on the forest floor, stiff and still were it not for Tom. I had to thank him for saving my life. Surely Mam would come round in time?

  13

  John

  Troubles of the Marriage Bed

  Lucy followed me into our home, shaking the sleet from her coif.

  ‘Oh, that was quite a storm, John, I can’t believe so much snow was ever in the sky.’

  ‘What? What’s the weather to do with anything? Besides, you needn’t worry about any more bad weather because that’s the last time I take you into town. The men’s eyes all over you. We’ve been scarce wed a year and already the sly smirks are coming in my direction.’

  Lucy shivered and shook her cloak, taking care not to splash me, and then hung it on the door. ‘Oh, John, people are too busy minding their own business to care about ours.’

  ‘There are none so blind as those who won’t see. They were ogling you freely, plain though you are, as if you were a harbour doxy.’

  ‘John! What a wicked word to say.’

  ‘Quiet, woman, and get these boots off me.’

  I sat by the fire and extended my legs. Lucy knelt to pull off my boots, her fingers slipping on the wet leather. I could not begin to tell her the feelings of rage and humiliation that did daily battle within me at the thought of my manhood being called into question. She unhooked my boots and looked towards the fire, as well she might, since it was in danger of going out. It angered me to think of the fire going out, and how I’d been beaten by my father that night when we had no fire. It occurred to me then that my father must have suffered similar humiliation to my own as my mother was advanced in years when I was born. Perhaps it went some way to explaining his terrible temper and violence. These days, I often felt my blood heat and course into my fists and feet, and it was a struggle to hold myself back. Of course, I would never beat Lucy out of temper, even when she seemed determined to try my patience, but only for the sake of chastisement to keep her on God’s path. Uncle James had taught me thoroughly about the duties of a husband.

  Before Lucy had managed to take off my boots, I kicked them off myself and took her over to the straw mattress. She turned her face while I loosened myself. Then I untied her chemise. Although I was a spare man, she cringed when I lay on her. I leant over, grinding my hip into hers.

  ‘John, why are you fishing around for your cloak?’

  ‘To make us decent. The room feels filled with the eyes of my forebears.’

  ‘Oh, John.’ She smiled, but soon let it fall away.

  ‘Aye, wipe that smirk from your face, before I wipe it for you. I’ll not have my forebears gaze on this bare backside.’ I drew the cloak over my bareness. ‘There, no forbear can peer through wool.’ Then I started fastening up her chemise, my cold fingers fighting with the flimsy laces.

  ‘John, whatever’s wrong?’

  ‘I’m covering your womanly flesh decently in God’s sight.’

  ‘But, surely you don’t think–’

  ‘Yes! He’s everywhere. And how might any man be expect
ed to perform under God’s eye?’

  ‘But God can’t keep watch over everyone, John. Besides, it’s natural for married folks to–’

  ‘Be quiet. The act of procreation is sanctified for making children and no more.’

  I lay rigid my whole length, except the small length that mattered. It dismayed me. No child would ever be born this way.

  Lucy began untying her chemise once more. ‘Perhaps if we lie as God intended, you know, before the fall–’

  I was forced to slap her. ‘Have you lost your wits? First, lascivious behaviour and then blasphemy.’ While it saddened me greatly that I had resorted to my father’s ways, Uncle had made me understand my purpose as a husband, and it was surely my duty to knock this wicked taint out of her.

  * * *

  In the morning, Lucy awoke under my weight, although my member hung limply. When she protested, it was necessary to silence her before she made a sinful complaint, so I clamped my hand over her mouth until her eyes bulged. Something must have stirred me then and her cowering drove me on. Without intention, I twisted her left breast, which caused tears to spill from her eyes, but I drove myself against her unyielding body, chafing myself in the joyless process. Finally, I grunted, pulled away from her and sneered as I fastened myself away.

  ‘See yon blood! Smear the linen and hang it out. I’ll have no more sneers from the neighbours about my manhood.’

  Lucy curled up, clutching her left breast. ‘But, it’s only moon blood.’

  She slid from the mattress and there was not even a meagre trickle of seed on her thigh. Something must be done, but what? While she hung out the linen, I realised that no heir would leave my loins if left to nature. My shudder didn’t herald life-giving seed. If anything came from me, it was as dust and too light to land, let alone take hold inside my wife and make a child.

  * * *

  After tending the beasts, I came home. Lucy flinched when I kicked the door shut. ‘Those little snots, they mean me to overhear them. Soft-tail Sharpe they’re calling me. Lads half my age laughing behind their hands.’

  I took out my flask of whisky and swallowed a draft. Then I looked around me. At the sight of the untended room, the hairs on my hands stood like wire, a nerve jumped in my cheek and the skin tightened over my cheekbones.

  ‘You wee slattern! You think you can keep the hours you want while I go unfed and uncomforted in this filthy hovel? While you – snivelling sloven that you are – do just as you please with the hours God gives you.’

  She eyed the flask in my hand. ‘What’s come over you? This isn’t the John I married.’

  ‘Aye, well, it’s the one you’ve got. Cut your whingeing, woman. A man shouldn’t have to wait for what’s rightfully his after a day’s graft.’

  My heart pounded so hard I fancied Lucy could see it thumping. My eyes bulged and a great sweat came upon me, as if I’d run a mile with a mastiff behind me. My member was stirring. Had my coursing blood set it twitching? When I took out my member, Lucy turned her face from the ugly bloom.

  ‘Don’t you dare turn away from what God made.’

  I pushed her against the table, lifted her kirtle and rammed my soft flesh into her. She clawed at the table, but didn’t cry. Did she think I fed on her terror? Had she decided to show me no more? I leant over and bit her breasts. It made her wail, which excited my blood further. Finally, I grunted and slumped on top of her, knocking the breath from her. Now that I’d unlocked something within me, I’d use her more roughly and not care what damage was inflicted if her cowering helped me get a bairn on her.

  Later that night, I tried again to make a child, but to no avail. Lucy tucked herself behind me in our bed, her hand over my furious heart. It was beating too fast for sleep, so I deepened my breathing to fox her. She pushed away from me and turned onto her back. No doubt to stare at the rafters until the night was gone. But that night, the full moon shone through the window, so Lucy reached into the straw mattress for her dead mother’s silver coin and turned it over as she did every full moon. At first light, I’d take her mother’s coin and visit MacBain.

  * * *

  I stamped through the woods to reach the barber-surgeon’s shack and a spire of smoke streamed from the roof, bringing with it a savoury smell that made my mouth water. Before I called out, the barber-surgeon opened his door.

  ‘Sharpe. It’s never good to see you. But get in and warm yourself.’ He pointed to a stool near the fire.

  I looked at the crocks jostling on makeshift shelves. The big barber perched next to the fire, stirring a bubbling cauldron – the source of the savoury smell.

  ‘Why are you here? Have no fear. I may well dislike you, but your coin is as good as any man’s, and your words won’t travel beyond my home.’

  The man was hardly convincing, but I was desperate for his help, and so I let the slight pass by unremarked. ‘I … fear that my wife’s womb is barren.’

  ‘Then I must ask about the private workings of your wife’s body. Do you understand?’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, I understand.’

  ‘First, when does your wife bleed?’

  ‘Now. At full moon. And her fertile time is dead moon. She reports a tiny pain and I notice the increasing strength in her hands.’

  MacBain snorted. ‘Aye, God giving women a fighting chance at their fertile time. Now then, you’ve lain with your wife at these fertile times?’

  My cheeks were alight with shame and I didn’t reply.

  ‘Sharpe, I can see you wonder whether this old barber can help you. Well, set your mind at rest. I’ve helped more bairns be made than a body’s a right to know. Now tell me, have you lain with your wife at her fertile time?’

  I nodded. ‘Since our wedding, I’ve not once escaped my duty. So, Lucy must be barren.’

  ‘Come closer.’ The barber grabbed my hands and studied my palms by the firelight. When he released them, they were strangely warm, despite his cold grasp.

  ‘What were you doing, MacBain?’

  ‘Reading your life, Sharpe. There’s naught ails your goodwife that a kinder husband wouldn’t mend – now, don’t go getting all hot-headed at a dose of the truth. Tell me, how goes it when you lie together?’

  I bit back my retort at his insult and answered him. ‘Well … something isn’t right. There’s been no blood but her moon blood.’

  MacBain nodded. ‘So, John Sharpe can’t get a bairn on his goodwife? Your prong is soft?’

  My eyes widened. ‘Watch your mouth, MacBain!’

  ‘Oh, take that look off your face. Nobody ever died from a dose of the truth and false pride won’t make a bairn for you.’ MacBain ladled out a bowl of broth. ‘Here, swallow this and get some meat on your bones. Eat up, that rabbit didn’t give over breathing so you could let him cool and go to waste. It’s just a taste and there’s always plenty more rabbits in these woods. So eat up and let me think on.’

  The barber gazed into the fire while I speared tender morsels of rabbit with my eating knife. I looked up. ‘MacBain, this broth is salted and saged to perfection.’

  He gave a grim smile. ‘Always goes down better when you’ve not had to catch, kill and cook it yourself. While I mix my herbs, you get on with that broth.’

  I concentrated on the broth, trying to make it last.

  ‘Here, Sharpe, when you’ve done with the rabbit, heft the stew onto the embers and set that water to boiling.’

  I swallowed my stew as if the mouthful contained an entire rabbit and the blood boiled into my face at being treated like a maid. But it wouldn’t pay to anger MacBain, so I switched the crocks and the barber handed me a small pot.

  ‘Here, rosehip syrup. Pour in one-quarter worth and we’ll have us a fine drink.’

  I trickled the red syrup into the hot water and a sweet smell rose in the steam.

  MacBain eyed me, nodding. ‘A man careful about what he gives away.’

  ‘Don’t speak to me in clever riddles, Barber, I know your hidden meaning.’
>
  ‘Ach, Sharpe, you’ll not be the first, or the last, to suffer from slow-running seed. Come, fill these bowls and we’ll warm our bones.’

  We perched near the fire, hugging hot bowls and supping in silence.

  When he’d drained his bowl, MacBain rose. ‘No more lazing next to the fire for me – no, you stay there and keep out of my way.’

  It felt awkward taking my ease while the barber toiled. For a big man, he worked easily amongst his crocks, deftly reaching for pot after pot, adding powders, leaves and seeds to a hollowed stone mortar and then grinding them. A bitter smell cut through the rosehip and my nose wrinkled.

  ‘What is that foul concoction, MacBain?’

  ‘Only cantharides, nettles and a dab of mandrake.’

  ‘Mandrake? But my goodwife will struggle to get it down and keep it down.’

  MacBain grimaced, bad humour shining from his black eyes. ‘This isn’t for your goodwife. It’s for you, man. Sup a big pinch with your evening cup of ale, but only a pinch, or your wife will be set for mourning weeds or the gallows instead of the birthing chair.’

  I looked at the door and then at MacBain. ‘Do you really think I’d poison myself by my own hand through supping mandrake? And pay you for the dubious pleasure? What if someone found out? Mandrake! We’d both swing.’

  ‘No need for alarm, Sharpe. The only creatures with ears are the rabbits and they can keep a secret. Now get yourself over here and learn how to pinch out the right dose.’

  ‘But it’s not me that’s lacking, MacBain. The blame lies within my wife.’

  ‘Aye, don’t all heirless men have the very same complaint of their goodwives?’

  ‘MacBain, do not take my manhood in vain.’

  ‘Psht, there are plenty of men who’ve suffered the sheer misfortune to marry two, or sometimes even three, barren wives.’

  I dropped my eyes to my bowl, ‘This is too much insult.’

  ‘Insults must sometimes be borne to get to the truth of the matter. Now, I’ve no time to make words fine enough to suit your delicate ears. See sense, Sharpe, and you shall have your child.’ MacBain passed a crock under my nose.