‘I saw an angel,’ she said breathlessly to the little crowd that had gathered around her. ‘He had armour and a lance and was all aflame! Look at me, I am trembling.’
The old woman bending over her patted her hand. ‘Hush, dear, don’t thee fret. Thou hast been a vessel for the Spirit. Let us give thanks to the Lord for sending us this sign.’ She sank to her knees on the grass to pray, as did Jack. Richard followed their example. He gave his thanks, but was not sure whether he was praying for Hannah or himself. They stayed there, heads bowed, whilst Hannah continued to tremble and pray under her breath.
When Richard finished, his attention was taken with Fox talking with two of the men who had caught Hannah when she fell. He knew he was staring but could not help himself. One of the men with Fox gestured over to Hannah, and Fox looked over to them. Catching sight of Richard’s eyes fixed upon him, Fox smiled at him. Richard hurriedly lowered his head. The smile was a simple friendly act. There was no hint that anything unusual had happened. Richard was confused. He ran his hand around his neck, feeling the clammy skin and the ragged pulse of the blood beating in his veins.
He stood up and stretched his legs. He walked about, feeling his boots sink into the soft mud. He felt better then, his knees stopped shaking and the breeze against his face was fresh and chill. Fox and his party made their way down the hill. Hannah and Jack were still at the centre of a small crowd, while Hannah described her vision again.
Richard looked around for the others from the Hall, and saw that some traders had set up at the edge of the field and the crowd was gathering there. Now that Fox had finished speaking and was on his way, a market was springing up, with wares from all over Lancashire. He knew the trade would be brisk, as Quakers were renowned for their fair dealings and level measures–a bushel was a bushel, and a peck a peck, no matter who was buying. Richard set off towards the huddle, wishing he had thought to bring some of his goods, but glad too that he was unencumbered by his trade for at least one day.
He found his fellow travellers and they ate together, supplementing the bread and cheese with a lamb pie they bought from a wandering pieman, and some greengages from someone’s pocket. As he was eating he saw a familiar figure approaching. It was Dorothy. They all stood up and Richard brushed the crumbs from his coat.
‘Well, Richard!’ She rubbed her gloved hands together. ‘He was splendid! It is the first time thou hast heard him speak, is it not?’
Richard nodded.
‘Didst thou like the way he spoke? Did it move thee?’
Richard found himself unable to answer this question directly. He needed more time to think, to make sense of it all in his head.
‘There was a young woman near me speaking in tongues,’ he said, by way of a diversion. ‘I’ve never seen anything like that before.’
‘I saw. It was certainly extraordinary. But when George Fox speaks, thou canst be sure the presence of the Lord is with us, and when people feel the touch of the Lord for themselves, then sometimes surprising things can happen.’
She was looking at him as if to weigh him up, so that he felt himself turn away to the two young men behind him.
‘Did you enjoy the meeting?’ he asked them. They started to reply, but Dorothy ignored them and placed her hand on Richard’s shoulder, turning him so she could look into his face.
‘Richard. I am so glad for thee. Thou hast been touched! I see it in thy face.’ Then, seeing that he was looking at the ground, ‘Thou canst not deny me the evidence of my own eyes?’
Richard turned away from her, embarrassed. ‘Thou art mistaken,’ he said gruffly, and strode away down the hill. He could feel Dorothy’s eyes follow him, but did not look back.
He said not a word on the journey home but wondered if he were losing his senses or whether it really had been the Lord speaking to him. If it was, then there must be some reason for it. Perhaps there was some work for him to do in the Lord’s name–some vocation or quest. This thought troubled him, that he might be called upon to act in God’s name, and yet, as a Christian, hadn’t he thought he was doing that all along? He knew he had lied to Dorothy, denying his true feelings, and the thought of it rankled like a burr.
His hands were tense as he drove the horses on through the dark lanes, on the coastal path towards the village. A horn blasted its warning to sailors out at sea, for the mist was rolling in and a sea fret hung over the fields and hedges. He pondered the odd utterances of the girl from Sedbergh, Hannah, turning over the peculiar phrases in his mind. By all accounts she had seen a holy vision, and she had been trembling and crying out. But it was so unlike what he had experienced–the peace and the clarity of the moment when he felt the heat rise in him and a presence round his temples blowing like a wind. He told himself that what happened that day was between him and God. So there was only one way to begin to understand it.
It was dark by the time he got home. He lit some tallow candles and took out his plain ebony cross from the dresser drawer and put it on the mantel. Without even taking the time to light a fire, he knelt on the rag rug and bowed his head to pray the Lord’s Prayer. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven…’ Then he continued, ‘Thou seest me, thy servant, Richard Wheeler. Today I felt thy peace with me, and maybe thou hast work for me to do. If thou wilt, send me a sign by which I might know thee, and advise me what I should under take in thy name.’ Here he paused, aware of his own voice echoing oddly in the empty room.
He continued to kneel in silence for some while, but everything remained as it was. The cold ashes in the grate, the spitting of the wicks on the candles and the slight draught from under the door. He began to feel a little foolish. What had he expected, he asked himself, a bolt from above? He stood up, wishing he could have a bottle of ale. But it was something the Quakers did not hold with, and though he missed it, he had seen enough drunks to understand their reasoning. Instead, he picked up a pipe and stuffed it with tobacco. This too was forbidden. But he had never seen anyone staggering under the influence of tobacco, so he often allowed himself a pipe in private in the evening.
He had hoped for a simple, peaceful life, but today more than ever he longed for the life he had before, one with fewer questions. He thought back to the time when servants did his bidding, he slept in his fine feather bed and he could enjoy a day of hunting followed by a game of cards with a bet on the side. What’s more, he could have been married by now, with children running in the hall, but of course it had been naive to hope that Frances would ever have stood for this life.
He must get outside, do something. He flung on his coat and walked out, down the path to the wood, breathing in the damp smell of the undergrowth. He lit his pipe and sucked hard, savouring the sweet woody smoke in his mouth and lungs. Immediately he felt more relaxed. He looked over to the clearing where the lady’s slipper orchid had been growing, before it was uprooted from its place. The woods were dark, despite the new moon, and the air damp. Fog hung in skeins over the ground making the path disappear, as if the earth itself were shifting. A movement caught his eye–a white fluttering in the trees. A white dove was hovering over the clearing. Its wings were outstretched, beating silently as if it was momentarily frozen in space. The image etched itself into Richard’s mind like a white-hot brand. A white dove–the sign of the Holy Spirit.
Chapter 9
Margaret Poulter had lied to Alice. She was not exactly lodging at the Anchor. She could not afford to pay for a room. But the landlord turned a blind eye to the fact that she slept in the hayloft above the stables, and tolerated her peculiar comings and goings in exchange for remedies for his children. He had five children, all of whom suffered from one malady or another–mostly coughs and lice, from what Margaret could see.
After Margaret left Alice in Netherbarrow, she took her time returning to the inn. This was her gathering time, like her mother and her grandmother before her. The world was one big apothecary’s shop to Margaret, and the source of a good living. She was stocking up, for in times of go
od health and plentiful harvests like these she was often poor and hungry, whereas at times of war or plague, or when harvests were thin, her draughts and remedies were needed. Then Margaret grew fat and comfortable whilst others suffered famine and disease.
Daylight hours were for scouting along the hedgerows looking for anything useful, and watching out for signs or omens or shifts in the weather. The underlying web on which the world was hung might be moving or shifting. This was her way–to find out how the land lay–and she did this quite literally, through her senses, sniffing, poking, tasting and fingering with her nut-brown hands. Wherever she went she collected small observations in the same way as she collected the ticks that stuck to her skirts.
Today, she walked a circuitous route which took in the coast, where she gathered seaweed, and the moors above Long Scar, now black with bilberries. She filled a small sack with these, working methodically up the hillside. She moved quickly, for she was as fit as a terrier and as hardy as a native pony. Younger people had trouble keeping up with her scurrying gait, despite her age and the heavy bags she carried.
She followed the trading route down into Silverdale village, past Silverdale well, where the fresh water bubbled up out of the ground only a stone’s throw from the sea. The well had been walled with limestone and made into a great square pond for drinking water. Further down there was a place for the livestock, and further down still a place for washing and bathing before it trickled away down a dyke into the beck. At the well she submerged her flagons under the surface. The water gurgled in through the necks. In Preston the water was hard, but here it was soft as a horse’s muzzle.
By the livestock pond, hooves had churned the ground to a slippery paste and bruised marsh marigolds clung to the bank, half in and out of the water. Spotting the purple-flowered spikes of woundwort, she snapped off some stems and tied them together with string she fished from her bag. She knotted another string around the bundle and hung it over her shoulder. The plants too were different from her native Preston. There were herbs to be had here that were rare in her locality, so passing some yarrow she paused to snip off some of the leaves under the ruff of whitish-grey flowers. When she had left this morning the landlord’s youngest son was having another nosebleed, and one of these stalks, with its green feathery tufts, would stop the blood right enough if he pushed it up his nose.
She paused in her tracks, thinking of Mistress Ibbetson, and the lady’s slipper, for Margaret was keenly aware that she had reached her autumn years and had not been blessed with a daughter whom she might instruct in the craft. She had been secretly keeping watch on Mistress Ibbetson since the last waning quarter-moon; her fame for painting beautiful life-like pictures of flowers had reached even as far as Preston, and Margaret’s sharp ears.
She might do, Margaret thought. But these gifts could not be given lightly, no, she must be sure and certain Alice Ibbetson was the one, and judging by the look of her, even if she was, she would need some coaxing, and she would have much to learn. Margaret sighed at the sheer size of the task, and absentmindedly plucked some elderberries from an overhanging bush and stowed them away. But Alice Ibbetson had a love of plants, and no mistaking it. She had never seen such bonny work, it fair took your breath away.
Margaret had been irritated when Alice refused to show her the lady’s slipper. Last week she kept a watch on her house, to gather a better picture of her character. When she saw the candles snuffed out downstairs she was about to go home, but had heard the sound of the latch. Surprised a lady should be out unaccompanied so late, Margaret followed Alice Ibbetson down the lane at a safe distance, skirting behind the trees. She could not see what she was up to–it was too dark, and she feared she would be flushed out from her hiding place. But she had heard rumours in the tavern about a rare slipper orchid and guessed this was what she was after. Good girl, thought Margaret, pleased that her excitement matched her own.
She was not so pleased to see her dig out the orchid and take it home. Margaret knew well the orchid liked a certain sort of soil and would not take kindly to being uprooted without so much as a by-your-leave. She had hardly given Margaret much of a welcome either, when she called. But never mind, she would come round in the end, her love of plants was written all over her. Might as well have sap in her veins, thought Margaret.
Margaret arrived back at her lodgings after dark. She had smelt the woodsmoke from a good half-mile away, and now went into the tavern in search of a warm fire, some cider, and maybe some hotpot, if she could sweet-talk the landlord. The bar was full and stank of sweat and beer, but it was warm and steamy. Smoke from the fire hung thick in the rafters under the thatched roof. The windows were stained yellow from tobacco.
Striking a bargain for a dinner, she promised the landlord she would look at his sons in the morning, and was given a plate of greyish meat and kale steaming in a greasy liquid that should have been gravy. Holding the platter in both hands, Margaret eased her bottom into a corner next to two women who were gossiping about a local landowner. Dunking her bread, Margaret ate steadily, letting herself be entertained by the tales of the women at her table.
‘Well, he has some disfigurement–’ the red-haired woman pointed between her legs and dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper–‘down there.’
Her friend’s watery eyes were round like a magpie’s. ‘What sort of disfigurement? Is it the pox, or what? Is it shaped like a parsnip?’ She bent her finger into a hook and guffawed, spluttering through the gaps in her teeth.
‘I don’t know. But my sister’s wedded to his manservant’s brother,’ the red-haired woman went on in a conspiratorial voice, ‘and he says, it’s withering away and His Lordship has all sorts of slimy poultices to try to stop the rot.’
‘That’s disgusting. Small wonder she looks down someone else’s breeches for her pleasure. Still–he should be able to keep control over his own wife. He don’t sound like much of a man to me.’
‘Ah, but Lady Emilia’s as sly as a fox. She had a goodly portion, you know. Her pa made a stack with his mines up at Keswick. She’s no better than the rest of us, but she’s got her head screwed on tight.’
Her companion raised her eyebrows, and leaned in to hear more.
‘He had the title, and she wanted it–Lord, how much she wanted it! She schemed for years to catch him in marriage. Her pa just about broke himself to give her a big fat dowry. That’s what keeps the Hall, and all his fancy servants.’ The red-haired woman nodded her head up and down, with her lips pursed.
‘She’ll be taking a big risk, then, having some other man. She’d lose all that.’ A pause. ‘And if she gets caught she could be hanged!’ She chortled with evident delight at this idea.
‘Nah, Audrey, there’s been no hangings for that, not since the king came back. Anyways, they’re all at it–king included. Nah, flogging and gaol’s more likely.’
‘Who is it, then, that she’s romping with?’
‘Nobody knows.’
‘Pfff.’ Audrey rolled her eyes in contempt and folded her arms, as if to dismiss it.
‘Ah, but secret letters come back and forth through her maidservant, Lizzie Pickering. Patterson’s seen them, all lovey-dovey. They’re not signed, though, or owt.’
‘Pah. Sounds like a lot of daft gossip to me.’ Then more brightly, ‘But if there’s to be a public cuckolding, I’m ready to join ye. It’s years since we had such sport. Village is ready for a bit of fun and games. It’s been right miserable, these past years, with that old nob Cromwell.’
Margaret slurped the last few mouthfuls of stew and wiped the platter with the bread. She latched onto the names that had been mentioned. It paid to be informed, in her experience. Lady Emilia was the wife of Sir Geoffrey Fisk, the gentleman to whom she had sent the potion for scaly skin. His wife’s infidelities could have a bearing on the problem. As for the potion, she had taken pains to get it right, for something in his letter made her feel a bleakness about him, a black void like an empty house.
It was a shame, she thought, that Mistress Ibbetson was a typical melancholic, for her face had darkened, the black bile risen to the surface when they spoke. But sooner or later Mistress Ibbetson would show her the orchid, for she was soft and tender underneath that cold shell. It was only a matter of time, and a little more persuasion.
Margaret placed her spoon on the table, ruminating. She would not be surprised if the lady found the orchid brought her more than she bargained for. There was an odd scent about it, as if it was half in this world and half in some other darker world. A scent that was nothing to do with the flower.
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