‘Can I help you?’ Alice did not like the old woman looking so close up.
She did not seem to hear, but moved to bend over the fern on the table.
‘This seems a good healthy specimen.’ Margaret plucked off a leaf and held it to her nose. Alice refrained from saying anything, she did not dare, but hoped she wouldn’t do it again as the picture of it was as yet unfinished.
‘Mash the leaves, and it is good on open wounds, in particular if you mix it with woundwort. It will stem the bleeding.’ She flung off her cloak and laid it over the back of a chair.
Alice realized with dismay that she was intending to stay some time.
‘Now then, where is this wild orchid of yours?’
She thought quickly.
‘Come with me and I’ll show you.’ She led the way out of the summerhouse with the old woman hurrying a pace behind–over towards the orchard, past the beehives and out of the garden gate. Hearing Margaret’s uneven footsteps still behind her, she turned past the box trees and into the lane next to the house. Here she stopped and knelt over the verge, pointing out a small, insignificant-looking plant with rows of minuscule lilac flowers.
Margaret narrowed her eyes. ‘Not that orchid, you crafty woman, not the common spotted orchid. Did you think to pull the wool over my eyes? You might fool Wheeler, but I have more wit than Wheeler any day.’ She grabbed Alice’s wrist.
Alice tried to pull away but finding the woman surprisingly strong she said, ‘Let me go! I don’t know who you are or what you want. I have shown you the only orchid I know of in these parts.’
Margaret hung on with claw-like hands and brought her wrinkled face close up to Alice’s. ‘Come now, Mistress Ibbetson, you know that is not true. We could be friends.’ She smiled lopsidedly. ‘We both have a mind to see the flower grow wild for all to enjoy. Show it to an old lady, now.’
Alice twisted her wrist trying to free it.
‘Leave me be. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Oh, but you do.’ Margaret sniffed. ‘I just want to see it, is all. I have waited fifty years for a glimpse of it. I’m sorry if I startled you. My mother and grandmother before her both spoke of it, its scarlet ribbons and pretty little petal like a shoe.’
Alice finally managed to wriggle free. As she did so she caught sight of a movement at the upstairs window of the house. She was just in time to see Ella move back behind the curtain. That was all she needed, to look a fool in front of Ella. The girl was already getting above herself. But this was really too much, to be manhandled by this old woman
She turned on Margaret. ‘Get off my property.’ Then in a lower, more controlled voice, said, ‘You have offended me. Please leave, and do not return.’
Like the weather, Margaret’s demeanour had changed again. She regarded Alice steadily. She planted her hands on her hips. ‘I’ll be leaving when I’m good and ready. My cloak and bag are in your garden, so if you’ve finished your bit of play-acting, we’ll go and get them. Then you can show me the flower.’
Alice realized she was not going to get rid of the woman so easily. Feigning a haughtiness she did not feel, she marched back to the summerhouse. Margaret hobbled rapidly alongside, seemingly ignoring Alice’s ill-humour, talking all the while under her breath. ‘That’s henbane, and there’s cuckoo pint, over there with the white hood, that’s good for coughs, and here’s knotgrass, for shining up your pewter, and the hawthorn–look at those berries, must be going to be a hard winter.’
Alice shut her ears to the old woman’s mutterings. Witch or no witch, she thought, she would not let the old woman make her look a fool before her servants. Back at the summerhouse, she picked up Margaret’s cloak, bundled it together and thrust it out towards her. Heat rose to Alice’s face, and almost in tears with embarrassment, she said, ‘If you do not leave right this minute, I will send Ella for the constable.’
Margaret reached for her cloak. ‘Hold off, hold off. I’m going. Don’t upset yourself, you’ve had your share of sadness, I can see that.’ Her eyes were soft.
Alice wavered, feeling a lump come to her throat. But then she saw Margaret’s eyes take on a steely glint. ‘I’ll be back, though, before the flower fades, when you change your mind. And I know you will. My mother told me your orchid has healing properties. Nerveroot, she used to call it. Said it was a visionary plant. Makes you see things–people from the other side. I’d like to take a look at it, just once. When you’re ready, I’ll be back.’
Alice didn’t reply. She just lifted up the bag and heaved it clumsily onto the path. She was surprised at how angry she felt, and at how heavy the bag was. It seemed to be full of glass bottles, which chinked as it landed.
‘In the meantime,’ Margaret said, ‘you must mind the orchid well. And be careful. I saw three ravens on my path this morning. Three ravens is an ill wind.’ She pulled the brown hood over her unruly grey hair and stepped forward. As if it was a secret, she whispered, ‘I’m staying at the Anchor, if you find anything ails you.’ Alice wasn’t sure if this was a threat or an offer of assistance. She drew away, but Margaret was already picking up her bag, and the squat figure in the threadbare brown cloak was soon out of sight round the garden gate.
Alice sat down on the window seat. First Wheeler, and now this. How could Margaret Poulter have possibly known that she had taken the orchid? Was she an acquaintance of Wheeler’s? That did not seem plausible, given that he was one of the strange sect of ranters from the Hall–and he had been hiding its existence precisely from people like Margaret. Had she got wind of it from Geoffrey? Again, Sir Geoffrey Fisk was hardly likely to befriend someone of the class of Margaret Poulter, still less tell her of the orchid.
She paced the summerhouse, trying to unravel the conversation in her mind. Margaret Poulter seemed to know altogether too much, and, even more disturbingly, she seemed to be warning her of something. Despite the fact the sun had broken through, Alice shook her shoulders, ridding herself of some invisible pestilence. She was uneasy. The flower was causing her more strife than she had bargained for. What if Thomas were to return home and find that beggarwoman Margaret uninvited in the garden? It would be difficult to explain away. Perhaps a walk would help her clear her mind and make sense of it all.
She locked the summerhouse with the little bronze key she kept hanging with her pomander, from a ribbon on her belt. She paused by the door to slip the pattens over her shoes. She had left them, as she always did, outside the door, so she would not tread mud into her painting room. And as she slipped her feet inside, she remembered her shoes.
They were still in the sack of turnips where she had left them two nights ago. So much had happened since that they had fallen completely out of mind. Best dispose of them before Thomas should ask awkward questions about why she had ruined such an expensive pair. She hurried into the house and into the kitchen. Betty Tansy, the cook, was there rolling out pastry for an apple pie.
Cook bobbed, and said, ‘Good afternoon, mistress. Apple pie for supper. We’ve far too many apples this year. Ella’s going to wrap them and put them in the loft to keep through winter.’
Alice nodded. ‘I’ve a mind to take some for the harvest festival. If you’ll give me a basket, I’ll take some from the sack in the pantry.’
‘I’ll get some out for you, mistress, we’ve plenty.’ Cook was already brushing off her floury hands and coming round the table.
‘No need.’ Alice lifted one palm to stay her. ‘You carry on with the pies. Pastry spoils if it is left too long.’
‘Yes, mistress.’ Cook returned to her rolling pin.
Alice picked up a wicker basket from underneath the long table and went into the cool dark of the pantry. Hastily she filled the basket with apples from the windfall bag. Then she felt inside the turnip sack for the shoes. She could conceal them under the apples to get them out of the kitchen. Her hands searched round inside the sack, feeling only the gnarled heads of turnips. She opened the sack wide and put bot
h hands inside. They must be here somewhere, she thought.
‘Looking for something, mistress?’
Alice turned round. Ella was slouching in the doorway, a sly smile on her face.
Chapter 8
‘Good morning, Richard,’ Benjamin said.
The two young ploughmen, Joseph Taylor and his brother Benjamin, were early. Richard had them wait in the house whilst he finished washing at the pump outside the kitchen door.
He ushered them into the cottage and bade them sit. He saw them eyeing the neat piles of books and papers on the table, the wheel-backed chair by the window with its feather cushion, the pipe rack and its collection of wooden and clay pipes on the mantel.
The young men stood uncomfortably, obviously unwilling to sit down. Despite his changed life the farm lads still insisted on deferring to him as if he were a gentleman. They probably thought he had a servant, for the carved oak cupboard used for keeping the winter supply of flatbreads was polished to a high sheen, but Richard enjoyed polishing–he liked to keep busy, keep his house tidy, and his Sunday boots clean and lined up next to the door.
After washing he put on his work boots and picked up a tied cloth bundle from the table.
‘Bread and cheese–enough for us all.’
The boys grinned shyly. When Richard was ready they put the horse in the traces and drove up to Lingfell Hall. The wagon always caused a bit of a stir as there were few in the country. Most still travelled on horseback, the lanes and tracks too narrow or rough for a cart’s cumbersome wheels. Joseph and Benjamin were delighted to be in the cart with Richard driving up front. It was breezy and the horse was fresh, pulling smoothly up the hill, hooves clopping in the puddles, tail swishing.
At the Hall there was a ramshackle crowd–some on horseback, some on donkeys, some with packhorses and goods in case there was time for trade after the meeting. Dorothy stood in the yard, handing out nettle beer and making sure everyone had a place in the assorted carts and traps that were already queuing down the drive. People were leaning out and calling to their friends. Blankets were settled over knees, and hats tied down more firmly, ready for the journey to Lancaster.
George Fox had been released from prison yesterday, and the rumour was that he was to talk on the hill above Lancaster town. No building would be big enough to house the throng, and anyway Fox did not believe in churches–he called them ‘steeple-houses’, claiming that God could not be confined to a building, and that churches were no more special than any other house.
The cavalcade set off, all the motley conveyances following one after the other down the narrow gritstone lanes. Fortunately the weather was fine but dull and the rain held off–no one wanted a drenching on such a long journey. In places the road was rough or boggy and horses had to be led round potholes lest the carts overturn.
With so many of them, it was a four-hour journey to Lancaster. After the small grey wood and clay houses of the village, Lancaster seemed imposing. As they crossed the packbridge over the River Loyne, they saw tall warehouses on the quay, a masted merchant ship and barges loading bales of cloth alongside. Stone houses squatted at the bottom of the town with the twin landmarks of St Mary’s Church and the ramparts of the castle above. Skirting the town, they came at last to Gant’s Field. Lancaster had been an impressive sight, but not as impressive as the field full of horses and traps, and the sight of hundreds of other Friends, moving up the hill, all dressed in muted colours like autumn leaves. From a distance it looked like the whole hill was alive, its skin rippling like a horse’s flank.
Richard and his companions got down from the wagon, leaving it at a tethering post, and joined the upward-moving crowd.
A woman next to him smiled. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Lingfell Hall,’ he said. ‘There’s a good few of us have come together.’
‘I’m all the way from Sedbergh,’ she said. ‘My name’s Hannah, and this is my husband, Jack.’
Jack smiled. ‘I hope there won’t be any trouble today. Such a big crowd is bound to attract attention.’
‘Surely not,’ said Hannah. ‘Though what happens is in the hands of the Lord.’
Richard kept silent. Sometimes he doubted that everything was the Lord’s doing, and that people had no responsibility themselves for their foolishness. These doubts disturbed him, lest they be heretical, so he kept them to himself.
They were all a little breathless from the climb, so conversation naturally slowed as they reached the top. There, they had a fine view of the surrounding landscape–the town in the distance, with the wide silver river flowing out towards the bay, and the fields with their dots of sheep and cattle. More and more people approached up the hill. On the top an open trap had been dragged up to act as a sort of makeshift platform. The crowds settled down on blankets or sacks on the ground. Quite a few seekers had carried pails or baskets which were used upturned as seats, and others carried planks of wood for benches to keep their backsides off the wet ground. Richard and Jack stood behind, letting the ladies pass through to the front. At last some people got up onto the platform, and Richard was surprised when a woman addressed the assembled crowd.
‘Friends!’ she called out. The crowd fell silent, listening. ‘It is good to see so many of you make the journey here, and I know you have come to hear George Fox speak. But he asks that we wait on the word of God as usual. He asks that we fall silent and listen, and if moved by the power of the Spirit, any one of you is welcome to come up here and witness.’
She glanced to the man standing off to the side of the platform, and he nodded his agreement.
‘That’s him,’ Jack said, ‘that’s George Fox.’
Hannah turned to look back at Richard. ‘They let him out of gaol, but he wants to clear his name, so he is taking himself to London to be tried. Fancy that! Of course he is innocent of all their trumped-up charges.’ She pointed over to the side of the wagon. ‘Those others with him are accompanying him on the journey, God be praised.’ Hannah turned back to the platform.
Richard looked at George Fox with interest. He appeared quite ordinary, a tired middle-aged man in a shapeless grey topcoat and scuffed boots. Richard had expected to see someone with a bit more presence, perhaps with something arresting in the eyes or a bit of an air about him. This man was a disappointment. Still, he closed his eyes a moment, hearing the small sounds of the rustling of the ladies’ skirts and whipping of the ribbons on their bonnets. In the distance a horse neighed. After a few minutes Richard opened his eyes, taking in the stillness of the crowd, now twelve deep, many with their faces turned up towards the sky, some with their palms raised, their faces trusting and expectant as if waiting for rain.
He marvelled–they were for all the world like living statues. Each person was so much an individual and not merely part of the crowd, like the man next to him still wearing his farrier’s apron, his cap clasped to his chest, his ruddy face perspiring slightly. That woman in front–her shoulders were rising and falling with her breath, her hands closed into tight fists of concentration. There were hundreds here, all of them silent and respectful, waiting. Without warning, a peace descended on him, heavy and deep as January snow.
Something inside him cracked, and he felt a fizzing sensation at his temples. Heat flooded over his face and his legs seemed to turn to goosefeathers. He found himself repeating in his head the words, ‘I am here, I am here.’ He wasn’t sure if he was addressing God, or George Fox, or the crowd in general. Or whether it was God’s words addressing him. He just kept repeating the words, ‘I am here.’
When it was finished, the crowd were still standing waiting. Richard swallowed hard, in the thrall of an unknown emotion, fearing he might blubber like a child. So he remained silent, standing red-faced and wondering. The men had their hats in their hands–it looked strange to see so many men hatless, he thought. Something had happened to him, of that he was absolutely sure. A shaking affected his knees. He looked around again at the other faces, still waiting
as before, and watched in a daze as George Fox got up to speak.
In that moment George Fox looked out over the crowd, and it seemed to Richard that he looked directly at him. He remained motionless, drinking in George Fox’s words. Afterwards it was as if he had been listening from the centre of his chest, and not from his ears at all. He heard the words and he knew that George Fox spoke the truth. Strangely, though, he couldn’t seem to fathom exactly what had been said, only that Fox had said that apostles of Jesus exist today, here in this crowd–that the spirit in those men, so many lifetimes ago, is the identical spirit that lives here, now, in these men.
He wondered if any of the apostles had felt like this, and if they had, whether they understood it. Then a spasm of fear fell over him. He didn’t want to be an apostle. He had thought the Quakers a solid, kindly people, mild-mannered and fair in business. But strange feelings and sensations were welling up in him and he did not know what would happen next, for he was in the grip of something, possibly in the grip of God, and was both elated and terrified.
When George Fox stood down and the crowd erupted in a spontaneous cheer, Richard cheered along with them. Hannah turned to him, an ecstatic look on her face, then she ripped her hat from her head and began to push her way through the crowd to the platform.
‘The Spirit is on her,’ cried one man, almost lifting her through the crowd.
‘Make way, make way!’ said others as she forged her way through. Finally she was hoisted onto the platform where she spoke loudly and fervently, an outpouring of tumbled words. It was a strange language the likes of which Richard had never heard before–it wasn’t Latin or Greek, or French, or like anything he had ever heard. To him it sounded like nonsense words, but Hannah continued the torrent of strange syllables, ‘Rorshamo, atzimol gulam shivolim, paarth hosamalkum…’
Jack looked pleased and proud. ‘She has the gift of speaking in tongues,’ he said.
On the platform Hannah’s head was thrown back, her blonde hair blowing in horsetail strands over her face and mouth. Under her half-closed lids, her eyes slid from side to side. She clutched her shawl with her fingers, and swayed as if caught on a rolling ship. The crowd watched quietly, barely moving, until her speech seemed to be reaching a crescendo, her lips white with spittle. Near the platform some of the crowd started to join in with cries of ‘Praise the Lord!’ Finally, with a strangled half-cry she collapsed backwards, where she was caught in the arms of two gentlemen of Fox’s party, who fanned her face and helped her bodily off the platform. Jack and Richard hurried forward through the crowd to assist her. When they arrived she was sitting shakily on an upturned bucket, being given a flask of water. Close up her face was pink, the scars from a childhood pox standing out white against her cheeks.
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