The Honey and the Sting

by E C Fremantle

  E. C. Fremantle

  * * *

  THE HONEY AND THE STING

  Contents

  Foreword

  An Unwanted Visitor Hester

  Hope

  Hester

  Hope

  Hester

  Hope

  Hester

  Death Foretold Felton

  Hope

  Felton

  Hester

  Felton

  Hope

  Felton

  Hester

  Hope

  Felton

  Hester

  Hope

  Felton

  Hester

  Hope

  Hester

  Hope

  Felton

  Hester

  Hope

  Felton

  Hester

  Hope

  Hester

  Hope

  Hester

  Felton

  Hope

  Hester

  Felton

  The Arrow that Flieth in the Dark Hester

  Hope

  Hester

  Hope

  Felton

  Hester

  Hope

  Hester

  Felton

  Hester

  Hope

  Hester

  Felton

  Hester

  Felton

  Hester

  Hope

  Hester

  Felton

  Hope

  Felton

  Hester

  Felton

  Hope

  Hester

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  E.C. Fremantle holds a First for her BA in English and an MA in Creative Writing from Birkbeck. As Elizabeth Fremantle she is the critically acclaimed author of four Tudor historical novels: Queen’s Gambit, Sisters of Treason, Watch the Lady and The Girl in the Glass Tower. She lives in London and Norfolk.

  For Rose, Poppy and Jasmine

  My honey lost, and I, a drone-like bee,

  Have no perfection of my summer left,

  But robbed and ransacked by injurious theft:

  In thy weak hive a wand’ring wasp hath crept,

  And sucked the honey which thy chaste bee kept.

  Shakespeare, The Rape of Lucrece

  The girl appears to float in the low brume. Her skin is transparent. Veins tick in her temples, mysterious as the workings of an opened clock. Oblivious to her sister watching from the fence, she gazes entranced at her hands, which are blanketed in something dark and moving.

  An anxious crevice forms between the sister’s moth eyes. Instinct, a twist in her gut, tells her to bolt, to run back to the house and slam the door, to throw herself into the solid embrace of her father. She can imagine the rough wool kiss of his jacket against her cheek, the safe squeeze of his arms.

  But her father isn’t there. He left before dawn, with the groom, to visit a patient. She had heard, through a haze of half-sleep, the hollow timpani of the horses’ hoofs on the cobbles. When he is absent, she feels a desperate emptiness, as if he might never return and she will be left to care for her sisters alone, adrift in a world she does not yet fully comprehend.

  Her father’s voice is in her head – Melis is different. You must take special care of her, or she will be crushed by the world. She turns, almost expecting to see him close by, but there is nothing, just the snap and hum of insects in the crisp air. She shivers, calling to her sister.

  Melis doesn’t respond, is entirely bound into her own impenetrable universe.

  Hester girds herself, climbing over the fence, jumping down into the dew-drenched grass, the cold of it smacking her bare ankles. The wet soon clogs her canvas slippers, her hem absorbing it thirstily, making her skirts heavy as she approaches her floating sister.

  ‘What in Heaven’s name …?’ She can see now that Melis’s hands are encrusted with bees, a great agitating mass that obscures her skin, spilling down her wrists and up her sleeves.

  Without looking away from the swarm, Melis whispers, ‘I have their queen.’ She has a disturbing, feverish air about her, and Hester wishes she knew what to do. She feels the fast, hard thump of her heart. They knew of a child in Oxford once, who’d fallen into a bees’ nest and died of the stings.

  A few of the insects break away, vibrating close, as if to learn whether Hester is friend or foe, close enough for her to feel the disturbance of air against the skin of her face. She resists the temptation to bat them off, standing stock still until they leave.

  ‘They sing to me – tell me secrets.’ Melis transfers her stare momentarily towards Hester, who releases an involuntary gasp at the sight of her sister’s horror-struck expression. ‘The blackest secrets.’

  ‘You’re imagining things.’ Hester does her best to muster her common sense but her thumping chest is making her feel lightheaded.

  When Melis looks back again, her expression is transformed, now serene. ‘Watch this.’ She opens her fist. A small bullet flies out, disappearing into a bank of nettles. The swarm moves after it directly, in a great dark cloud, leaving only half a dozen confused malingerers on Melis’s white lap.

  The girls watch the bees depart in silence, and only once they have disappeared does Melis inspect her open palm. ‘She can sting as many times as she wants. See!’ She thrusts her hand towards Hester. ‘And survive.’ There are several angry-looking welts, bright pink against the pale skin. ‘But the workers die if they sting. They defend her with their lives.’

  Hester doesn’t know how to respond.

  ‘Why such sacrifice? It must be something to do with there being only one queen in a hive. Did you know that, Hester? Just one queen.’

  ‘How do you know?’ Hester asks.

  ‘They told me so.’

  ‘They? Who?’

  ‘The bees, of course.’ Her eyes widen, the pupils expanding – drops of treacle spreading on a plate.

  ‘Come inside.’ Hester holds out her hand. ‘Please.’ She breathes into her cupped hands to warm them. ‘You’ll catch your death.’

  But Melis’s eyebrows ruffle, like birds drawn by a child, and her lids slide open. The tormented look has returned, causing unease to seep into Hester, right to her core.

  ‘Don’t you want to know what the queen said, what she showed me?’

  Hester is tugging at her sister’s hand now but Melis shakes herself free. ‘I saw Father.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  But Melis has crumpled, is scratching at her eyes and dissolving into strange, anguished sobs. ‘Help me, Hessie. You must help me. They show me things I don’t want to see.’

  Hester slides down to take her tightly in her arms, rocking her back and forth. Beneath her hands, Melis feels insubstantial, breakable. ‘You’re safe. I’m here. I won’t let anything happen to you …’

  The quiet is shattered with the hammer of approaching hoofs – closer and closer.

  The girls huddle together.

  A vast shape vaults the orchard fence and comes to a halt, quivering and striated with foam, head tossing manically. It is their father’s horse.

  Hester begins to unravel but forces the frayed parts of herself together as she approaches the petrified animal.

  He backs away.

  ‘Poseidon. Here, boy. Here.’ She makes a quiet clucking sound, waiting, motionless, for him to drop his head and inch towards her. Finally he allows her to stroke his muzzle lightly, and blows his hot, heavy breath into her hand. ‘What’s happened, boy?’

  Melis is still rocking back and forth, emitting a low moan, almost a song, almost a dirge. From the side of her eye Hester notices the small form of
their half-sister toddling towards the orchard gate.

  ‘Stay there, Hope.’ She dashes towards the infant, foreboding rattling round her head like a dried pea in a pan. She picks Hope up, heaving her onto her hip, just as the groom clatters into the yard.

  He is running, calling to the girls, and leading his own horse by the reins.

  Something heavy is slung over its back.

  Hester can see the boots she had polished the night before hanging limply against the chestnut flanks.

  Hope, too young to understand, prods at their father. ‘Wake up, Papa.’

  Melis has drawn beside her sisters and is staring, tears coursing silently down her face.

  ‘Poseidon bolted.’ The groom is distraught, his face ashen. ‘Your da fell. Cracked his head.’ He rips off his cap. He’s young, can’t even grow a beard yet. ‘It were quick. He wouldn’t have known nothing about it, God rest his soul.’ He presses a hand to his heart.

  New distress breaks over Melis’s face, her voice cracking. ‘I – I saw his head hit the ground.’ She twists her fists into her eyes, as if to rub the vision out of them.

  Hope, understanding now that something is wrong, begins to howl.

  Hester can’t speak, can’t think, can’t move. Her smallest sister is inconsolable in her arms, the other is raving, and she must keep the fragile edifice of their family from tumbling, while her every crevice crowds with dread.

  AN UNWANTED VISITOR

  * * *

  Or are you like the painting of a sorrow,

  A face without a heart?

  Shakespeare, Hamlet

  Hester

  Twelve years later

  A heart-stopping shriek comes from the orchard.

  I hurtle around the house, the top of the tall cherry tree coming into view, with Melis perched high on one of its branches. My immediate thought is that she intends to fling herself off.

  ‘Don’t move,’ I shout, fear crashing through me, but my voice is lost in loud peals of wild laughter.

  ‘Higher! Higher!’

  I realize I have misinterpreted the situation as I see my son, Rafe, beneath her, on a makeshift rope swing, squawking with delight as he careers back and forth. ‘I’m flying.’ Hope is pushing him into the air, up, high, too high, until there is nothing but sky behind him.

  ‘Stop!’ I shout, managing to grab his shirt as he swings down towards me, banging into me, flinging me into the grass, where I lie, half winded.

  I can see the soles of Melis’s dangling feet far above.

  ‘Are you out of your mind?’ I call up to her, hauling myself to my elbows. ‘What if you fall? And Rafe …’

  Rafe slides off the swing, face set in a screw of disappointment as he stalks off. ‘You always spoil everything.’

  ‘Don’t speak in that way to your mother,’ Hope calls after him. ‘Are you hurt?’ She crouches over me, dark eyes full of concern.

  ‘No. No, I’m fine.’ My response is blunt with annoyance.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she is saying, brushing debris from my skirt. ‘It was foolish – dangerous.’ But I know this wasn’t Hope’s idea.

  I watch Melis scale down from branch to branch, agile as a squirrel, heaving a breath of relief as she finally jumps to the ground.

  ‘We were just having a bit of fun, Hessie.’ Her face is flushed, eyes flashing.

  ‘One of you might have fallen to your death.’

  ‘Must you be such a doomsayer? Don’t you remember? We used to swing from this tree as children.’

  I do remember. I remember Father’s large hands at my back, the exhilaration, my squeals of excitement, the sensation of flight. It is a long time since I have allowed myself to think back that far. I have become the sensible one, the killer of joy. But one of us must hold everything together.

  ‘Back to work, I suppose.’ Melis walks towards the hives at the far end of the orchard.

  Inside, Hope and I swaddle ourselves from head to toe in vast canvas aprons and roll up our sleeves. In Orchard Cottage kitchen no surface is left uncovered and everything is sticky. It is the end of July and we are in the middle of harvesting the wildflower honey.

  As I trim off the good comb and lay it carefully on oilcloth, Hope scoops the rest into the press, wrapping it into an oozing muslin parcel. I still think of her as a child but she is sixteen now, tall and dark, with a boyish muscularity, so unlike we elder sisters, pale and small as mayflies.

  ‘Do you want to help me work the press?’ Hope asks Rafe, who is skulking on the back step. He positions himself with a grin, small hands gripping the handle. They whisper to each other and he glances towards me. It is my birthday today. I said I didn’t want a fuss made but suspect they’ve been plotting a surprise.

  I stop a moment to watch his glee as the golden liquid flows into the pail below, first a trickle, soon a gush. It is a moment I relish, too, seeing the fruits of our labour.

  Melis appears, her face hidden behind the gauze veil of her apiary hat, cradling a large bee skep. She shoves things aside to make room for it on the table. ‘That’s the last of it for now.’ She removes the hat, peels off her gloves, and has settled down to extract the combs when the afternoon is interrupted by the sound of a horse trotting up to the back door.

  Melis’s eyes meet mine. Even after so much time, unexpected arrivals bring back the memory of Poseidon galloping riderless into the yard, stitching dread through us all.

  ‘Is anybody here?’ comes the call from outside and the door is pushed open to reveal a tall, straw-haired young man, who introduces himself as the steward of a manor on the other side of Oxford. ‘Where is the man of the house?’

  ‘What’s your business?’ I set down my trimming knife and approach him, becoming aware of his eyes wandering over Hope as he explains that his employer is entertaining a houseful of guests and they are in need of more candles than they can make.

  ‘I was told I might procure some here.’ He looks briefly to me, then back to Hope. ‘Is your husband here?’

  ‘I am a widow,’ I say. It is a lie.

  I am not, as a rule, given to deceit but this particular untruth is a necessity for the smooth running of our daily lives at Orchard Cottage. I would not have been made welcome on returning to Iffley nine years ago with a distended belly, a craving for pickles and no husband. But as a widow no explanation has ever been required.

  We never talk about Rafe’s father.

  ‘You women live here alone?’ He sounds surprised.

  Melis makes a snort of annoyance and throws him a scowl. I ask her to look in the store cupboard to see how much stock we have before she blurts out of turn. She will have interpreted his comment as a criticism and has a tendency to say exactly what is on her mind. The steward, though, seems hardly to have noticed her disapproval, and is still gaping at Hope.

  ‘We can certainly provide you with candles.’

  ‘Don’t do that, Rafe. You’ll cut your tongue.’ Hope is carefully removing my trimming knife from Rafe’s hand to prevent him from licking it. She only now notices the young man’s gaze and I see her react with a flickering glance of her own. I make a mental note to talk to her. I have scarcely noticed that she is on the brink of womanhood and ripe for trouble. It worries me that she has been kept too sheltered and is unequipped to deal with the inevitable attentions of men. Her dark hooded eyes and pitch-black curls make her stand out from the whey-faced Iffley girls, and I have learned that desire is drawn to novelty.

  Hope takes after her mother, whom none of us knew. I discovered from Father’s papers after his death that she was the outcome of an illicit union between a salvage diver from Guinea and the wife of the Deptford merchant who had employed him to recover a consignment of precious stones from the wreck of one of his ships. It was a story to ignite the imagination. What had brought her into Father’s orbit was unclear, but he’d loved her. That much I deduced from the unsparing way in which he doted on Hope.

  Hope doesn’t remember him – she was on
ly four when he was taken from us – but I remember, as if it was yesterday, him arriving home with the tiny bundle that was my youngest sister. He had a woman with him. It turned out she was the wet nurse. I recall the squeeze in my heart at the first sight of the crumpled little face with its bush of inky hair. She burst into a sudden angry scream, pink toothless mouth gaping wide. The wet nurse made a great fuss, wondering what could have caused it. Melis shuffled back slightly, her lips tightly pursed, and I wondered if she’d pinched the infant. I supposed she didn’t want to give up her place as youngest but I was already ten and determined to become a little mother to the tiny newcomer.

  I negotiate a price for the candles, handing him a packet of fresh-cut honeycomb, saying that if his employer is ever in need we have ample. ‘We can undercut the price at market. We take in needlework too. Embroidery, invisible mending. My sister can work magic with a needle, can’t you, Hope.’

  Hope, arms piled with packages of candles, looks embarrassed. Rafe insists on helping load them onto the cart, leaving sticky fingermarks on the wrappings.

  ‘You the man of the house?’ The steward amiably tousles Rafe’s hair. Melis gives him a narrow-eyed look, which he ignores, vaulting onto the cart, thanking us and waving as he trundles away.

  ‘You could try to be a bit more welcoming,’ I say to Melis, as we walk back inside. ‘He might bring us more business.’

  ‘The way he was acting,’ she narrows her eyes, ‘you’d have thought we intended to put a spell on him and turn him into a toad.’

  I laugh. ‘He seemed a perfectly decent fellow. There’s really no need for you to be so suspicious.’ Frankly, though, I would rather the suspicious Melis; it is when she disappears inside herself that I worry. She has been so well recently, with none of the voices and visions that periodically beset her. Our quiet life here at Orchard Cottage suits her.

  ‘Goodness!’ calls Hope from the parlour at the front, where the clock lives. ‘It is six already. The Cottons will be here in half an hour and nothing is ready.’