‘“And the chief priests and scribes stood and vehemently accused him. And Herod with his men of war set him at nought, and mocked him, and arrayed him in a gorgeous robe, and sent him again to Pilate.”’
The new Bible had been printed the previous year and we bought three copies: one for the house, one for the church, and one for Richard’s mother. All of them were objects of beauty, edged in gold, the paper inside as thin as petals.
‘“But they cried, saying, Crucify him, crucify him. And he said unto them the third time, Why, what evil hath he done? I have found no cause of death in him: I will therefore chastise him, and let him go. And they were instant with loud voices, requiring that he might be crucified.”’
John Baxter was old, his skin the colour of Bible pages, but his voice carried like a much younger man’s over the coughing and shuffling and murmuring of infants. My head felt light, as though I was an hourglass needing to be tipped upside down.
‘“For, behold, the days are coming, in the which they shall say, Blessed are the barren, and the wombs that never bare, and the paps which never gave suck. Then shall they begin to say to the mountains, Fall on us; and to the hills, Cover us.”’
I felt my mother move next to me, her dress crushing against mine. My corse was tight and my blood beat in my neck. My head was so empty I thought it might detach from my neck and float like feathers into the rafters.
John Baxter invited us to rise, and the crowd moved upwards, carrying me with it, and the room warped and swam. Then everything went black.
The following morning, instead of waiting for Alice at the windows, I decided to join Richard on the lawn where I saw him training his new falcon. A dark cloud had lifted since my mother had left, but the old one had taken its place once again. Picking my way across the wet grass to where Richard was standing by the steps, I stopped quietly behind him so as not to frighten the bird, which was tied to his wrist by a string. Blinded by its hood, it flapped in confusion above our heads, driven to distraction by the scent of chicken flesh in a pouch at Richard’s thigh.
There was an art to the training of birds, and Richard had mastered of it. He made a clicking noise and pulled the string so the falcon came down with it, scrambling about until it found a perch on his glove. He tossed it a bit of meat.
‘I shall never know why you do this yourself and leave the falconer idle,’ I said. ‘I am surprised you still have eyes in your head.’
‘Because it’s most satisfying,’ he replied easily. ‘Besides, she is only ever yours if you do it the long way. Loyalty is earned, not demanded.’ The bird took off again, getting a shock when it reached the end of the string and shrieking loudly. ‘This one is from Turkey. She will need no bells if she insists on making this noise.’
‘She is cursing you,’ I teased.
‘I did not know you spoke Turkish.’
‘You still have much to discover about me.’
We smiled at one another, and my thoughts rushed again to the surface. I pushed them down.
‘Something is troubling you?’ Richard asked.
It would be so easy to go and fetch the letter from my cupboard.
‘Tell me why you have kept this from me,’ I would say, handing it to him. ‘Tell me it isn’t true.’
Instead, I shook my head and fixed my eyes on the bird.
‘Roger has invited us to dine on Friday,’ I said.
‘Yes, he told me he saw you. He had his witch with him?’
‘She was a strange creature. I am not sure what chilled me more – her presence or Roger’s indifference. She must be dangerous or she wouldn’t be manacled. Why would Roger bring her to our house?’
‘He has made her his shadow. As long as she is in his sight, he is in the king’s. I’m sure he will dispose of her once she has served her purpose.’
‘That’s a callous thing to think about your friend.’
Richard looked sideways at me. ‘That’s an innocent thing to think about yours.’ He touched the blooming stain at my temple with a gentle thumb. ‘That will be quite a bruise.’
‘It already has more colours than my dress. My pride is bruised more than anything – all those people who watched me go down.’
‘We shall have to lock you in the house. First falling from your horse, then fainting in church. Whatever will we do with you?’
Barrels of wine were being rolled into the house behind us, tumbling over the stone passage that led into the cellar. Richard’s attention moved back to the bird, and I followed his gaze to admire her bright talons, her gentle wings struggling against the string. After a few months of this, a dead hare stuffed with a live chicken would be used as prey, then a hare with a broken leg. I wondered where I might be by the time she went on her first hunt. Buried in the churchyard?
The falcon shrieked and flapped above us, and between her wing beats came the sound of hooves. Richard brought the bird down to his glove, and that’s when I felt it for the first time: the quickening. Unmistakable, and yet before I realised it was happening it stopped, so suddenly I wondered if I’d imagined it. But I knew the feeling from once before: like I was a barrel of water and a fish was turning inside me. I gripped Richard’s arm, my whole body ringing.
‘Fleetwood, are you well?’
‘Yes,’ I lied. ‘The baby … I felt it moving.’
‘But that’s wonderful!’ He beamed, and I couldn’t help but match his smile.
His bird flapped impatiently, and before it could take hold of my head I backed away.
‘Alice should be on her way – I will ride to meet her on the Colne road.’
‘Your wrist is well enough to ride?’
I held up my bandaged arm. ‘Almost like new.’
In the clean air, with the river on one side and forest on the other, with every jolt of the horse I felt my thoughts slip away from my own life and further towards Alice’s. There was so much I didn’t know about her. As I accompanied her to the front door, the day she rescued me, I’d enquired after her father, and Alice told me he was ill and unable to work. I wondered if they had a close relationship, or if Alice dreamt of marrying so she could move out. Poor girls were so unlike rich girls, who only had to wait in their houses for the day a husband arrived, like turkeys fattening for Christmas. Poor girls could choose for themselves, perhaps even as equals: a neighbour might catch their eye, or a shop boy they bought their meat off each week. I tried to imagine Alice with a man – her long, white fingers touching his face, him moving a twist of golden hair from hers – and couldn’t.
The trees thinned out and made way for the open sky, and green hills billowed around in the manner of fresh linen being put on a bed. The river rounded in front of me and I had to cut into Hagg Wood, moving out of the open and back into the trees. The horse’s hooves were quieter there, and after a minute or so I saw two figures ahead in a clearing – women, wearing dull colours and white caps. They hadn’t noticed me. I pulled in the reins to slow down, when I realised one of them was Alice, and her voice was raised and angry, travelling through the trees. I slid down from my horse’s back and crossed silently over the mossy ground towards them, stopping behind a tree, where I had a clearer view of the other woman.
She was the ugliest person I’d ever seen in my life – almost frightening to look at. She was poor: that was clear. Her dress was so baggy and shapeless it looked as though she had stitched sacking together, making her appear thin and deformed. But the most alarming thing about her was her eyes: they were set in different parts of her face and not level like other people’s. One sat high, gazing up at the leaves of the trees around her, and the other, lower in her cheek, examined the roots. Could she see more that way, or less? She stood with her mouth open, letting her tongue pass over her lips as Alice spoke, sharp and low at once.
I could not hear what was being said, and as I strained forwards, a movement next to me made me jump. A thin brown dog with ragged fur trotted out from the trees, skirting past me and going towards
the women, who did not pay it attention. It cut through the small gap between them and passed on into the trees beyond. The ugly woman’s pet, then. I thought about turning away before I was seen, but Alice made as though to stalk off towards me and my horse, and I froze. The other woman spoke in a raspy, harsh voice, saying some admonishment or other.
The dog barked far off, and its owner looked over her shoulder briefly, before – chillingly – turning her wayward eyes in my direction. My skin prickled all over, and I willed that my dark green dress made me difficult to spy. She spoke once more to Alice, then lumbered off after the dog, muttering to herself.
Alice stayed for a moment in the clearing and I saw her fists clench and unclench. She rubbed the tops of her arms as though she was cold – a vulnerable gesture that made me feel guilty for concealing myself. Then she went off in the opposite direction, making directly for the river.
I could not see her horse anywhere, and did not hear hooves on the forest floor. Unsure of what to do, for a minute I watched her go, then climbed astride my horse and cantered the short distance home. Dismounting breathlessly at the bottom of the steps, I turned to look the way I came and after a few minutes saw her bowed form hurrying from the bank of trees east of the park. There was stealth in her stride, and grace, and authority, and she crossed the lawn in front of the house quick as a rabbit, bent into the biting wind. She wore no cloak. Her expression was dark, and she looked troubled.
‘Where is your horse?’ was the first thing I asked her. Before she could reply there was the sound of a dog barking from the direction we had come. She looked back, distracted. ‘Alice?’
The front door opened, and Richard stood at the top of the steps.
‘Ah, the two wood sprites are returned from the forest. Good afternoon, Miss Gray.’
Alice nodded, her eyes on the ground.
‘You too, sir.’
‘You are taking good care of my wife?’
Alice nodded again.
‘Fleetwood, is your horse to walk herself to the stable?’ Richard asked.
I gathered myself and took the reins, ready to take her the short distance, but Richard stopped me.
‘Your midwife can do that.’
I looked anxiously at Alice, who was distracted and paler than usual.
‘Unless she objects?’ Richard asked her.
With a pained expression, Alice took the reins from me. I watched her go, hunched against the animal, then gathered my skirts and entered the house.
‘She does seem young for a midwife,’ Richard said as I moved past him into the dark hallway. The wall lamps flared in the draught as the door shut.
‘She is about your age.’
‘I still think we should go to London. There are hundreds of midwives there, delivering infants every day.’
‘Don’t make me go to London, Richard. I want our son to be born at home, where he belongs.’ That seemed to do it, and he reached for my hand, squeezing it. ‘Alice and I will be in my chamber while she examines me.’
Ten minutes later there was still no sign of Alice, and I got up from the floor where I was stroking Puck and went to the top of the stairs. There she was, standing beneath my portrait, staring at it. She did not know I was watching her, and I saw the edges of her lips curve up, as though she was smiling, lost in some fond memory.
‘What do you think of my mother?’ I asked, startling her.
‘She is very … pointy,’ was her reply, which made me grin. ‘That’s you?’ She nodded at the child in the picture.
‘What were you smiling at?’
‘Your face is very serious for one so small. You remind me of …’ She trailed off.
‘Who?’
But she did not answer, moving as if disturbed from a daydream, picking up her skirts and joining me at the top of the staircase. We passed the dressing room where Richard had been sleeping, the truckle bed clearly visible, and I noticed that her arms were empty, and she appeared to have nothing with her.
‘My husband wondered how many years you have,’ I said, closing the door behind us.
Her mouth opened wordlessly, and her shoulders sank a little.
‘I do not know.’
I stared at her.
‘You do not know how old you are? Well, when is your birthday?’
She shrugged. ‘I have slightly more than twenty years, I think.’
‘You do not know your birthday?’
She shook her head. ‘I am afraid I have to confess something. I lost the horse you gave me.’
‘You lost it?’
‘I tied it outside my house and the next morning, it was gone.’
Every line of her was apologetic, and I cursed silently at my own foolishness. I had not thought to ask if she had a stable, but of course she did not. I should have paid for her to keep it at an inn or nearby farm. She mistook my reaction for intense disappointment, and began again.
‘I will pay you back; I will work for free. How much are horses?’
‘I don’t know … A few pounds?’ Her face fell. ‘Do not worry, it is done now, and I will pay you just the same,’ I said without conviction, for Richard’s anger would know no bounds.
How would I tell him? Never mind. While Alice was there, we would focus on the here and now.
I asked her what she had brought, and she walked over to the dresser and began lifting up her skirts, taking little linen parcels from her pocket and lining them up on the polished top before opening them to reveal herbs of varying shades of green. With the fire full and friendly, and the dog snoozing nobly on the rug, my chamber had the same atmosphere of purpose as the kitchen, and I went to the edge of the bed and sat on it, not knowing what to do.
‘You are like a travelling herb merchant,’ I said. ‘Richard would be impressed.’
She pointed from left to right. ‘Dill, marigold, lavender, camomile.’
She held up the first bunch: soft and feathery with fine waving fronds. ‘Have your cook chop this and mix it into butter, which you can put on your meat, fish, anything.’
‘What does it do?’
‘A lot. These petals,’ she held up the delicate golden flowers, ‘can be dried and stirred into hot milk, or used to flavour cheese. Have the kitchen make you a hot cup each morning and night and stir this in, and it will help with the sickness.’
I nodded, remembering: butter, hot milk, cheese.
‘Lavender,’ she said. ‘Infuse it in some rainwater to make a tincture, and sprinkle it over your pillowcase to help you sleep, and keep away bad dreams.’
She looked at me meaningfully, and for a moment I wondered if I had told her about The Nightmare. How could she know? She lifted her apron again and brought out a tiny glass vial between finger and thumb.
‘I’ve made you some already – this is the only bottle I had.’
She went over to the bed and, stopping up half the neck with her finger, shook it lightly over the pillows and eiderdown. Something made her pause, and she leant further over to examine it.
‘Your hair is falling out?’
I patted it self-consciously, where it barely covered the rolls beneath.
‘Yes.’
I could not see her face, but she appeared to be thinking as she smoothed the lavender water over the bedclothes. A moment later she was back at my side, pushing the vial into my hand, then holding up a fistful of a daisy-like plant.
‘“Like a camomile bed, the more it is trodden, the more it will spread,”’ I recited. ‘Do you know that rhyme?’
‘No,’ she said shortly. ‘Steep this in hot milk, too, and strain it, then it can be drunk. And the final one.’ She held a narrow strip of what looked like tree trunk between her long fingers. ‘Willow bark. Chew on this if you have any pain – it will help.’
‘Where did you get all these from? The apothecary in Padiham?’
‘Women I know,’ she said.
‘Wise women?’
‘Most women are wise.’
I c
ould not tell if she was teasing me.
‘Are they to be trusted?’
Alice gave me a look.
‘According to the king? No. He has driven them into the shadows. But people are still sick, and dying, and having children, and not everyone has a royal physick. The king has muddled wise women with witchcraft.’
‘You sound as though you are not a supporter of his.’
She did not reply, and began folding up the little squares of linen. Many people in these parts had their opinions on the king but kept them to themselves for good reason, so I was taken aback by her candour. Perhaps all baseborn people spoke as boldly.
‘The king is not a supporter of women trying to make their way in the world any way they can: helping neighbours, and driving off sickness, and trying to keep their children alive. And while he is not, I am not of him.’ She brushed her palms together and became more businesslike. ‘You remember each of the instructions?’
‘I think so.’
How glad I was that Richard or the servants had not overheard our words. Alice took out her pocket, folded the linen back into it, then asked to see my wrist.
‘I almost forgot …’ I began as she examined it, pressing here and there and bending my palm backwards and forwards. There was no pain now. ‘I bled the other night.’
Alice fixed her large amber eyes on mine and once again I smelt lavender. Where did it come from? She could not have perfume; she must crush it at her wrists and neck. I imagined her pulling on her rough wool dress and tucking her hair beneath her cap before making this small attempt at femininity.
‘Was there any pain?’ I shook my head. She narrowed her eyes. ‘There may be too much blood in your body, which is not good for you or the infant. Next time I come, I will bring something.’
The Familiars Page 7