by Lucy Jago
Amelia flushed slightly, delighted at how well her plan had worked. She only hoped Drax Mortain did not consider her foolish to think that he would care a jot that a bastard peasant girl was muttering a few spells.
As if guessing her thoughts, he continued. “Witchcraft can be very powerful, even if performed by the young. Has she a witch’s mark or familiar?”
Amelia hesitated. She had spun the tale about Cess to give Drax Mortain the excuse to summon her, not to start a full-blown witch hunt. However, despite the seriousness of his questions, she could not help thinking that he was enjoying her discomfort, teasing her.
“No, my lord, although Cess is not so young—she has just turned thirteen.”
“Ah, a good age.” He smiled again, looking into her face for much longer than was necessary, then guiding her under a low arch, causing their bodies to touch. Amelia was flustered. She wanted his attention, but when she got it she felt scared and utterly unsure what to do with it. Although fifteen, and quite grown-up, she felt reduced to a child in the presence of this nobleman who had seen at least thirty summers.
“And how came your cousin to meddle in such practices?” asked Drax.
“Cecily is estranged from the rest of the family,” Amelia said, choosing her words with care. Her cousin’s shame might reflect badly on them all. “She is fatherless, my lord, with no strong hand to guide her,” she went on, acutely aware of Drax’s hand clasping hers.
“Is she pretty? Does beauty run in your family?” he asked, stopping to run a finger along her jawline and push back a stray curl. Amelia felt like an idiot, blushing all the time, but she had no experience of such flirtation. When the village boys got cheeky she just slapped them.
“No, she has freckles,” said Amelia with finality, then added, “but, my lord, you can judge for yourself. It was she who defied you outside the church on May Day. See how she rewards your generosity?”
Drax pulled up short. “That wench?” he said, seemingly genuinely intrigued by Amelia’s story for the first time. His expression clouded with concentration. “I thought I had seen her before somewhere,” he mused to himself. Amelia allowed his thoughts to be elsewhere for a brief moment as they walked on, then she stumbled on an imagined tree root.
“Oh, forgive me,” she said prettily, squeezing his hand. Drax’s attention was once more all hers. His wealth, his power, his title, and his interest in her made her feel heady, as if she had drunk too much cider. On his horse outside the church, with his hawk, surrounded by men-at-arms, he had looked like a hero in a story. But up close he became a man, who wanted as much from her as she wanted from him. His bald brow was unsettling, like a baby’s in an aging face. She could see the deep lines in the skin around his mouth, and a couple of his teeth were black. His lips were plump, the bottom one especially so, and the idea he might kiss her with them made her squirm, from pleasure or disgust she could not quite say.
“And why would you wish to warn me of your cousin’s ire?” he said as he raised her face with his hand under her chin, and bent down so close she could feel his breath. Amelia’s prettiness was usually enough to convince people that she was honest, but clearly Drax would need flattery and flirtation too.
“My lord, I have heard that curses can make a man ill, even to death. How could I stand by and not warn you?” she said in a voice husky with sincerity but with a look that she hoped left no doubt that she herself would be happy to bewitch him.
Drax stared, still standing so close that Amelia could smell the lavender water used to wash and iron his undershirt. He eventually released her gaze and pulled something from a pouch on his girdle. He took Amelia’s hand and placed the object on her palm as he whispered into her ear so closely that his lips brushed her cheek, “I hope you reward generosity more pleasantly than your cousin.”
Amelia felt her stomach turn, understanding perfectly what was meant by his words. On her palm lay a large ruby pendant on a chain of gold links. Its deep color was clearly visible, even in the gloom of the maze. Amelia caught her breath.
“May I?” Drax asked, picking the chain off Amelia’s palm and passing the chain over her head. He ran his fingers over the naked skin above her bodice to ensure the chain lay well on her chest. Then he lifted her face and kissed her.
C H A P T E R 9
As Cess entered the kitchen yard she noticed that the horses were already being led between the shafts of two market carts. She grabbed her skirts, threw her heavy clogs into them, and ran barefoot to the poultry yards. If she missed the cart, her plan would be ruined. She felt the heavy gold chain and pendant bounce a little inside her bodice.
Cecily skidded to a halt by the coops and grabbed two large wicker baskets from the narrow hut where she kept her pails and brooms. With deft speed she filled one with eggs, padding them well with straw, and into the other she pushed the birds to sell, crooning softly to soothe them. As she struggled back toward the kitchen courtyard, a movement made her look toward the gardens. There was a figure standing just inside the maze, her head tilted slightly back as if laughing, or smiling at someone out of view. She was too distant to hear, but Cess could have sworn it was her cousin Amelia.
Lack of sleep is making me see things, she thought, shaking her head. When she looked back, the girl had gone.
She staggered into the kitchen yard and placed her baskets carefully beside the back of the second cart, looking about for someone to help her lift them onto the footboard. The cart was already loaded with people and produce, but there was just enough space for her. The servants in the yard and the cart ignored her or shot her dirty looks. After a few minutes the clerk of the kitchens emerged, squinting in the pale morning light and clearly irked at having to interrupt his hectic schedule.
“Why are you here?” he barked.
“The steward says I may take the birds to market,” Cess replied. Out of the corner of her eye she noticed the other servants were listening to their conversation.
“Perhaps he did not know that I have always sent a kitchen hand with the hens. There is no need to change the arrangement.”
Cess blanched. “Sir, it is the steward’s wish.” To challenge the clerk was dangerous, but she had no choice. She must go to Yeovil.
“No one will travel in the cart with you. The produce must go to market, so you need to be gone.”
Cess looked around. It seemed that every servant in the household had gathered to watch her humiliation. She felt her courage waver, and only her fears for William drove her on.
“May I not go at least to where the lane meets the Yeovil road?”
“You may go to where my boot meets your arse!” he roared.
Blushing furiously, Cess picked up her baskets and stumbled away from the laughing crowd. A kitchen boy ran to take them from her, but she snarled at him like a wild animal, cornered and hurt. “I am the poultry girl!” she spat. The boy recoiled and looked to the clerk for support. He shrugged his shoulders and marched back inside.
Cess struggled down the servants’ drive, angry and frightened that fingers were already pointing at her over William’s disappearance. Her outburst outside the church would not have improved her popularity. The Montacute carts trundled past her, but Cess did not falter despite every bone and muscle aching with the weight of her load. If she could make it to the end of the drive and along the Borough, someone else might stop to pick her up.
Six carts passed, but their occupants pretended not to see her. Eventually, Cess sat by the side of the lane and did not even bother to look up at the sound of wheels squelching toward her in the muddy ruts.
“What are you sitting there for?” Farmer Joliffe had pulled up his horse and was peering down at her. He looked badly bruised, scratched, and even more disheveled than usual.
“Waiting for a ride to market,” she replied.
Joliffe eyed her. “You can come with me, if you wish,” he said eventually.
“Thank you,” she said simply, and was grateful for his help
loading the hens and eggs. The farmer grunted in pain as he moved.
“Did you come too close to the horse, sir?” she asked quietly with a sympathetic nod at his bruises, not sure if Joliffe would welcome conversation or not.
“Aye,” he replied grimly. “A noble steed.” Cess pictured Drax Mortain entering his farmhouse the night before, and ceased her questioning. She knew that Joliffe’s reputation was worse than her own. He had been a popular young man until a fight he was in before Cess was born led to the death of another villager. No one witnessed the brawl, and Joliffe had been too drunk to remember much. There was no trial, but many of the villagers considered him guilty. Since that time he had kept his own company and taken increasingly to drink.
As children, she and William had played on the fields around Joliffe’s farm, digging up interesting rubbish from the old priory middens. Joliffe had caught them repeatedly and quite often chased them away in a drunken rage. At other times he would give them apples or cheese and tell them to come back whenever they wanted. He even asked after her mother, which had surprised Cess; no one else did.
They traveled in silence, lost in their own cares. The drizzle stopped and a light breeze brought some sunshine and scudding clouds with it. At the last milestone before Yeovil, the track was churned from farm carts bringing in early spring greens, bitter skirret roots, peppery Alexanders, and wild garlic, the meager crops of early May. Others carried willow cages of pigeons, ducks, and geese, and braces of woodcock. Cess saw round cheeses, sides of salted bacon, and fish under wet linen cloths, and barrels of cider. Pigs and cows were being driven to their pens in the marketplace by young boys, and there were a few early lambs bleating anxiously as they wobbled their way to town. Cess looked at the women and children crouched by the side of the route with threadbare clothes, their feet wrapped in rags. Many held up their hands. “Money for bread? My children are dying for want.”
Cess’s eyes grew wide with pity as she saw the scrawny little babies tied to their mothers’ chests with patched scarves.
Once inside the walls of the town, Cess was overwhelmed by the medley of new sights and sounds. So many people crushed together, houses with two or even three floors, many with glass windows.
“Gardyloo!” goodwives shouted as they threw the contents of chamber pots out of overhanging windows into the street below. Joliffe pointed out his favorite inn, the Red Lion, which had four floors, fine black timbers, and painted plaster walls. Although it was not as grand as Montacute House, Cess was amazed that ordinary people were allowed in. Whole streets were dedicated to one trade—Shoe Lane, Baker Street, Rope Passage, Tanning Way, Fishmarket, the butchers in the Shambles. The stench from the tanneries shocked her nose and mingled with the cattle dung and human excrement flowing freely in the street. As they passed a pomander stall, the sharp scent of oranges sweetened the air for a welcome moment. Ribbon Passage, aglow with rich colors and precious metals, made her long to run her fingers through the silken cords, ribbons, and baubles hanging up for sale. She longed to be there with William.
The streets nearest the market square were so crowded that Joliffe was forced to clamber down from the cart and lead the horse, swearing and shouting at people in his way.
“This’ll do,” he said shortly, tethering his horse to one of the posts that ran around the edge. He helped Cess unload her two baskets, and together they unhitched the cart and lowered the back end. A half-dozen sacks slid to the ground filled with early crops from his farm.
“Poultry’s over there,” said Joliffe gruffly, nodding toward the farthest corner of the market. It was the most he had spoken since Cess mounted the cart. “You’ll find it.” Then he heaved two sacks onto his back and walked off.
Cess stood still for a few moments while she gathered her courage. She had never been in such a crowd, never crossed a busy marketplace, never had to reply to the hawkers and sellers begging for her to buy their wares. Keeping her gaze ahead with what she hoped was a worldly-wise expression, she struggled through the tightly packed stalls. The sun-warmed odor of feathers mixed with the acid tang of droppings drew her on; her nose could lead her to poultry even when the odor was mingled with those of earthy vegetables, squealing piglets, and ripe cheeses. As she emerged from the stalls, she walked into a blizzard of down. A gaggle of women squatting on short wooden stools were plucking birds and gossiping. Cess walked nervously toward them. The oldest and plumpest turned to measure her up.
“Who are you?” she inquired. Cess saw that the woman had not a single tooth in her head.
“I…I come from Montacute,” stammered Cess, worried that these women would turn her away.
“Sit there if you wish,” said the toothless woman, indicating an empty stool but never pausing from plucking the bird she held firmly between her knees. It was screeching. The woman laughed. “This one has no complaints. Done nothing but sit in my loft eating curds and grain.” The bird had a large hole in one foot, its edges ragged and blackened, where it had been nailed to the floor while being fattened.
Without thinking, Cess took out one of her hens and stroked it on her lap.
“A petted hen don’t get you more money,” said her neighbor, shrieking with laughter. Cess wanted these women’s help, so she quietly replaced the bird in its basket. She smiled along with the goose plucker, making small talk until it was safe to bring up the subject she was really interested in.
“You must be worried coming here. I heard some boys had disappeared.”
The woman plucked and tutted in time. “Aye, it’s an awful business.”
“It’s the work of the Devil,” piped up another woman.
“Do they only disappear at night?”
“Yes, always in the dark,” said the goose plucker, whose work seemed less arduous now that the bird had fainted, “and it’s never the rich folk, oh no, just the poor ones. Two of the swineherds disappeared, poof, just vanished. As if we don’t have enough to deal with, what with the prices these days.”
There ensued a general lamentation about last year’s failed harvests, the wet and cold weather, the price of everything, the taxes on candles, who of their acquaintance had died and of what, and much besides, so that Cess could ask very few questions. She realized that her plan to come to Yeovil had not been well thought out. Having never left Montacute before, she had had no idea that Yeovil would be so large.
She opened the basket of eggs, remembering that she had to sell her produce as well as find out about the missing boys. The kitchen hand got a halfpenny a dozen for the eggs, so she had to do better.
“Three farthings a dozen,” she called out, smiling at those who hovered to look. “And the birds are fat, reared on the Montacute estate. They eat as fine as His Lordship!” she cried out, encouraged by the smiles and laughs that greeted her banter. To her surprise, she discovered herself to be a natural hawker. By midday she had sold all the eggs and all but one bird.
“Could I leave my baskets here a while?” Cess asked of the toothless one. The woman nodded cheerfully, Cess’s silver tongue had brought business to them all.
Wandering among the market stalls, Cess remembered what the women had said about the swineherds. If the missing boys were poor, it was worth starting at the livestock pens, where the neediest boys worked. She followed the sounds of cattle to the corner of the market that led onto the London road. The pig pens were outside the square, a little way along the road. They were not much larger than those at Montacute House but heaved with animals belonging to many different smallholders. A painfully thin boy, a little older than Cess, was scratching the back of the pig nearest him with a stout stick. He looked her up and down as she approached.
“How now,” he said with a smile.
Cess smiled back.
“How do you remember whose beast is whose with so many?” she asked.
“I know pigs better than I know my own family.”
“Do you live in these parts?”
“A little north. Why you i
nterested, big nose?” he said with a cheeky grin.
“I didn’t mean to pry. A friend of mine went missing last night from Montacute way. I thought he might have come here,” said Cess.
“A runaway?”
“I hope so. Rather that than taken.”
The boy nodded, his smile fading. “I don’t go out after dark these days,” he said. “I knew two of them as has gone. They wouldn’t have scarpered. They was taken, for sure.”
“Where were they when they disappeared?”
The boy looked at her, surprised a girl should be so curious. He eventually jerked his head along the road.
“There’s a wrecks’ shack down there and a tavern, a real shit hole, the Hog’s Head. They’d got their wages, which God knows ain’t enough to eat with, but they boasted they was going to get drunk, get women, and taunt beggers…It’s not my idea of fun, which is why I’m still here. I saw them head off that way. Never came back.”
“A wrecks’ shack?” asked Cess, mystified.
“It’s where vagabonds and beggars shelter,” he elaborated.
“Did you tell the magistrates?”
“Hah!” barked the boy. “A pox on them. The likes of them don’t speak to the likes of me! They don’t reckon we have enough brain to know anything useful. Wouldn’t tell them anyway—what would the boys’ parents think if they knew their lads was spending their pay on ale and whores?”
Cess saw his point. “Is this the only road to London?”
“Yes, and I’ve been here since before dawn. What’s your runaway look like?”
