That’s what a sweeping was.
And how would Aunt Jennet be faring?
The mare had halted, perhaps sensing my fear and indecision. It was too late for escape, anyway: the soldiers had seen me. They gestured at me to ride over. There were four of them, and one shouted something.
I guided my pony between the pens and came up to them. One of them seized my bridle. Another roughly ordered me to dismount.
I stood on the ground trembling, the mare tossing her head. The men surrounded us, hair hacked brutally short, hard-eyed, the emblem of the Eagle worked in black across the front of their sweat-stained jerkins.
“This pony yours, girl?” demanded the soldier holding the bridle. He cursed as the mare flung her head away
“Never. Too good for a village girl,” rasped another. “You’ve stolen it, haven’t you, girl?”
I shook my head dumbly, taking quick breaths like a rabbit in a snare. The rifles still rested against the wall. I waited for the soldiers to grab them up, to jam the barrels against my breast.
“Wait,” said a third. He came close to me and squinted down into my face. His breath smelled of stale wine. “We’ve not seen this one before. What’s your name, wench?”
I opened my mouth but no sound came out.
“Dumb, eh? A sad defect for so comely a girl. Look at that hair.” And he sniggered, leering at me with greedy eyes.
“Enough,” said the second one, grimmer-faced than the others. He shoved the joker aside. “The Sergeant will find her tongue for her, sure enough. She’s slipped the net somehow. I doubt he’s cleared her yet.”
I knew what that meant. Like all the villagers, I would be questioned. I faced them, trying to control my fear, as they reached out for me.
Then we all heard it, a pail clanging against wood inside the cow shelter.
Grimface jerked round. “Who’s in there?” he shouted. “Come out and show yourself!”
The soldiers’ hands were already on my shoulders, grasping the wool of my cloak, when a youth came clumping sheepishly round the wall. It was Jethro Sim, and his jaw dropped to see me.
All the years of my life I’d never been so glad to see my old friend. I wrenched myself free and flung myself desperately against his sturdy bulk. “Jethro! They’re taking me!”
The soldiers, confused, let me cling to Jethro while they looked at Grimface for guidance.
“We don’t like being spied on, boy,” he said curtly to Jethro.
“Truly, S-Sir,” stammered Jethro, “I wasn’t spying, but bringing the feed.” My heart sank a little to see how scared he looked, his face as scarlet with shock as a guilty schoolboy’s.
Grimface scowled and jerked a thumb in my direction. “This girl here. She’ll not give her name, though it seems she can speak, after all. Maybe you know it, boy.”
Above my head I heard Jethro clear his throat. “Aye, I know it, Sir. She’s Agnes Cotter.”
“She was riding this pony, and stole it too, most like,” said Grimface. He nodded at the other two impatiently. “What are you waiting for? Take her to the Sergeant.”
As I clutched Jethro in even greater desperation, he cried out, “Aggie’s never stolen in her life! Why, she works over at Murkmere. Would the Master have a thief in his employment, Sir?”
“I was given the use of the pony to ride here,” I said, courage coming to me at last, and I twisted around in order to impress Grimface with my honest look. “Of course I’ve not stolen her. I’m companion to the Master’s ward.”
The mention of Murkmere and the Master appeared to work a miracle. Grimface hesitated. “Murkmere, eh?”
The other soldiers exchanged a glance, wary, impressed. An estate owner had to be a member of the Ministration. There was a long, tense moment as we stood there in the half-melted snow, then abruptly Grimface shrugged. “You may go, Agnes Cotter.”
Jethro put his hand on my pony’s bridle and the soldier surrendered it reluctantly. Then we made away as fast as we could. Neither of us looked back, but I knew they would be watching us. Once we were out of earshot, I tried to speak, but Jethro held his finger to his lips warningly.
The village street was deserted, the muddy snow gouged and blackened by days of marching feet. A child’s pale face gazed ghostlike from a cottage window. There were soldiers with rifles standing guard outside the door; their eyes flicked to watch us as we hurried past. I knew that cottage was where Mother Dimity lived; she was a placid, simple soul, with not a rebellious bone in her, and her husband the same. Yet it seemed that no one in the village had had the courage to protest on their behalf.
In the frozen sewer ditch that ran the length of the street, the fluttering black shapes of carrion crows tore at a dead rat. I touched my amber when I saw the crows, but nothing would save the village now.
As I turned to go into our cottage, Jethro stopped me gently, and steered me toward his own, next door.
“I must see my aunt,” I said urgently, pulling away.
“Wait. I must talk to you. Your aunt’s well enough, don’t fear.”
“But I’ve run away from Murkmere,” I whispered. “They’ll be looking for me soon, Jethro.”
“You’ll be safe in my place a moment,” he said, and something in his face stopped my protests.
We left the mare out of sight from the street, tethered to a stake at the back of the cottage. Jethro’s father, white-headed and witless, was sitting by the fire in the shadowy downstairs room. I nodded to him and tried to smile as he bared his gums at me. Suddenly I was trembling again.
Jethro fussed about me, as anxious as my aunt might be, saying, “Sit down, Aggie, you’re pale,” and he pushed me down on the wooden settle opposite. His father gazed on at me, his lips still parted in a sweet smile.
There were shadows under Jethro’s eyes from lack of sleep. He seemed tongue-tied as he hung a pan of water over the fire and threw in a handful of nettles.
“You came at the right moment,” I said in a low voice.
“I thought you safe at Murkmere.”
I clenched my hands together. “Safe! Murkmere’s an evil place, Jethro. I’m never going back.” For a moment a frozen corpse was lying in the snow at my feet. I covered my face with my hands and wailed through my fingers, “Matt Humble’s dead, Jethro! They’ve murdered him!”
He came over and sat close, putting his arm around me, holding me while I shuddered with a horrible dry weeping. Opposite, the old man’s face crumpled in sympathy.
Jethro’s jacket smelled comfortingly of cows and earth and wood smoke, and I could feel the muscles of his arm beneath his sleeve. He said nothing, nor seemed shaken by my words, but when my fit was passed, I sat back and saw that he was searching for his own words in the unhurried, thoughtful way I remembered so well.
“Aye, word was brought to us here,” he said quietly. “We weren’t surprised.”
I stared at him, gulping. He looked straight back into my eyes.
“Matt wasn’t the simple packman you thought him, Aggie. He was a spy.”
“A spy? But he was a good man!”
“Be careful. The soldiers are everywhere.” He glanced at his father, but he was making little gurgling sounds as he rocked himself to sleep; he couldn’t understand us, anyway. “You’ll remember that Matt traveled from village to village, bringing news of the Capital, of the risings in the south?”
Any packman brings news, I thought, but I nodded.
“When I was elected to take my father’s place two years back and became a Junior Elder, I learned something. Sometimes the news Matt brought was secret, for the Elders only. They’d pay him for it.”
“My aunt would pay?” I said, amazed.
He nodded, solemn-faced, watching me.
“What kind of news?”
“What passed in the Council Chamber of the Lord Protector.”
“But how would Matt Humble know?” I said in astonishment.
“The Lord Protector believed Matt was spying f
or him. Matt was in his employment, you see. He’d visit the Capital from time to time, stay in a room somewhere in the palace, a patch of floor in the servants’ quarters, most likely. But sometimes he’d be summoned to the Protector’s apartment and mingle with his court.
“Matt brought the Protector news of the villages he traveled through; he’d tell him of unrest, of potential rebellion. Only it was always information the Lord Protector had already had from his other spies. Matt never told the Protector anything he didn’t already know, you must believe that. He was loyal to us.”
It was a long speech for Jethro. He said no more while I stared at him, trying to take in his words, yet seeing only his honest brown eyes and his young face that was growing too old too quickly. In truth, I didn’t know what to believe. Matt Humble with his old jacket, his pots and pans — in the dark, murmuring chambers of high politics?
“Even if it’s true that Matt was a spy,” I said at last, “Aunt Jennet is Chief Elder and I don’t understand why she would want information about the Lord Protector.”
Jethro looked at me, nonplussed. “The Lord Protector is not the worthy man you think him, Aggie. He has a whole network of spies working all over the country. Somebody, one of them, betrayed Matt. Matt knew the Eastern Edge was next for sweeping. He was coming to the Elders with news of the Militia’s progress, and he never arrived. We knew he was going to Murkmere on his way here, to give Silas Seed a message from the Lord Protector.”
Thoughts were chasing around my mind like ferrets in a basket. “You believe Silas Seed had Matt killed, don’t you?” I whispered. “On the Lord Protector’s orders?”
He looked at me, and it was enough.
We both fell silent a moment, looking into the fire. I was remembering Matt running ribbons through his fingers like rainbows, his blunt, dirty fingers with the shining colors streaming between.
Then the water in the cauldron began to bubble and woke the old man, who started to gabble to himself. Jethro took me over to the table where we had more privacy.
“I can’t stay, Jethro,” I said, as he gave me a steaming mug. “I must see my aunt.”
“Drink it. It will strengthen you.”
There was something else he had to tell me, I knew it. Frowning, I leaned over the table. “What’s been happening here? When did the sweeping start?”
“Calm yourself, Aggie.” He laid his broad palm, ingrained with the dirt of the fields, softly down on the table. “We’ve been sorely tried. The Militia’s been here a week. We’re running out of food, let alone hospitality. But now the snow’s melting, the officers are impatient to move on. There’s talk they leave tomorrow.”
“And what about the sweeping itself?”
He smiled wryly. “They’ve got their suspects among us, but can’t prove anything.”
“There’s nothing to prove, surely?” I said indignantly. “We’re all loyal subjects — except you and the Elders, I think,” I dared add.
He looked back at me, his bright robin’s eyes friendly no longer. “Should we be loyal when people are terrified in such a way? The Militia’s the rod of the Lord Protector. He beats us with it and his hand holds it.”
“But the Protector gives us other things, Jethro,” I said, almost pleadingly. “Free education, a livelihood guaranteed for every law-abiding man.”
“The soldiers are forcing Dolly Parson and Amy Treadwell to follow them,” he said, his face like a stone. “They’ve picked a dozen of our boys for soldiers — mere chicks, not a beard apiece. That’s the next generation of farmers gone. If I hadn’t stayed low, it would have been me. These are the Lord Protector’s men. Is that right, do you think?”
I couldn’t bear the bitterness in his voice. I rose from the table. “What am I thinking of, lingering here? I must see my aunt, and leave.”
He stood up himself and put a hand on my arm. “Wait, Aggie. I must tell you — your aunt …”
I stared at him and saw he was searching for the right words as always, the words to tell me something dreadful. “What is it?” I shook him, my hands rigid on the rough cloth of his jacket.
“She’s been taken prisoner by the Militia,” he said gravely. “I’m sorry, Aggie, truly I am. There was nothing I could do to prevent it.”
My hands dropped like dead things. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”
“Because it was — good to see you. Because you were grieving for Matt.” He spread his hands. “There’s nothing you can do, Aggie.”
“Have they discovered that the Elders paid Matt?”
When he shook his head, I began to wheel about the room, beating my hands against my chest. “Why did she hide so much from me? They must suspect her of something.” I turned on him. “What happens in your meetings, Jethro? Tell me! What plots do you hatch against the Lord Protector? What will they do to find out? Will they torture her?”
“Since last night she’s been guarded in her own cottage, nothing more fearful than that. It’s not for suspicion of treachery she’s kept there.”
“What, then?”
“Your cottage has been used as a billet. They allowed your aunt to remain on condition she provided for them. Yesterday they found books there.”
“Books?” I repeated furiously. “But she was village school-teacher until recently. Of course we’ve books in the cottage, old school texts, all approved reading by the Lord Protector. What’s wrong with that?”
“These aren’t schoolbooks, Aggie. They were hidden away, under the thatch. She never meant them to be found.”
I jutted my chin out, so he wouldn’t see my shock. “So?”
“These books have the Murkmere crest inside them. She stands accused of stealing the property of the Ministration.”
I let Jethro lead me from the cottage; I was too bewildered to do anything for myself, even to think calmly. He left the mare tethered where she was. There was no sign of the stable hand searching for me, and he wouldn’t know where I lived without direction.
The soldiers on guard in the street eyed us but said nothing. I put my hood up to hide my face and Jethro took my arm, half-supporting me over the filthy slush. The sun had disappeared while we had been indoors, and the chill wind of desolation blew through the village, banging doors and rattling shutters, and lifting my cloak in a swirl of icy air.
There was no one on guard outside our cottage, and for a dreadful moment I thought they must have taken my aunt away already. But when Jethro rapped on the door, a young man in the gray uniform of the Militia opened it and stood blinking at us, his right hand holding his rifle clumsily, as if he had only just seized it.
His cropped hair stood up in the wind like the soft hackles of a puppy. He didn’t look any older than Jethro, half-asleep, gray-faced and spotty in the morning light, his shirt unbuttoned so that a triangle of hairless chest showed above the heavy leather jerkin.
“Who are you? What d’you want?” His voice had the sharp, clipped vowels of the Capital.
I drew myself up as tall as I could. “I’ve come to see my aunt. Please let me through.” I added “Sir” for good measure.
But he shook his head vehemently. “No, Miss. It ain’t allowed, see?” He looked nervously beyond us, as if afraid of being checked on by his superior officers. “Sergeant’s orders. Sorry, Miss.” As if to emphasize his point, he stretched his free arm across the narrow doorway so that he barred our entry.
“Alone here, are you?” said Jethro, craning past him. “The others on duty?”
“What’s it to you?” he said belligerently. “She’s an old woman. Don’t take more than one to guard her.”
I didn’t like the look of his rifle barrel. It was too long, too close, for all that its dark hole pointed at the sky. I stepped back a little. “A pity not to see my aunt,” I said slowly “when I’ve journeyed from Murkmere this very morning to do so.”
At the mention of Murkmere the youth took his hand away from the doorway and stared at me uneasily, fingering his spots. I pr
essed home my advantage. “I’ve heard about the matter of the Master’s books,” I said. “It may be that I can discover the truth from my aunt more easily than your Sergeant. The Master of Murkmere would like to know it, certainly. He’ll expect a report from me.”
I could almost see the information working its way around his brain. He wrinkled his forehead, letting the rifle rest against the door frame. “The Master?” he said. “The Master of Murkmere has sent you here?”
“Yes, indeed,” I said firmly. “You may be sure he’ll be angry if I’m prevented from seeing my aunt.”
Out of the corner of my eye I saw Jethro frown. I could see him thinking it wasn’t a good idea to tell yet another soldier that I came from Murkmere.
But the boy was standing aside to let me pass, lifting his rifle out of my way, and I was thankful not to have its evil length pointing up my nostrils any longer. “You’ll find her upstairs, Miss,” he muttered. “I’m sure I beg your pardon not lettin’ you in sooner.”
Jethro followed me, ignoring the boy’s protests. “Aggie, what are you thinking of?” he hissed.
“I have to see her before they come for me, Jethro,” I whispered, half-blinded by the sudden darkness inside.
He sighed. “I’ll watch for you outside somewhere, if I can.” Then he was gone.
My eyes, growing used to the dimness, saw the squalor the soldiers had left behind them. There were sucked mutton bones and lumps of gristle scattering the flags that had once been so painstakingly swept by Aunt Jennet. Filthy bedding was rolled up against the wall. The air was thick and fetid with the stench of sweat, stale ale, greasy meat.
Overlaying it all was a foulness I recognized. They had used the far corner as a latrine.
My hand to my mouth, retching, I ran up the stairs. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the soldier’s lanky figure outlined in the doorway below, staring out.
Murkmere Page 12