by Jo Beverley
Again he looked at Rachel, looked her over in fact. She was not the sort of woman men directed embarrassing looks at, and yet she was embarrassed. Perhaps it was just that she was unaccustomed to a man like the Earl of Morden. Despite his dissipated way of life, he was a remarkably handsome man and yes, that vital force she had detected in the portrait still flowed through him. . . .
He spoke abruptly. “There are some records of the events in 1668 in the muniment room. Perhaps you would care to examine them.”
This was a dismissal and Rachel was pleased to escape. The once chilly room was now too hot.
She and her father rose with many expressions of appreciation of the earl’s graciousness in speaking with them. They were shepherded by a footman down one floor and along a number of corridors to the bleak but dust-free room wherein the earldom kept its records.
The journey gave Rachel an opportunity to regain her wits. For pity’s sake, the Earl of Morden would never even give Rachel Proudfoot a moment’s thought!
No matter how rakish the owner, his muniment room was well organized, with record books on shelves, loose documents in boxes, and maps and charts in shallow drawers. It had even been catalogued by a family amateur, and so it didn’t take Rachel and her father long to find the records of the enquiry into the unfortunate death on Walpurgis Night, 1668.
“Her name was Meg Brewstock,” said Rachel, taking notes. “There are still Brewstocks, aren’t there, with a farm out near Haverhill? She was a dairy maid here at Morden Abbey. . . . Goodness! She was only sixteen.”
Her father was flicking through a sheaf of papers which had been found with the records. “This general account of local customs says that a girl is selected every year to play a part in the Walpurgis Night festivities. She is called Dym’s Bride—Demon’s Bride, I fancy. What’s the odds Meg Brewstock was Dym’s Bride in 1668? As usual in these cases, the bride is supposed to be a virgin, so probably they are all quite young. . . .”
“The Demon’s Bride!” exclaimed Rachel. “That’s horrid.”
The vicar smiled. “A fancy only, my dear, I’m sure. I doubt the people here think as much of it as did the writer of these notes. I detect an excessive interest in the strange and lurid, and,” he added, waggling his eyebrows, “in tales of young virgins.”
Rachel chuckled. Her father’s dry common sense could always bring these fanciful matters into focus. “But I still think it unpleasant to be forcing any girl into such a role, especially in the light of what happened to Meg.”
“I’m sure that was pure mishap. See, this writer recorded the Dym’s Brides from 1669 to 1680. All came through the experience hale and hearty. He does note, however, that all these girls married before the end of the summer, and many produced a babe rather sooner than would be proper.”
Rachel was not surprised. “Giving birth to little devils?”
Her father reflected her grin. “Only in so far as it is in the nature of children to be imps. See, here is a note that in 1673 the Demon’s Bride was Pru Thurlow, who in July married Nathan Hatcher, and who gave birth to a son on Epiphany Day 1674.”
“The ancestor of our dour gardener, Tom Hatcher?” Rachel exclaimed in delight. “For all that I find him taciturn, I cannot see him as a descendent of Waldborg the Demon.”
Her father laughed. “Nor can I, pet.” He replaced his papers in the box. “I do wonder what happened to poor Meg Brewstock, though, on Dym’s Night in 1668.”
Rachel gazed at the few dry words which seemed to be the only record of a young girl’s life. “So do I, Father. So do I.”
Back at the vicarage, Rachel sat at a small table near the fire transcribing her record of the day’s events in her best plate. Her father sat opposite consulting his books and notes in search of similar customs elsewhere. She spared a moment for a fond glance.
He was never so happy as when digging to the bottom of a strange tale. He excused his investigations as a searches for the ordinary explanations for superstitious customs and beliefs. But Rachel knew they were rooted in simple, childlike fascination.
That was the main reason they were in Suffolk, which Rachel was inclined to think a rather boring part of the country, being generally flat and windy. She had lived all her life in the milder climate of Somerset.
After her mother’s death, however, and with her two brothers out in the world, her father had begun to slide into a decline. With intriguing puzzles of their locality having been long exhausted, Rachel had encouraged him to look for a new living elsewhere.
Walberton was serving its purpose admirably. It was fairly riddled with peculiar beliefs and notions. Over the past two months the Reverend Proudfoot had grown as plump and hearty as he’d ever been. In light of this improvement, Rachel could even forgive the local people their secretive natures.
Mrs. Hatcher, their housekeeper, came in with a tea tray, square face set in disapproval. Rachel had found that disapproval quite daunting at first, but now recognized it as the woman’s habitual expression.
“Ah, Mrs. Hatcher,” exclaimed the vicar. “Excellent. Sit down, dear lady. I wish to talk to you.”
The woman was clearly taken aback. She placed the large tray on the central table and said, “I’d rather not sit, sir. What did you wish to say?”
The vicar sighed. “I don’t wish to say, Mrs. Hatcher. I wish to ask. I am gathering information on a local matter which is, I believe, called Dym’s Night, or Demon’s Night.”
Rachel wouldn’t have believed that the woman’s face could become even more stony, but it managed it. “Demon’s Night, sir? Sounds right ungodly to me.”
“Come, come, Mrs. Hatcher. No need to be like that! Such strange names occur all over the country. They mean nothing. I know that the people here gather on Dymons Hill on Walpurgis Night.”
“Aye, sir. We do that. It’s just a bit of fun.”
“But what of this matter of Walpurgis Night falling on Ascension Day?”
“I don’t know, sir. What of it?”
“Is not that what you call Dym’s Night?”
“I’ve never heard it called so, sir.”
Reverend Proudfoot becoming exasperated, so Rachel took a hand. “Apparently a girl died during the Walpurgis Night revels some years ago, Mrs. Hatcher.”
The housekeeper’s pale eyes swiveled to her. “Not in my time, miss, no.”
Rachel now shared her father’s impatience. She knew the people here could probably talk of the Conquest as if it were yesterday if they chose to, as if seven hundred years was nothing.
“It happened a century ago, Mrs. Hatcher, but I doubt the memory of such a tragedy has faded. The poor girl burned to death.”
There was a moment’s hesitation. “Oh, that. Yes, well, it’s a wonder it hasn’t happened more, the way young people will frolic near the flames, drinking and all like they do.”
“I suppose that’s true. Was Meg Brewstock Dym’s Bride that year?”
The woman’s eyes widened with a flash of alarm. “I wouldn’t know, miss, would I?” She turned firmly to the vicar. “Will that be all, sir? I’ve bread rising.”
The vicar sent her off and grimaced at his daughter. “All the informativeness of a turnip.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Father,” said Rachel as she poured their tea. “I thought her discomfiture very informative.”
The vicar took the cup. “She wasn’t at ease about it, was she? First the earl keeping something back, and now Mrs. Hatcher.” He stirred a lump of sugar into his tea with relish. “This could prove to be a most enjoyable investigation.”
Rachel was pleased that her father had a juicy puzzle to solve, but she found the death of poor Meg Brewstock more haunting than intriguing. She desperately wanted to know what had happened to the girl. She kept her ears alert for any mention of Dym’s Night, and whenever possible she questioned the local people. She found out nothing.
It wasn’t that everyone in Walberton was as dour as the Hatchers. Most were quite pleasant. They sm
iled and joked and passed on local gossip, but no one would even admit the idea of a Demon’s Night, or knowledge of Meg Brewstock’s death.
One day Rachel listened to a long, detailed tale about a family feud that dated back to the Wars of the Roses, and then was blandly told that the speaker had never heard anything in particular about a girl who’d burned to death less than a hundred years before.
It was both ridiculous and suspicious.
But why would such a matter be a dark secret? Even if someone had killed Meg, what need to conceal it now? The culprit was surely in his or her grave.
When Rachel heard that old Len Brewstock was ailing with his chest, she took the opportunity to drive out in the donkey cart to the Brewstock farm with her special cough syrup. Old Len must be over ninety himself. He was quite possibly a brother, or at least a nephew, of Meg. Surely he must have some memory of that time.
She half expected the Brewstock farm to be a gloomy, secret-ridden place, but it proved to be solid, prosperous, and welcoming in the autumn sun. Rachel took up her basket of help for the sick and knocked at the door.
Ada Brewstock, the current ruler of the farmhouse, greeted her pleasantly enough. “Why, that’s right kind of you, Miss Proudfoot. Come you in and take a cup of tea. Grandad’s here by the fire. Grandad!” she called to wake the wizened little man. “Here’s the parson’s daughter come to see you.”
The old man blinked, face slack with sleep, then perked up. “Always like to see a pretty girl,” he wheezed, then went into a paroxysm of coughing.
“He’s not well,” said Ada as an aside. “But then, at his age. . . . Sit you down and have a chat, miss.”
Rachel sat across the fire from the man. “Please don’t try to talk if it bothers your chest, Mr. Brewstock.”
“No, no,” he wheezed. “It’s none too bad.”
“I’ve brought some of my syrup for you. It may help.”
“That’s kind of you, miss.” He peered at her a moment. “Yous new here, ain’t yous?”
“Yes, my father and I have only been here since August. It’s a very interesting part of the country.”
“That it is. That it is. Were lively here once, back afore the Normans came. . . .”
Rachel did not want a lecture on Anglo-Saxon Suffolk. “And has many quaint customs,” she said briskly. Then winced. It was highly inappropriate to describe something as quaint when it had resulted in a gruesome death.
“Aye, aye,” the man nodded. “We keep to the old ways pretty well. Important, that is. Keeping to the old ways. Don’t hold with these new-fangled notions. Changing crops. Changing seasons. When I were a lad, we knew what day it was. . . .”
Ada Brewstock brought the tea over. “Grandad’s still fretted about the way they changed the calendar ten years back, Miss Proudfoot. Reckons they stole eleven days, he does.”
In 1752, September 3 had become September 14 to correct the calendar. It had created a lot of resentment among the ignorant.
“But days are days,” said Rachel. “Changing the date doesn’t take anything away.”
Even sensible Ada looked skeptical. “If you say so, miss. Are you wanting to ask Grandad something special?”
Rachel colored at that perception. “Actually, yes. As you may know, Mrs. Brewstock, my father collects information about local customs. We recently heard of the death of a member of the Brewstock family on Walpurgis Night many years ago. I was wondering if old Mr. Brewstock remembers anything of it.”
“Well, it was afore his time, of course. Grandad,” she said, “Miss Proudfoot wants to know about Burnt Meggie.”
“Burnt Meggie? That were afore my time.”
As if the Normans weren’t, thought Rachel. “But what did people used to say about it, Mr. Brewstock? Back when you were a boy.”
He slurped his tea and gave her a surprisingly shrewd look. “Same as they say now, miss. That folk shouldn’t mess in things they don’t understand. . . . “He fell silent and sat staring into the fire sipping tea.
Rachel tried to puzzle out his comments. She wished she could take notes, for often the precise words were useful, but she feared it would make these people nervous.
Then the old man muttered something else. It sounded like, “Could have been worse.”
“Worse that being burned to death?” Rachel asked.
“Nay.” He peered at her. “Who said Meggie were burned to death?”
Rachel realized she had been thinking more of her aunt, whose clothes had caught from the fire, turning her into a human torch. “Mrs. Hatcher implied that Meg’s clothes caught at the fire.”
“How would she know?” grunted the old man. “Mere snip of a thing, she is.”
Rachel had a struggle to keep a straight face at the thought of solid, fifty-year-old Mrs. Hatcher as a snip of a thing. “So how did Meggie end up burnt?” Rachel asked. As she framed the question, horrid thoughts gathered. Sacrificed on an altar, then her corpse flung into the flames?
The man didn’t answer, so Rachel asked again, “How did Meggie die, Mr. Brewstock?”
He seemed to peer back through the years. “Died from getting above her station, as I heard it, and from people messing around with things they don’t understand.”
“Who? What people?”
But the man gave all the appearance of dropping off to sleep.
“He’s asleep more often than not these days,” said Ada, coming over with her own cup of tea. She pulled up a stool. “Did you find out what you wanted to know, miss?”
Rachel considered the woman, who appeared sensible and honest. “Not really. I can’t understand why there’s so much secrecy about such an ancient affair, Mrs. Brewstock. My father’s interest is simply scientific. He records these customs because we live in a time of progress, and soon these traditions will be forgotten.”
The woman’s look was wry. “I doubt much’ll be forgot round here, miss. Folk have long memories.”
“Then they presumably remember what happened to Meggie.”
“Some might.”
Rachel tried a shot at random. “They say Meggie worked at the Abbey.”
“Aye.” Ada stood abruptly and pulled Rachel’s cup and saucer from her hands. “I’ve work to do, miss. Thank you kindly for bringing the cough syrup. I’ll see he takes it.”
Rachel cast a regretful look at the somnolent old man and allowed herself to be firmly shepherded outside. She knew Old Len could tell her all about Burnt Meggie if he chose.
Chapter 2
It was a fine day for October, so Rachel took a detour on her way home, one that passed close to Dymons Hill. This corner of Suffolk was fairly hilly but Dymons Hill was an abrupt mound of chalk, and she could quite see how it would seize the local imagination. It told her nothing about Meggie Brewstock’s death, however.
On impulse, she tethered the donkey to a tree and picked her way across the rough sheep pasture toward the hill. She met up with a path which appeared to link the village to the hill. It was faint, but had the depth and permanence of the ancient.
There were so many of these paths in England still, trodden for thousands of years so that their mark would never really leave the earth. Many were the only record of a ceremony once crucial to the people. Rachel had to admit to sometimes wondering if those old ceremonies had been valid, if once gods other than the Christian Trinity had linked themselves with humans, for good or ill.
Her father would be ashamed of such thinking.
As Rachel neared the rise, she could see that there was a clear path up the hill as well. It wound slightly, and appeared to have been carved out in places to make it easier, but it too looked very old. Could Dym’s Night be pre-Christian?
Rachel had no intention of climbing the hill today, but she wandered around the base pondering what she had learned.
Certainly the old man didn’t believe Meggie had been burned to death. That could only mean that she had been burned after she was dead. It did conjure up very unpleasant notions
.
But what had he meant about her getting above her station? The most likely interpretation was that she had become romantically involved with one of the family at Morden Abbey. If she’d shamed herself, could her family have killed her and used the revels to dispose of the body?
And what of the matter of not messing with what one didn’t understand? Had that been a warning directed at her and her father?
Had it, in fact, been a threat?
But why? Why would anyone think such old history of any importance?
Even the earl had concealed something—probably that an ancestor had seduced Meggie Brewstock. Why should such a man care about a thing like that? Doubtless he’d worked his way through his female servants like a sultan with a harem.
Rachel was distracted by the beat of a galloping horse, carried to her by the earth. Threats, demons, and funeral pyres all leapt panic-powered into her mind.
She turned to flee, but could not tell from what direction the danger came. By the time she’d fixed it, the black horse and caped rider were in sight, galloping with magnificent speed along the base of Dymons Hill toward her. A scream caught in her throat and the rider charged her like a cavalry officer.
However, the man reared the steaming horse to a halt some yards away and Rachel instantly recognized the earl. He sat arrogantly on his sidling horse and looked her over as if she were a prize ewe, and one he was planning to slaughter.
He was rather more alarming than a demon.
He slid off the horse and walked toward her, reins held slackly in one hand. Rachel stepped back nervously. Even casual country wear could not disguise his rank, and she was not accustomed to dealing with the high nobility. He was a good foot taller than she, too, and being tall herself she was not accustomed to that. In his long black riding cloak he was positively menacing, especially as his courteous smile did not reach his eyes.
“What a blessed chance,” he drawled. “It’s the vicar’s pretty daughter.”