When the bone seems straight, I take a pot of Mother’s elderberry, marigold and feverfew balm which I have brought, apply most of it to the wound, then splint the arm with a straight branch and tie it with the cloths I have used to clean him. He is shivering now, so I wrap him in my grey woollen cloak and take his own bloodstained clothing to wash in the beck. Watching the blood curl up into the water, I see again the line of Scots coming at me across the clearing, spreading out to enclose me, wearing draperies like this, and for a moment I am glad I hurt him. I spread his clothing on the brambles to dry, and return inside. He seems to have slipped into a more natural sleep now. He will have to make do with this bug-infested pallet for the time being, but when I return I shall bring blankets, a trussing-bed, more medication, bandages, a broom and fresh floor covering.
Chapter 8
I go back the next day, and the next. The Scot seems to have decided not to speak to me. He lies with his head turned away as I clean the hut, and him. His name is Robert. That much I have managed to drag out of him. He belongs to the Lacklies, one of the notorious border families against whom the queen herself has spoken out. I find a French rosary wound into his belt. One of the few times he speaks to me is when I put it into his hands. He looks at me doubtfully and says, “I’m grateful. Ye wouldnae be…?”
I shake my head. “No, but when you’re well enough I’ll get you across the bay to the monks at Cartmel.”
A week goes by. The hovel is clean, and Robert is on a fresh straw and canvas trussing-bed, dressed in some of Father’s cast-offs. He is a strange sight in these clothes which are old-fashioned and too short for him.
I am pleased with my handiwork in straightening his arm, and the bone shows signs of knitting, but the flesh itself hangs yellow and rotting, strings of it peeling away, and no herbs can mask its decaying smell. I bathe the wound daily, and am getting through a prodigious number of bandages. Once I have used them I have to burn them because of the state they are in.
Another week passes. Robert has bouts of delirium in which he raves in French and another language which I presume to be his own Scots tongue. He is too weak to stand, or even to turn himself over. I have to take the half hour’s walk into the forest twice a day now, to tend him and dress his wound. I have used up the remaining ragged sheets which are kept for bandages in a chest next to the women’s common room on the tower’s east landing. The supply was depleted already after the battle. In desperation, late one night, I creep up to the linen press in the tiny room at the side of the living hall hearth, with my scissors concealed in my skirts. I can hear Father snoring in his room on the other side of the hearth. For once I wish he were out on the highway. I feel sick with guilt. This is a criminal act I am about to perform. Bedsheets are precious, and Mother is always so finicky about them. They have to be washed carefully, perfumed with lavender water, then pulled and snapped between her and Kate until they are straight, and folded with their corners and hems exactly right. Sheets are not just sheets; they are symbols of domestic decency.
I open the press. Layers of cream linen are stacked on deep shelves. I put my big copper candlestick on the floor and the flame streams in the draught. I move the candlestick along with my foot, and the scraping sound is very loud. Father coughs and stops snoring. I wait, then start to sort through the sheets, feeling for those which are smoothest for the Scotsman’s arm. At last I pull a large one from the pile, and before I can lose my courage, hack into it. The scissors slew round on the thick material and wrench my hand. I gasp, pause, try again. I snick the hem; the tight double seam gives; there’s no going back.
It’s a large sheet, so I try to tear the main part, but it will not give. The material stretches, and tiny motes of linen rush up into the candlelight. I realise grimly that I am going to have to cut my way through every inch. With an increasingly sore hand, I ravage our precious bedlinen, for a Scot.
Part way through the week it occurs to me that Robert’s angry silence may be caused by his being in a deep state of melancholy, so I mix borage oil into the broth which I feed him. It seems to help a little, when he is able to eat, which is not always. One day he says, “You’re a bonny lass,” which would have been laughably predictable under other circumstances, but which I take to be well meant. He would be bonny himself if he were not in such a sorry state. Meanwhile, his arm rots on him, and he is so helpless that his limbs tremble when I move him. I fret, and have nightmares about him.
“Why do you raid us?” I ask, as he becomes more talkative. “Can’t you breed your own cattle?”
“It isnae just for your cattle we come, Beatrice,” he replies. “The cattle are just a wee little excuse. We want you destabilised, discontented down here in the border country with the law enforcement of your Protestant queen. We’ll see good Queen Mary of Scots on the English throne yet.”
I am outraged. “You make no secret of it then? It’s well she is locked up, Scotsman.”
He attempts to shrug his one shruggable shoulder. “Maybe ye’ll let me die now.”
The week after my raid on the linen press, I realise that I need more help. I shall have to consult a wise woman or doctor, without their realising my purpose. I know that Mother Bain, a wise woman and soothsayer, will be at the May Day fair in our neighbouring village, if only Robert can last until then.
He does. May Day dawns, and Verity and I stand on the battlements watching homesteaders with flowers in their hair appearing out of the mist and making their way past our tower, over the stony lea which borders the woods and on to the footpath which leads to the Old Corpse Road. It is nearly an hour’s walk to Wraithwaite, part of it up a sheer limestone rockface with only a narrow, rough path cut into one of its deep clefts. Most of the May Day revellers are on foot, a few on horseback. A cart full of old women and young children wobbles by, taking the longer route round the edge of the woods.
“Oh rowan tree, oh rowan tree,
How sweet thou art to me.
I swear thou art the fairest bush
In all the north country,
Oh, rowan tree…”
Kate’s pure, powerful voice rises up the tower walls as she leads my father’s stallion into the barmkin. He must only just have arrived home. Verity takes off her cap and flings it at the beacon turret. “I fear there’s a wagon to hell reserved for our father, Beatie.”
We speak no more about him. It’s a day for celebrating. We cannot set off just yet ourselves. It has become a tradition that our party from the tower arrives later. I think people probably feel we spoil their fun. As more revellers from the valley continue to drift past, Verity and I tour the battlements looking for damage caused by the Scots and discussing whether we need to send for the Irish builders who sometimes come over to do repairs.
I lean over, picking off bits of lard which have become hardened and brittle in the wind and rain, and consider telling Verity my secret. I feel a desperate need to share it with someone, but when I hear the anger in her voice towards the Scots, I realise I can tell no one, not even my sister.
Later we ride out from the tower with Hugh, Gerald, Germaine and James.
Hugh rides next to me, not speaking much. I think he is aggrieved that I have been neglecting him. Verity and Gerald ride behind, in even more profound silence. Soon Gerald drops back to ride with Germaine, and James Sorrell comes cantering up to join Verity. We pass large numbers of people walking. At the rockface we dismount and lead our horses up the steep, narrow path. Pebbles shoot from under the animals’ hooves, and clang away down the valley. When we reach the top, Hugh takes Saint Hilda’s reins and draws me to one side while we wait for the others.
“I may have to go away, Beatrice. You must not repeat this to anyone, but I wanted you to know.” He takes hold of my hand.
“Away? Why?”
Germaine’s and then Gerald’s heads appear over the top of the rockface. Hugh bends towards me. “Cousin, our lords of Cumberland are planning a vengeance raid on the Scots, back over the bor
der to burn their castles and houses. They’re calling on the lords of Westmorland to rally men too, and join them. I’m bound to go. It’s said the queen herself secretly supports it.”
I stare at him, horrified. “Who else will go?” Hugh shrugs and helps Verity pull her horse over the top. When the others have joined us we remount and move on.
“Gerald will go,” Hugh says as the others move ahead. “Father too, and your father will lead us, no doubt.”
I stare ahead, chilled and frightened. We ride through pastures of flowering grasses whose polleny heads tremble in the heat haze. Blue harebells and maroon clover bloom amongst the rocks. Tufts of sheep’s wool hang on brambles, and some homesteaders are collecting it to rub on their hands and faces. The countryside is peaceful and lovely, but I do not care. My thoughts are with Robert, my enemy, sick and alone in the hermit’s cottage.
Chapter 9
Mother Bain is ancient and very wrinkled. Her grey linen cap hangs unstarched and askew about her ears. She has long, yellow nails. Her eyes are the colour of watery blue whey. She looks impossibly stooped and frail, seated in her little canvas booth away from the stalls and festivities. I have to queue for an hour to get in. While I wait, I watch children parading with flowers and singing May carols, and I wish I had their innocence and certainties.
“Aye, mistress?” Mother Bain wastes no time on polite greetings. Her voice creaks like an unoiled hinge. I try to find the right words, but feel suddenly overcome. The coolness of the booth and the close attention of the old woman undermine me, and I find my eyes stinging and tears coming. Mother Bain waits. She looks used to waiting. I understand why the queueing took so long.
I try to pull myself together. “I’m sorry, Mistress Bain. I need a healing potion.”
“For yourself?”
“No… no, for a friend, a friend who has a wound, a serious wound that will not heal. The flesh is yellow and putrid. The bone is broken.”
Her face remains impassive. “Aye.” There is a long pause, during which I wonder if she is waiting for further explanation. Then she speaks with unexpected force. “You are deeply troubled, madam, and I see worse to come, though I cannot say what. I feel you have taken your own course, as has another close to you, and the result in both cases will be a death hunt. God help you.”
I sit back, open-mouthed with horror.
She continues. “For your friend, take honey, water it by half from the holy well at Freewith, add spider webs from the hedgerow not the house, wind them round a silver spoon, as many as will cloud the liquid. Drop in the spoon and let it lie. Apply the potion every hour and cover with pounded comfrey leaves. Burn juniper branches close to the wound. Let your friend also chew stalks of boneset. That is all.”
“Thank you. Thank you, mistress,” I stammer, and repeat the instructions to be sure I have them right. I open the purse at my waist. “I am grateful. How much do I owe you?”
She sighs. “I would rather not charge you, lady. You have troubles, and worse to come, but I must live and eat. One shilling.”
It is expensive, but I do not begrudge it. If the potion works, then Robert might not lose his arm. As it is at the moment, I fear the day when he will ask me to cut it off for him. We both know that the rot could spread until it kills him, and do it myself I would have to, because nobody else could be trusted to help a Scot. As if reading my thoughts, the old woman shoots out her hand and grasps my skirt. “Where is the wound?”
“On his arm, above the elbow.”
“If it is too late, if the bayne I have prescribed can no longer cure it, then you must send for the Cockleshell Man.”
My skin shrivels with dismay. I know I could never ask for help from the Cockleshell Man, nor from anyone else for that matter. I put the silver coin into the old woman’s hand and rise to my feet, but Mother Bain does not let go of me.
“It is not too late to turn aside,” she whispers. “You can save yourself, child.”
I press my hand over hers. “I know. Thank you. I cannot. What will happen? Do you know?”
She sinks back on her stool and releases her grip on my skirt. “Nay. It is hidden, and well so, I fear. God bless you.”
I leave the tent, certain that this time she was lying.
My legs are shaking when I rejoin Hugh, who is watching the bear-baiting in the pit by the tavern. I also stand and watch for a moment. The bear and the bandog seem evenly matched. The dog is nimble but the bear is knowing, his little pink eyes watchful. When the dog seizes him by the throat, he claws at its head. They roar and toss and tumble, shaking their ears. Blood and saliva whirl about their heads. I have never liked bear-baiting, but today I feel disgusted, and move away to watch the maypole dancing instead. Minstrels are playing a jig while young girls and boys dance round, weaving the ribbons into patterns. The pole has begun to tilt ominously towards the crowd. Some members of the crowd have begun tilting ominously too, after numerous visits to the tavern and ale wagon.
In front of the parsonage at the far side of the green, a group of moorish dancers are performing to music which clashes with that of the maypole minstrels. Further off, at the edge of the wood, an archery contest is taking place. As aim starts to deteriorate, I fear for the wellbeing of the onlookers.
On an improvised stage by the ale wagon the masque of Robin and Marion is being enacted, but none of the travelling players seems to know the words, and one keeps falling off the stage into the audience. It is difficult to know which entertainment to patronise first. Young men and women, some from our valley, are taking over the maypole from the boys and girls now, and I saunter over to join them. The day is growing hotter, and people are throwing off shawls, caps and jerkins, and in some cases removing even more basic items of clothing. Several shirtless men have begun a fight outside the church. The wagon loaded with barrels of ale is dragged a little closer to the maypole by two hefty farm lads, and its fermented smell wafts ahead of it. A yokel, capering foolishly in a woman’s fustian gown, his ruddy face unshaven, thrusts a mug of ale at me. I gasp as it slops down my bodice, then laugh and drink it down. It is the most carefree I have felt all day.
“Eee lass, I’ll fetcher another.” The yokel seems to have taken a fancy to me, so I excuse myself and go to look for Hugh and the rest of our party. On the way here, Verity galloped ahead of us, her hair streaming out behind her, her hat used to flog her horse, rejecting the rest of us and our staid progress. I have only caught glimpses of her since. On one occasion I saw her with Gerald at the pedlar’s stall. He seemed to be buying her a roll of red silk, though looking very grim about it. It is increasingly difficult to imagine them wed.
Suddenly I see an astonishing sight, my Cousin Gerald arm in arm with Germaine. They are doing some sort of ridiculous kicking dance to the music, trying to keep time, laughing into each other’s faces and nearly falling over. I stare. Germaine is supposed to be helping Kate sell our woollen cloth on a stall at the edge of the green. Hugh appears beside me. I grasp him by the arm and point. “Hugh, look at that.”
He drapes his arm across my shoulders. “Oh dear. They’re getting careless.”
“What do you mean?”
He sighs. “Beatie, a lot goes on in our homes that is better not known.”
“Well I think you had better tell me, since Gerald is supposed to marry my sister.”
Hugh watches them for a moment. “I suppose you might as well know. There are worse things, despite what Parson Becker might say.” He sounds hard and uncaring. “Gerald loves Germaine, no matter that she is well nigh twice his age, and I think she loves him too. She stays in the service of your father because she has nowhere else to go. Obviously she can’t come to us. Mother would never allow it. They can’t have a future together, so they make the most of the present. You can see how they are.” He sounds a little wistful, but adds, “They are to be pitied.”
The music is speeding up. It adds to my sense of unreality. Germaine, awful Germaine, with my cousin: it is beyond s
candal. It is unthinkable. I turn away from them and take Hugh by the hand and say to him, “Let’s dance.” I pull him into the stumbling circle of people who are grasping hands round the maypole. The ribbons have long been abandoned in a hopeless tangle. Everyone is laughing and trying to start moving in unison. Little by little we begin to gallop sideways, propelled by the momentum of those who started first and have gained speed. The music takes on an edge of wildness. The ale I have drunk whistles in my head, and I feel I am dancing to a different tune from everyone else. I fall over and roll away, out of the circle.
I lie on the grass for several minutes, terribly hot, and unlace the top of my bodice with one hand. I seem to have ended up under the big oak tree in the centre of the green, where several other people are also cooling off. Hugh has been carried away by the maypole dance. Suddenly Germaine is looming above me. She stands looking down, her dark eyes observing my unlaced bodice.
“Beatrice, I think it’s time to go home. I do not think your mother would be pleased to see you lying here half unclothed.” She says it without any convincing air of authority. Germaine did once have authority over us, when she was our teacher of music and needlework, but since she has tried to inveigle herself into Father’s affections, and since Verity and I have grown up, the balance of power has changed.
I sit up, bemused by my new knowledge of her. “Germaine, you were supposed to be helping Kate on the stall,” is all I can find to say.
She smiles. “Kate manages well enough. Where is Master Hugh? Is he not looking after you properly?”
I heave myself to my feet. Hugh reappears, red-faced and out of breath, making a reply unnecessary. Instead I enquire, “And where is Master Gerald, my dear Germaine?”
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