He released her but she still felt the press of his hands.
‘I wish there to be no harshness between us,’ her father said. ‘For there is more to tell. News has come. I am called to the field and only Providence knows who will ride out again and who remain. Alas, my daughter, a new sadness must afflict you. I fear you must exchange your nuptial gown for armour.’
‘Armour, Father?’
‘There can be no wedding tomorrow, Lucretia.’
She felt her pulse begin to race. She never knew how she kept the jubilation from her face. His broad hands took her own again.
‘The King has raised his standard,’ he said. ‘Now I must beg a promise of you, my daughter. That you will uphold your mother's will, and mine.’
Your mother's will . . . At that moment she would have promised him the earth and everything upon it.
‘How, Father?’
‘Promise you will keep Buckland safe . . .’
She had promised. She had watched him lead out the column. She had waved a handkerchief at Piers. But as the men marched away her eyes searched the back of the column and the men in red livery who marched behind a great wagon piled high with the supplies of the Buckland Kitchen. Among the youths at the rear she had spied him, his curly black hair escaping from under his cap. He had looked back at her, her face hidden behind the bunched handkerchief.
The war was her reprieve, she had told herself. The Household would be her Militia. Her apron and keys were her armour. But the Household had proved no match for Marpot and his ruffians. Let loose on the house, they had run through its passages and chambers, snatching what they could. They had dragged out Mister Pouncey by his heels and whipped him till he danced about a bonfire of his papers. From the chapel, the roars of the soldiers mingled with Father Yapp's cries. They hauled the priest towards the bloodstained block. Their blond-haired Colonel had sat motionless on his horse. Then Lucretia's mind had unfrozen. She had pushed her way forward.
‘By what right do you handle my servant!’
The man's blue eyes stared down. She had believed he would swat her protest away. But at last he spoke.
‘A witch hid here in the Vale once,’ the man declared. ‘She hid among Eve's daughters. She spread her wickedness like spittle from a drunk . . .’
These were the sermons preached by the Zoyland crows, she thought. Then her father's words returned to her. Their own legacy. She summoned her humblest tones.
‘Colonel Marpot, we Fremantles have always known this.’
She must show no fear, she told herself as she led him into the chapel. He must see only humility and faith. That was her true armour. Not a chink must pierce it. Not a single weakness. Her boots crunched on the shards of smashed glass. She climbed the steps to the top of the tower.
The effigy of the first Fremantle sat looking out through the high arched openings, watching over the Vale. So this was the author of the Fremantle Covenant, she thought. He appeared as she had always imagined he would, his features worn by the wind and the rain. She pointed to the words carved on the flat stone plinth before him, rendering them for the blond-haired man.
‘Let no Woman take Fire to the Hearth, nor tend the Vale's Fires, nor give Nourishment save she be bid, nor rule in the Vale, nor hold Rights to a Virgate of Land, nor keep Retainers or Servants . . .’
‘It was our Covenant, Colonel Marpot,’ she told him as his blue eyes jabbed at her. ‘The first of us fought as God's champion.’
He leaned so close she felt his spittle fleck her face.
‘You take me for a fool.’
‘No, Colonel.’
It was an old story, she had always thought. But the man's blue eyes had narrowed, looking at the effigy as if he recognised something in the worn stone face. Then the man turned and looked out over the Vale. On the far horizon, Lucretia saw the dark line of a wood.
‘Very well,’ Marpot declared at last. ‘You will learn the humility that Eve forgot. We will strip away luxury here at Buckland. Bare the skin to bare the soul just as the Lord stripped Adam and Eve. I will leave a pastor to guide you.’
Lucretia nodded dutifully. ‘We at Buckland will embrace his correction.’
Marpot's thieving Militia had emptied her larders and driven off the horses in the stables. His wailing family of women had sung psalms on the lawn. Father Yapp had fled. In his place had come Ephraim Clough.
‘Adam and Eve were naked,’ the black-garbed youth breathed, his eyes bulging as they prayed together the first time. ‘Naked as babies.’
She met his gaze coolly.
‘But we are not babies. Are we, Pastor Clough?’
He circled her as she pretended to pray. She heard him panting behind her. Afterwards she imitated him for Gemma, both of them laughing on her bed. But he dared not touch her. Lucretia armoured herself in piety. She wrapped herself in the colours of penitence, burying her fears and desires deep inside herself where no one could see them. Not the Household. Not Marpot. Not Clough. No one, she told herself, would pierce her armour. Then John Saturnall had returned.
How typical that he should ring the copper to announce himself. As if the entrance of a cook merited fanfares and hosannas. As if his comfits and kickshaws, the steaming stews and poached fishes he had cooked to soften the ache in her belly, or the baked apple in its pool of sweet cool cream . . . As if such tit-bits signalled victories and conquests. Her heart thudded out of irritation alone as she stamped down to the kitchen. And in the passage outside Mister Pouncey's quarters, when he tried to embrace her, she rejected him.
Charnley Hall was burnt to ashes, she reminded herself as he turned from her. At Forham, not one stone still rested on another. But Buckland was safe.
Clough's doltish affections protected them. She knelt with him in the chapel. She listened to him stumble through his tracts. He would guide them all out of error, she told him. They would enter Marpot's new Eden together, he urged her eagerly, his fat grey tongue lolling in his mouth. But then the dolt had grown miraculously intelligent, pulling up Mrs Pole's skirts and tearing the clouts from her knees.
‘You took me for a fool,’ he hissed in her ear that Sunday as she knelt on the pebbles. ‘But I'll teach you Ephraim Clough's no fool.’
His eyes bulged as they had the first time. But now the diffidence was gone.
‘I'll send word to Colonel Marpot? Lady Lucretia is not the penitent soul he believed. Buckland Manor deserves no better than Charnley, or Forham.’ He pushed his face close to hers. ‘Shall I, Lady Lucy?’
Lucretia stiffened at the impertinence.
‘No.’
‘Then show your penitence.’
Lucretia gritted her teeth. ‘I am penitent, Pastor Clough.’
But the black-clad man shook his head.
‘Show me.’
She looked up, baffled.
‘Strip to your shift.’
She held his gaze for a long moment. But Ephraim Clough's bulging eyes did not waver now. Bury your pride, she told herself as her reluctant hands reached behind her. Deny your fears and desires, as she made her fingers grip the laces of her bodice. She pulled the bows that Gemma had tied that morning. She forced her legs to step out of her skirts. The worn cotton of her shift was thin enough to show her fiat breasts, the jutting bones of her hips. As his gaze fell upon her, she thought a vessel would burst in her head for shame.
‘Good,’ Clough breathed behind her. ‘Very good.’
The pain in her knees was a welcome distraction. But as the minutes passed her legs slowly numbed. Her shame too would fade, she told herself. Eve had sinfully clothed herself. Now Lucretia would be virtuously unclothed. This was her Providence. This was her Eden.
But with every week that she shivered in her shift, her thoughts fled further from Clough and the chapel. Instead of the bare walls, her mind sought out the soft hills and sunlit fields where her shepherds and princes had wandered. Kneeling on the stones, she imagined their hands draping her in gowns of soft wool or
fastening belts studded with amber about her waist. Instead of Clough's sour sweat, she smelt sweet creams and the heady scents of apples baked to sweetness. If she closed her eyes, she could almost taste the soft flesh marbled by the cold cream. She could all but feel the warmth of his breath. In the freezing chapel John Saturnall's face hovered before her own once again.
Afterwards she hobbled out. She no longer joked with Gemma as the young woman rubbed her reddened fingers and knees. On Old Saint Andrew's Day, Lucretia led her Household into the chapel under louring grey clouds, her breath steaming in the freezing air. The hateful voice droned through the verses. Then she was alone with Clough again. She heard his feet crunch the pebbles. She felt his breath.
‘Soon I must leave for the winter, Lady Lucretia.’ His voice grated on her ears. ‘So I have thought further upon your penitence. Before I go. You must humble yourself further.’
‘Further, Pastor Clough?’
His answer was a sharp tug at her shift.
‘Take it off.’
For an instant her mind froze. He could not intend that. It was unthinkable. But he was waiting. It was indeed his intention. She could do it, she told herself. She could strip off the thin fabric and bare herself before him. Eve was naked in her garden. She would be so here. It would mean nothing. But as she reached for the cotton, the bare walls and floor seemed to harden against her. Clough's heavy-browed face leered into her own and a hot anger rose inside her, an outraged rebellion against her fruitless Eden and its clottish master.
‘No!’ she shouted and swung her fist. She felt her knuckles crack against his cheek.
‘Touch me, would you?’ she shouted as he staggered back. ‘You stinking Zoyland crow!’
A wild pleasure gripped Lucretia. She swung again and felt her fist sink into his spongy flesh. Clough grunted. But the next time he caught her wrist.
‘Whore.’
His voice was cold. And he was stronger than she had imagined. She kicked at his shins but it made no difference. One hand gripped her arm. The other reached between her legs.
‘You would not dare,’ she hissed.
They struggled, swaying back and forth. But he was too strong. He twisted her arm and forced her down. She was lost, she knew. The Manor was lost with her. Her promise broken and gone for nothing. Let no woman . . . rule in the Vale . . . There were no courtly shepherds or princes in disguise. Clammy-fingered Piers had run away. Her new groom was brutish Clough. He cuffed her hard about the head, dazing her. She fell face down to the floor, felt the stones graze her knees. He was behind her. His knees were forcing her legs apart. She heard the thin cloth rip. So this was her marriage bed, she thought. A cool stone floor.
Somewhere behind her a loud bang sounded. The door. Quick footsteps sounded, crunching over the stones. As Clough shifted to look, she tried to reach back to cover herself. Then she felt something thud into Clough, lifting his weight clear. A moment later an unearthly howl filled the chapel. Lucretia rolled over. Clough staggered back clutching his groin. John Saturnall stood before her.
‘Up!’ ordered John, hauling Clough to his feet.
He had kept the coal buried so long, hidden deep inside him. But he had felt it flare at the sound of Lucretia's voice. Now it blazed as brightly as it had in Buccla's Wood. He propelled Ephraim forward, half cuffing, half dragging him through the door.
Outside, the fat flakes tumbled down. A layer of snow already carpeted the ground. Ephraim twisted free and aimed a wild punch. John swatted the blow aside, a mixture of elation and rage rising inside him.
‘Just us now, Ephraim,’ he said. He took aim and hit Clough full in the face. Clough fell again, clutching his nose, the blood trickling between his fingers. John looked down at the thick brow and full cheeks. There was no-one to hold him back now. He raised his fist.
‘Stop!’
Lucretia stood behind them, her dress clutched about her. A wild-eyed John stared at her.
‘Leave him!’ she ordered.
John looked down at Clough's battered face. Suddenly the sight disgusted him. He rose and the black-clad figure scrambled up still clutching his groin, blood flowing freely from his nose. Philip and Gemma were approaching with Adam.
‘You fools,’ he snarled, backing away. ‘How dare you.’
A group of Quiller's serving men followed Adam, then others from the kitchen. They advanced in a silent mass to form a ring about Clough. Pandar stepped forward. In his hands, he held a shovel.
‘The ones you want gone, they never go.’ He eyed Clough. ‘Do they?’
Clough's last defiance vanished. ‘I never hurt anyone,’ he whined to the surrounding faces. ‘I never laid a finger on a soul, did I?’
Pandar raised his shovel. But as he advanced, Lucretia's voice sounded again.
‘Let him go.’
She had pulled on her dress but her feet were still bare. The snow was falling faster. More and more of the Household were walking up the path. Looking from side to side, Clough began to back away. At Lucretia's command they parted before him, watching him in silence until he turned and ran up the drive. In a minute, Ephraim Clough had disappeared through the charred gates.
‘Reckon we'll have Christmas after all!’ Simeon declared then, scooping up a handful of snow.
The members of the Household turned to each other, breaking into smiles and clapping each other on the back. John looked about, searching for Lucretia.
‘You going to boil the brawn then?’ Meg challenged Simeon.
‘I will if you'll nibble his ears . . .’
John edged away from the laughing men and women. Brushing the snow from his jacket, he walked through the servants’ yard and into the darkened Manor. Across the deserted Great Hall, the East Wing passage beckoned. At the end rose the stairs to Lucretia's chamber. But no light showed there. In the knot-garden courtyard, snow already clung to the low hedges. He pulled open the heavy door opposite and stepped inside. His limbs felt light, climbing the stairs. His heart thudded as he pushed open the door to the Solar Gallery. Once again, he breathed the dusty air. Except now another scent hung in the long dark space, a scent he remembered. Lucretia stood by the window seat.
‘He's gone,’ John said.
He remembered her naked back as he burst into the chapel, its white length against the dark stone floor. He felt his heart thud harder, his footfalls resounding down the gallery. At his approach, she raised a hand. To touch his face, he supposed. Or stroke his hair. But as he drew close her arm swung quickly. Before John could duck, Lucretia's palm slapped him full in the face.
‘I ordered you to stop!’
The report rang in his ears. John reeled back, clutching his stinging cheek.
‘And let him take his pleasure with you?’
Her second blow caught the top of his head but at the third, he captured her wrist. They struggled briefly, the girl stronger than he imagined.
‘Let me go!’ she hissed.
John shook his head.
‘He will be back. They all will.’
‘Not tonight,’ John said. He gestured behind her where moonlight reflected off the wreckage of the glass-house. The broken panes were already furred in snow. And beyond the high windows, the flakes were falling faster.
Her answer was to push him back. John felt his shoulders knock against the panelling. He could smell rose water and her fresh sweat. She made to strike him again. But his fingers grasped hers.
‘Unhand me,’ Lucretia demanded.
‘No.’
‘Then what will you do?’
Her head was thrown back, her black eyes watching him. He leaned forward until he felt her breath on his stinging cheek. Her free hand gripped his arm, to push him back or draw him closer he did not know. But he saw her lips part. Then he closed her mouth with his own. They hung there, joined by lips and fingers. As he reached to clasp her tighter, she twisted away. But it was to take his hand and draw him down the gallery. He followed her to the door at the end.
Inside the chamber they stared at each other, their breathing quick and shallow. A moment later her hands were pulling at his clothes. His own fumbled at her laces. For a few seconds they swayed, locked together. Then they tumbled down onto the bed.
’'And on these far-flung Shores such amorous Sweets may be fashioned too . . .”
From The Book of John Saturnall: A Feast for Old Saint Andrew's Day, being a Bagatelle and a Cinglet of Sugar for One Beloved
or the Love of Adam did Eve pluck an Apple and make of it a Dish. Solomon fed Sherbets and Rose Jellies to the Maids that warmed his Bed. Even now do we token our Affections with Dishes and Feasts. No Snow fell in Eden, I believe. And Foxes, not Hedge-priests, did afflict the Garden of Solomon. Yet even in the Depths of Winter a Cook may serve his Mistress a Gift to match those Pleasures that Lovers afford one Another.
The Spanish in their Privacy, I have heard, do offer one another the Loin of a Piglet which has never yet stood, that tenderest Fillet being seared in Oil, rolled in Seasoning and diced. The French dangle above each other's dainty Maws those Birds we call Fig-peckers, roasted and dusted in Sugar, and oftentimes with the Feathers unplucked. The Amants of the Duchy of Bavaria eat sweet Pork Dumplings and those of Prussia crunch tiny Biscuits called Widewuta's Teats after their first Empress. The Romans eat much Garlic and the Hungarians more while in the Markets of Sidon lovelorn Men pay Ransoms for a Jelly dusted with Sugar from which the Scent of Roses does rise and which no veiled Maid can taste without yielding.
And on these far-flung Shores such amorous Sweets may be fashioned too, and given, and consumed even in the depths of Winter, as I shall now relate . . .
THE SNOW FELL FASTER, the heavy flakes cartwheeling down out of the sky, swirling and whirling in the gusts of wind, piling up in drifts. With the roads cut, Buckland Manor rose like a great dark ship riding at anchor in a sea of white. Within its walls, its crew hurried and scurried to prepare themselves for the voyage through winter.
John Saturnall's Feast Page 29
