A Fall of Shadows

by Nancy Herriman

  “Gramercy, Mistress.”

  “You said you fell ill after dinner. Did any of those who shared your meal also become sick?”

  She shook her head, her eyes tracking Bess’s movements. “I think no one else is ill, Mistress. Only me.”

  The blue-dressed servant appeared at the door with a bucket in her hand. Pinching her nose shut, the girl scurried across the room, replaced the filthy bucket with the new, and dashed out again.

  Bess helped Anna sit upright, taking care that the movement did not unsettle her stomach, and handed the girl the cup. “Take this. Drink it all. It shall help.”

  The girl did as ordered, then lowered herself back against the straw-filled pillow she’d been given. Bess tucked the thin blanket around Anna’s shoulders.

  “I am sorry for causing such troubles,” said the girl. Her color seemed better, though it was hard to tell in the room’s scant light. “Do you think Mistress Merrick will release me from service?”

  “For becoming ill? That would be most hard-hearted. Surely your mistress is a more just woman than that.”

  “I pray so, for I need the work desperately,” said Anna. “And I try to do it well, I do. But the others are not …” Her words trailed off.

  “The others are not what, Anna?”

  The girl chewed her lower lip and did not answer.

  “Do you mean the other dairymaids?” asked Bess. “Or mean you the Merricks? Are they cruel to you?”

  Her brows pinched together. “Listen not to me, Mistress. I am unwell and my mind is confused.”

  Bess thought she heard a noise outside the room like the shuffling of feet. Anna flinched at the sound.

  How curious. But the girl appeared unwilling to speak of what it was that had startled her.

  “I shall leave the drink with you.” Bess set the jar on the floor next to the bucket. “Here. Within reach. You may drink of it as you need.”

  Anna nodded, indicating she’d heard.

  “Also, Anna, I would have you know that you can trust me. I will help you.”

  “Gramercy, Mistress, but I need no help. I am simply a dizzard and full of self-pity.”

  “You are no fool, Anna, and it is not self-pity to desire to be treated well.” Bess collected her satchel. “Send for me if you require aught else.”

  The girl rolled onto her side and curled into a ball.

  Mistress Merrick waited for Bess downstairs. She fingered the keys suspended from her broad tape girdle. “So?”

  “Anna should be well. I left physic for her to drink that will quiet her stomach.”

  “Good.” Mistress Merrick led her back through the passageway and opened the front door.

  A shaft of sunlight lit the umber-colored harvested fields, and the Merricks’ cattle ambled across the hills toward their barns. An image of serenity quite at odds with the unease gripping the house.

  “Gramercy, Widow Ellyott,” said the woman, holding out coin.

  “I do not require payment, Mistress Merrick.”

  She hastily withdrew her hand and the money it held.

  Bess restored her mules to her feet, stepped outside, and pulled the hood of her cloak over her head. “Send a message again should Anna worsen, Mistress Merrick. I will come no matter the hour.”

  “I expect there will be no need for you to return, Widow Ellyott. Good even,” she said, shutting the door in Bess’s face.

  “Well, then.”

  Bess glanced up at the window of the chamber where Anna rested. Bess pitied her, having such a woman as a mistress. With a sigh, she lowered her gaze. It was only then that she noticed the cross of elder nailed to the lintel of the Merricks’ front door.

  She closed her fingers around her pocket, the rue leaves inside it crunching.

  Indeed, Joan, what or who might next be struck down?

  CHAPTER 2

  “Goodman Cox blamed a witch,” said Kit to his cousin.

  Gibb Harwoode, cleaning his teeth with a silver pick, stood beside Kit in the great hall of a local merchant family, the Poynards. An evening of festivities had been planned, beginning with a lavish supper of smoked herring and trout, dressed salads, tarts, and dried fruits. The meal had concluded, and servants scuttled about removing the tables and arranging stools and chairs. Next to come was a play. A group of traveling actors—supposedly members of the Admiral’s Men—had recently journeyed to the village. Kit wondered how the Poynards had managed to convince a prominent troupe to perform in this remote part of Wiltshire.

  “Marry, Kit, the story of a witch is everywhere,” said Gibb above the thud of planks being lowered to serve as a stage. The squeal and groan of musicians tuning their instruments added to the din, which echoed off the carved wooden beams arching overhead. “You shall be expected to bring her to be examined.”

  “What, to be pricked with needles to see whether or not she bleeds?”

  The servants finished setting out the chairs and stools, and Gibb took a seat. “If that is what is required, coz.”

  Finished with his teeth, he stashed his pick within the depths of one of his pinked black velvet sleeves. Kit hadn’t had much of an appetite. His cousin, undisturbed by the thought of witches, had eaten heartily.

  Kit dropped onto the stool beside him. “Do not tell me you believe those sheep fell dead because they were bewitched, Gibb.”

  “You never know.”

  An impatient member of the waiting crowd—burgesses and a few of the more prosperous farmers from the surrounding countryside—demanded to know when the performance would begin. The fellow, red-faced and listing to one side, had apparently too freely drunk the claret the Poynards had served with their fine meal.

  At the end of the hall, the eldest Poynard son, Jeffrey, stepped around a curtain, which had been hung to conceal the entrance to the screens passage and the service rooms beyond. He shouted at the servants to bring ale to appease the men and their wives. Not that the grumbling fellow needed more drink.

  “I hope this fancy for accusing a witch passes, Gibb.” Kit stretched his legs, his boot heels scraping across the checkerboard marble floor. Above the screens passage, the musicians seated in the minstrels’ gallery finished their tuning and began to play. “In the meantime, I intend to enjoy the musicians. Even if they are only our town waites.”

  Servants arrived to pass out pewter tankards of ale. “At least the ale is fresh,” said Gibb, taking a sip as the last of the guests took their seats.

  At that moment, a tall man in a russet cloak parted the curtain concealing the entrance to the screens passage. He stepped onto the stage and the hall quieted.

  “Good sirs and ladies, I beg your forgiveness for the delay,” he announced, his voice booming with an educated accent. The fire roaring in the hearth, and the banks of candles and lanterns illuminating the stage showed his strong features. The light also revealed that the man’s gray hair was a wig. “One of our players is late in arriving, but we should begin anon. Our play this evening will be The Marriage of Wit and Wisdom. I pray you find it full of mirth and worthy of your attention.”

  “What?” groaned Gibb after the man swept off the stage and exited the room. Jeffrey Poynard followed the actor, disappearing behind the curtain after him. “I thought we were to see Titus Andronicus.”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Just as well. I saw it performed in Bath earlier this year. Lord Strange’s Players. Passable. By that Shakespeare fellow, I think.”

  “If you say so, Gibb.”

  Gibb sipped from his tankard and scanned the room’s occupants, who had resumed grumbling and drinking. The waites started another tune, the shawm too loud. Kit drummed his fingers on his thigh, his hands itching for the strings of his gittern back at home.

  “I must say, though,” said Gibb, shifting to see over the man seated in front of him, “I am surprised to not see Mistress Ellyott’s brother here.”

  “Robert Marshall left for London this morning,” said Kit. He wondered ho
w Bess Ellyott fared. Hopefully not finding herself in trouble again. However, she was the sort who attracted trouble, like a lodestone drawing in bits of iron. She was clever, though, and handsome, her eyes a warm brown like her hair—

  “You are attending to her and her family,” said Gibb, interrupting Kit’s musings.

  “I have not seen Mistress Ellyott in days.”

  “But you do know what her brother is about.” Gibb grinned. “I warrant you also know where her sister and niece have gone.”

  “A pox on you, Gibb Harwoode.”

  His cousin burst into laughter.

  The actor who’d made the announcement returned, Jeffrey Poynard on his heels. Poynard found a seat among his family in the front row of cushioned chairs. The actor once more took his place on the stage. His gaze swept the room, and he’d not erased the scowl that had settled on his face. The delayed player, Kit suspected, had not made his arrival, but the performance could not wait.

  The fellow clasped one edge of his cloak and straightened to his full, commanding height. All in the room fell silent.

  “Who marks the common course of youthful wandering wits,” he began, “shall see the most of them frequent where idleness still sits. And how the irksomeness doth murder many a one—”

  A banging door and a loud shout interrupted the fellow’s prologue.

  “What is that commotion?” whispered Gibb.

  The actor attempted to restart. “And how the irksomeness—”

  A man rushed into the hall, most likely one of the players. “Master Howlett!” he shouted at the fellow on stage.

  “Back at last!” Howlett jumped down to the floor, the edge of his cloak flapping. “You have found him?”

  “I need to speak to the constable,” the fellow answered.

  “Trouble now, coz,” said Gibb.

  The Poynards stood as one. Eyes turned toward Kit.

  Gibb got to his feet along with rest of the crowd. Gripping the hilt of his dagger, its sheath tucked into his belt, Kit rose as well. “I am here.”

  The man—as tall as Howlett and with reddish-blond curls and a pointed beard at the tip of his chin—pushed through the assembly.

  “What is this?” demanded Jeffrey Poynard in his most imperious voice. He was pompous, and imperiousness came easily.

  “The hill outside the village,” the man panted, squeezing his side. “I found him there.”

  “Take your own good time, sir,” said Kit.

  “What has happened to him?” asked Howlett, gripping the fellow’s arm.

  The player held up a gloved hand, a dark smear ruining the colorful embroidery that trimmed the lamb’s leather. “Evil.” He had an expressive face that jumped and jerked with every changing emotion. “Great evil.”

  A surge of fretful whispers arose among those huddled around him.

  “He is dead. Upon the hill, Constable.” He released a lengthy breath and straightened, the stitch in his side relieved. “He is dead.”

  * * *

  Rooks were crying in the trees at the edge of town as Bess arrived home, their noise mournful, eerie. Thankfully, Joan had hung lanterns by the door to light Bess’s way.

  Joan rushed to greet her, removing her cloak from about her shoulders. “How fares the girl?” she asked, shaking rainwater from it.

  “She will recover,” said Bess, setting down her satchel. “Though I could not be certain what caused her illness, unless it comes from living with Agnes Merrick as her mistress. I’faith, the woman is a harsh one.”

  “Not every mistress is as kind as you.”

  “Kind or overly tenderhearted?”

  “Now, Mistress,” tutted Joan, folding the cloak over her arm.

  “At least I had no need for the rue to protect me.” Bess slipped off her mules—twice as mud-caked as they’d been when she arrived at the Merricks’ farm—and greeted her brother’s brown-and-white water spaniel. Quail had trotted in from the kitchen to inspect her, and she ruffled his ears in response. “I am safely returned.”

  “Which means the rue did protect you.”

  Bess smiled and entered the hall. A fire crackled upon the hearth. Bess settled upon her brother’s chair, which was turned to face the flames. Quail chose a nearby spot atop the rush matting that covered the stone floor and kept the chill from their feet.

  “Wish you to eat here in the hall?” asked Joan, gesturing at the table folded before the windows overlooking the courtyard. Beyond their glass, the evening shadows had overtaken the outbuildings, and the dying wind shook the garden’s quince trees, heavy with yellow fruit. Bess must set Humphrey to harvesting it.

  “It is so lonely to eat in the hall without Robert,” said Bess. “I would not even mind my sister’s company, to be frank.”

  A stark admission, when she and Dorothie fought more than they were ever companionable. With Robert also gone, Bess was left behind with two servants, one of whom did not much care for her, and a dog. She had work to occupy her, though. And when Robert finally returned from London, he might bring a wife. There would be no loneliness then.

  “’Tis indeed quiet, Mistress.”

  “Too quiet,” said Bess. “I shall have my meal in the upstairs parlor, Joan.”

  “There is no fire lit there, madam.”

  “Then here,” said Bess. “And you may join me.”

  Joan pointed to herself. “Me?”

  “Do not tell Humphrey. He might get jealous.” Or grumble about the impropriety of Bess’s friendship with her maidservant. Or both.

  “You may be certain I’ll not say a word to him!” Joan headed for the kitchen, Quail on her heels.

  Bess got to her feet and wandered over to the courtyard-facing windows. Humphrey had disappeared somewhere, though a handful of his chickens still pecked among the gravel. The rest had gone to their roosts within the shed. She loved the view of the garden from these windows, the herbs and roses and quince trees slightly distorted by the waviness of the glass. They created an expanse of green, which softened the stone wall surrounding the messuage. She had much work to do in the garden, with the winter coming. Much to—

  Bess squinted through the glass. Something was amiss, but she could not see precisely what. She went to the lobby that connected the hall and kitchen to the various rooms extending behind the house. Its door let out onto the courtyard. She unlatched it and pushed it open.

  She peered through the descending darkness. The gate in the back wall was ajar.

  How odd. Humphrey usually ensured the gate was locked when night fell. Perhaps his fretfulness over his chickens and the witch had distracted him.

  “Joan,” she called out. “The back gate has been left unlocked.”

  Hugging her arms about her body to ward off the evening’s chill, she hurried across the courtyard, scattering chickens. She picked her way through the garden, its fading sweet and spicy aromas scenting the air. The lock had been knocked loose and had fallen to the ground nearby. Through the gate’s opening protruded an arm.

  “Joan! Come quickly!” Bess cried, pulling the gate wide. A woman lay sprawled where she had collapsed, facedown. A streak of darkness spread across the skirts of her kirtle, a light blue some called watchet.

  Bess crouched next to her, pushing her brown hair away from her face. She pressed fingertips to the young woman’s skin. Warm. Mayhap too warm from fever. However, she did breathe. Bess shook her shoulder, trying to rouse her but failing.

  “Mistress?” called out Joan, her footfalls crunching across the stones. “’Od’s wounds! Ill-boding, Mistress. Your dream!”

  “My dream had naught to do with an ill young woman,” Bess replied.

  “Is that blood ’pon her skirt?”

  “I cannot be certain in this light.” Bess turned the woman onto her back. She was lovely, but her hair was streaked with the contents of her stomach, which she’d apparently vomited. Another in one day … “Fetch Humphrey to help me carry her into the house.”

  “I know not
where he is,” said Joan. “He may be at the alehouse.”

  “Just as well. We shall carry her ourselves.”

  “We’ll not get far without dropping her, Mistress. Let me fetch the barrow to place her upon so we can wheel her into the hall.”

  Joan dashed off, and Bess considered the woman. She did not recognize her. “What are we to do with you, Mistress?”

  Tend to her. Care for her. There was no other answer.

  Joan returned with the barrow—a few planks nailed to a frame with a single wheel below and a pair of handles out the back.

  “Take her legs while I hoist her shoulders. Carefully, Joan. Carefully.”

  Together, they lifted the young woman, who was heavier than she’d at first seemed. Groaning, they laid her upon the barrow, her dress dragging on the ground. She moaned but did not awaken. From within the house came the sound of Quail barking. Joan had shut the courtyard door on him, and he protested the excitement in the garden that he was missing.

  “Let us take her into the hall,” said Bess. “Once Humphrey returns, he can help us move her to the small chamber above the kitchen.”

  Joan gripped the barrow’s handles. “Who do you think she is, Mistress?”

  “A woman in trouble, Joan.” Bess glanced at the young stranger’s stained skirts. An ache of sympathy stuck in her throat. “A woman in most serious trouble.”

  * * *

  The Poynards’ hall drained as rapidly as a cask with its spigot removed. Its occupants chased after the player, whose name was Willim Dunning. He’d found his breath and scampered through the streets of town, bound for the hill with the body. Links and lanterns bobbed in folks’ hands as they ran behind him.

  “Kit, ’tis plain where the fellow is bound,” said Gibb.

  “It is?”

  “The old fort hill,” he muttered. “The druids’ mound.”

  By the time they arrived at the hillock, half the town had assembled to gape. Not one ventured too near. The tales that druids had once practiced their mystical rites atop its crest kept them away.

  Superstitious lot.

  “He is there, Constable.” A man in a rust-red tunic pointed to the top of the hill, which rose all of ten feet high. At some time in his life, the fellow had lost half of his right ear. Perhaps after having it nailed to the pillory. “None of us have touched him.”