The Lady of the Butterflies

by Fiona Mountain

  “What kind of fool do you take me for?” roared my guardian.

  But I was my father’s daughter. I knew how to stand my ground. “Mr. Ashfield is in favor of drainage, is he not? So talking to him about it can only persuade me that it is a good thing, surely?”

  There was no rejoinder to that. Mr. Merrick banged the ledger shut with a puff of dust and an ire that made me flinch. But inside I was smiling, for I knew that I had won. This first battle at least.

  “Very well,” he growled. “I will send for Ashfield.”

  I RAN AS FAST as I could through the tangle of reeds and sedges, for no other reason than the sheer joy of feeling the sun on my face. I stretched out my arms at either side like wings. If only I could run just a little faster I really might take off. On days like this we lived in a cloudland; the ground was insignificant, there was only the wide dome of the sky, and I wanted to be as much a part of it as were the birds.

  The faint sound of pipes and drums reached me from across the fen meadows.

  Spring had arrived early this year and already it felt like summer. The moor was teeming with life, ablaze with color. Frogs croaked and otters slipped in between the bulrushes, while above me skylarks sang as they climbed higher and higher in the heavenly blue sky. Against the emerald of the rushes blazed purple loosestrife and yellow rattle, while the ditches and riverbanks were flushed pink with orchids. In my long, plain black cloth dress I was the only point of darkness in the wide, flat wasteland. It was hardly the thing to wear to the May Day celebrations, but Mr. Merrick had been left strict instructions by my father not to condone my attendance at pagan celebrations, and had confiscated my blue silk gown. But today I did not care. Edmund Ashfield was coming to visit again. Winter was over. And at least the gold of my hair could not be dulled, Bess had said as she’d combed it earlier, braiding it tightly upon my head, whispering naughtily about how she’d be wearing hers loose with flowers in it for the festivities.

  It didn’t look too far to the edge of Horse Ground Meadow, where the revels were taking place, but the moor was deceptive. It took a long time to cross the shortest distance because of the continuous obstruction of rivers that were too wide to jump, stretches of open water and ponds and bog. I crossed the Boundary Rhyne by Causeway Bridge, and beyond it was a little grove of alder, willow and birch that formed a natural screen. The silver-blue pointed leaves of the willows seemed to be swaying and quivering to the music that was much louder now. I saw flashes of color and frantic movement beyond the trees.

  The May king and his queen presided over everything in their flower-decked arbor, the dancers were merry in their red and white girdles and embroidered jackets, bells jingling and handkerchiefs swinging. The Devil’s Dance, my father had called it. And maybe it was, for it took tight hold of me. There was nothing in the world I could do then to stop my hips from swaying, my cold, wet toes from tapping along to the rhythm.

  “Very bawdy and lewd, is it not?” Bess’s voice in my ear made me leap an inch in the air. She gave a voluptuous trill of laughter, cupped her hand round her mouth and bent her chestnut head to whisper to me again. “Not half as bawdy and lewd as the way I’ve been dancing with my Ned, mind.”

  I pulled her back into the trees. “Did you love Ned on your first sight of him, Bess?”

  “What? Up to his elbows in horse dung? Can’t remember exactly when I realized I loved him, or a time when I didn’t.” There was a saucy gleam in her eyes. “But I have a mind to take him into the bushes and let him love me back right now.” She tilted her head alluringly. Her round cheeks were flushed and she had a crown of foliage askew on her head. “D’you think he’ll be able to resist?”

  “Oh, definitely not.” I looked at her seriously. “Am I irresistible, do you think?”

  For a moment I thought she would tease me, but instead she gave me a quick, tight hug. “Of course you are, little lamb.”

  “You’re not to flatter me, Bess. I need to know. Am I pretty? Tell me, honestly?”

  “You are sweet as a sugarplum.”

  “I was up at dawn this morning collecting May dew,” I told her. “So my skin will be beautiful when I see Edmund again. He won’t have changed his mind, will he? He will still like me?”

  “How could he not? But there’s plenty more gentlemen in the world besides Edmund Ashfield, you know.”

  “But he’s the only one I want.”

  “He’s the only one you’ve met, you mean.” She peered at me. “Never mind about May dew. Your skin is soft as a rose petal. A cowslip wash on your nose would not go amiss, mind. I do believe you’ve got the beginnings of sunspots already. If you’re not careful they’ll turn into freckles.”

  “I don’t mind if they do. I have changed my mind about freckles entirely. I think they are very attractive and desirable. I don’t mind at all if I grow a whole speckling of them.”

  Bess rolled her eyes. “Is he really all you can think about?”

  “Weren’t you the same with Ned? Didn’t you think about him all the time?”

  “Not likely.” She gave me a hug, kissed my cheek. “But then, I’m not you. You’re like those blue birds diving for fish. When your mind’s set on a thing, that’s all you see.”

  She linked her arm through mine and took me back through the trees. “Stop pining now. Look at that.”

  The throng parted and I had a proper view of the slender tower of the maypole, covered with herbs and garlands of hawthorn and pinks, with streamers and flags flying.

  “The hated heathen idol.” Bess quoted the Puritans with a ribald smile. “Encouragement to wantonness and lust. Not that some people need much encouragement.”

  As if to prove her point, Ned Tucker came up behind her and seized Bess round her shapely waist. “I was beginning to think you’d gone and left me for good, bonny Bessie.”

  “Would I ever?” She twisted round in his arms and he trickled a few drops of ale from his tankard down the top of her dress, then tried to lick them off. She writhed and screeched and slapped him away until he fumbled her for a kiss.

  Ned was a hefty sandy-haired lad with a pleasant, round ruddy face and I watched, giggling at them, thinking that I very much wanted to be kissed myself.

  “Stop it, Ned.” Bess laughed. “Miss Eleanor will have me for a common strumpet.”

  Ned winked at me and then flung Bess away toward the dancing, swiping a pie from a long table as he passed by. With no contribution from the lord of the manor, the spread today was simple fare, but no less mouthwatering for that: rye breads and curds, custards and cakes, hogsheads of ale and cider. Our dining table in the great hall never looked half so laden and my belly felt empty as usual.

  I stepped toward the table, about to help myself to a jam tart, when I saw someone who made me lose my appetite in an instant. Thomas Knight was standing sullenly at the edge of the trees, his hands stuffed in the pockets of his breeches.

  He turned and stared right at me with his insolent black eyes and I shrank back into the trees. I looked for Bess but I could not see her.

  I retreated back into the trees, almost wishing I had never come. It was cool and damp in the wood, almost primeval, the floor blanketed with huge ferns and moss and fungi. A nightingale was singing, and there was the hollow rap-tap of a woodpecker at work. A shimmer of brightness flashed past my nose. A crimson and gold butterfly. My eyes darted after it but at first I couldn’t see where it had gone. There it was again. It fluttered its gilded wings, dipped, drew a little wave in the air, a gliding aerial dance of more beauty and color than any I’d just watched. A tiny, bright-winged creature, it reminded me of the fairies Bess swore lived in these trees.

  But it was gone again. Where? I was struck with disappointment, as if I’d been handed a precious gift only to have it snatched away.

  A glittering, fleeting little presence. There it was! I ran forward. It was playing a game with me, leading me on, flickering over the low vegetation. It stopped on a thistle. I stopped. It flitt
ered off. I followed. It finally settled on a water dock. It folded its wings coyly, revealing an underside of orange and white and blue.

  I crept as near as I could.

  The wings suddenly flipped open, magnificent golden-red wings with snowy fringes and inky black spots. I thought it prettier even than the maypole. I cupped my hands, lifted them slowly, trapped the butterfly in a single downward swoop.

  In that instant I felt a sharp pain in the small of my back, heard feet smashing through the sedges right behind. I spun round.

  “Well, if it isn’t the little lady of the manor, little Miss Eleanor Goodricke.” Thomas Knight’s voice was thick and slurred with drink. “What were you up to, then? Chasing after fairies, were you?” He sniggered. “I knew you were soft in the head. Not got your full wits about you.”

  He was red-faced and dazed, his shirtsleeves rolled up, showing brown and brawny arms. He had a nasty smirk on his thick lips and another jagged stone in his hand, much larger than the one that had already hit me. He rubbed his bleary black eyes, flexed his arm. I squared my small shoulders and lifted my chin, told myself that he must not see I was afraid. I tightened my cupped hands and felt the butterfly’s wings frantically beating against the cage of my palms, so strong for such a small, fragile-looking thing, a peculiar echo of the feelings inside my belly.

  “So much for quality folk having better brains than us,” Thomas sneered. “You’re obviously missing half yours. Your father educated you like a son, so maybe that’s what’s turned you softheaded, eh? Maybe that’s what makes you think you’re better than the rest of us, that you know what’s best for us all, that you’ve got the right to steal what’s ours. As if you’ve not stolen enough from me already.”

  I frowned. “I don’t understand, Thomas. What are you talking about? What have I stolen from you?”

  He lowered his spiteful eyes to my breasts, lurched forward. “Maybe I’ll take something from you, to make it even. Maybe I’ll teach you a few things myself.”

  I pressed my hands against my chest, my arms shielding my body. The butterfly had quieted, as if it was waiting, its wings trembling against my skin. “Don’t you dare touch me,” I threatened. “Don’t you dare come any closer.”

  “Or what? Tell Merrick, will you?” He stepped up to me. “Bet he doesn’t know you’re here. Bet nobody knows it, do they? Mary Burges will not be coming to rescue you this time, will she?” He looked me up and down with his leering eyes. I could smell the acrid sweat from his armpits; it reminded me that he was a grown man now and this was no childish scrap. We were no longer children. He was a man and I was a woman and this time it would be much more than a marchpane sweet that he was trying to force inside me.

  “I’ll scream. I swear I will.”

  “Nobody can hear you scream out here,” he jeered. “Even if they do, they’ll just think you’re enjoying yourself.”

  He took a step nearer. “Tiny and light as a little fairy yourself, aren’t you?” he smirked. “Let’s see if you have a little pair of wings hidden away somewhere.” He lunged at me and thrust his hand down my bodice.

  I ducked away, jerking free of his grasp, and ran as fast as I could.

  Drink may have made him too unsteady on his feet to pursue me but it hadn’t damaged his aim much. I felt the stone graze the side of my head. Bright lights shot in front of my eyes and a hot drop of liquid trickled down my brow. I kept running. I ran all the way back across the moor, up the winding stone stairs to my bedchamber. I kicked the door shut and rested my back against it, my chest heaving and my head throbbing.

  I carefully uncurled my fingers. The butterfly lay at an angle against my palm, wings firmly closed and crumpled at the top. I gave the little creature a prod. It didn’t move. I touched its small brown furry body. Nothing.

  The poor little thing was dead. It must have been the shock, or else I’d held it too tight, squeezed the life out of it. I felt sad for a moment but then realized that at least I could keep it now, could look at it whenever I wanted. It was bright and beautiful and it was mine. Gently, I picked it up by its folded wings, its threadlike legs dangling, its feet briefly sticking to my skin. Gently, I prized open the wings.

  I lifted my great King James Bible from beneath my pillow and carefully smoothed the butterfly between the pages of the Gospel of Saint John, beside the meadow flowers I’d collected with my mother.

  I closed the book, turned my hand palm up and saw that it was stained with the finest sparkling of golden powder, which looked for all the world like fairy dust, as if marking me out as someone under an enchantment, someone chosen, someone to whom special things might happen.

  IN THE AFTERNOON I was in the parlor with my father’s pair of globes, one of the earth and one of the heavens. I rested my finger on the earth and spun, waited to see where it would come to land. The Atlantic Ocean. I spun again. The continents whizzed past dizzyingly.

  But it wasn’t only that which was making me dizzy. There was a scab as well as a bruise on my temple and it hurt when I moved my eyes. I shut them for just a moment, opened them to see Mr. Merrick scrutinizing me with thunder in his eyes.

  “What’s wrong with you, girl?”

  “Nothing, sir. I’ve a headache, that’s all.”

  “That is not what I meant and you know it. Tell me, how did you enjoy the Maying?”

  Any number of tenants could have told him they had seen me there, but I didn’t understand why he was so angry about it. I knew for a fact, from what Bess had overheard, that he was holding a supper for his merchant friends tonight in Bristol. Though not exactly a traditional May celebration, it happened to be taking place on the very same day.

  “It was . . . interesting,” I said, picking the right word carefully. “I can’t see what’s so wrong with letting the villagers dance and enjoy themselves.”

  “According to your father, it is what it invariably leads to that’s so wrong. Can you tell me there wasn’t all manner of wanton and ungodly behavior?”

  That I could not. My cheeks flared as I remembered the encounter with Thomas Knight.

  “What happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  He repeated: “Name of God, what happened?”

  “Thomas teased me for chasing after a butterfly.”

  Mr. Merrick’s arms were hanging down at his sides and I saw him clench and unclench his fists. “What exactly did he say to you?”

  “That I must be soft in the head.”

  A mirthless laugh of agreement. “Is that all he did?”

  I was too ashamed to tell him, did not want to tell a blatant lie either, so I said nothing.

  He seized me by my shoulders, and as he did, a carefully placed lock of my hair fell back, revealing the bruise and crusted scab.

  “He threw a stone at me,” I said quickly.

  The corded veins thickened in his broad neck. I did not see why his anger was directed at me rather than at Thomas Knight, as if it were I who had done the greater wrong.

  “You are a little fool,” he hissed, thrusting me from him, “who deserves to have stones thrown at you. You are a little fool to think you can ask the likes of the Knights to pass comment on the fate of this land. Now every damned commoner and tenant knows what is afoot. I’ve already had a half-dozen of them marching up here demanding to know what is going on.”

  “Why shouldn’t they know what you are considering? Why should they not have their say? They are accustomed to using the common. Why shouldn’t they have an opinion on what is to happen to it?”

  “Why? Why? Why? Why don’t you realize there are some questions you just do not ask?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because”—spittle showered from his mouth as he shouted and he flexed his knuckles and punched his clenched fist against his own palm, as if it was me he really wanted to hit, and hard—“because the Levellers and Diggers were crushed before you were born, and their foolish radical ideals with them. All men are not freeborn. They do not have
natural rights. Commoners have no right to an opinion. They do not have a natural God-given right to the land. That is the way of it. And that is the way it will always be, whether you like it or not. Do you understand?”

  I did not. But I knew better than to say so.

  I COULD NOT BEAR to wait around inside for Edmund’s arrival, so I asked the kitchen to make me up a parcel of white manchet bread and cheese and apple chutney, and went down to the moor to watch for him. Irises and purple orchids were in flower along the riverbank and the radiance of their petals matched my mood of optimism. Once he was here, once I could talk to him, all would be well.

  When at long last I saw him, wearing no hat, his cropped copper hair bright in the sun and ruffled by the soft breeze as his horse cantered along the causeway, I abandoned all pretense of modesty. My blue silk dress had been returned to me for his visit, but neither the whalebone corset clamping my lungs nor my full petticoat with its tiers of lace stopped me picking up my skirts and running to him as fast as my legs would go, tresses of hair tumbling about my cheeks. He saw me, and his face relaxed into one of his wide, open smiles. If I wasn’t completely in love with him before, I thought, I was then.

  He reined in and dismounted. We stood looking at each other as I caught my breath.

  “I waited and waited for an invitation, until I was sure I must have offended you in some way. Please tell me I did not?”

  “You didn’t. Of course you didn’t.”

  “Well, I am here now. That is all that counts,” he said with his unwavering and infectious good humor.

  “So you did want to see me again?” I asked, shyly flirtatious.

  “You need not ask that, surely? Surely you know I wanted it more than anything else.”