‘BUT THE VERDICT STILL STANDS!’ Ferris overcame the opposition once again. ‘The woman Gladys Morgan is a convicted criminal!’ His forefinger stabbed at me again, and he let his voice drop to an insinuating tone. ‘Yet you protect and care for her. Why? I think, because you are of her sisterhood.’
By ceasing to bellow, he had given others their opportunity. Gladys Morgan shouted: ‘Here! Who’s this fellow, and who’s he calling a convict?’
At the same time, Rob Henderson shouted: ‘Is he drunk?’
Meg’s Uncle Ambrose replied by bawling: ‘What on? A whole barrel of Geneva?’
‘Drunk, nothing!’ That was Brockley, exuding disgust. ‘Ought to be chained up in a madhouse!’
Hugh, crimson now instead of white, pounded the table with an angry fist. ‘This is intolerable! Leave my house at once, Master Ferris! How dare you invade it in this disgraceful fashion and fling insulting accusations at my wife and at a member of our household and—?’
‘I AM GOING!’ Ferris was thundering again. ‘But not until I’ve finished what I came to say! Thomas, foolish boy, told me that last night, Christina, on beholding him, cast herself into his arms, exclaiming that she had grieved at being separated from him, and that she had been given a calming potion, made by Mistress Stannard. By YOU!’
Again that accusing finger picked me out. ‘A calming draught? Was it? Or did my besotted son pay you to give Christina Cobbold a love potion that would fasten her passions on him and bind her to him yet more closely?’
I choked out: ‘What? Are you out of your mind?’ but I don’t think anyone heard, least of all Ferris, whose voice still dominated us all.
‘Thomas has not yet admitted it, but I read the truth in his eyes. Perhaps she was beginning to understand that Thomas was not for her and so he planned to bewitch her. As she had already bewitched him, though perhaps –’ Walter Ferris smiling as he made a joke was an extraordinarily uncomfortable sight – ‘not with a magic potion. What did you charge my foolish son for your services, Mistress Stannard?’
‘What are you talking about, Master Ferris?’ He had paused as if he expected an answer, giving me a chance at last to splutter out an audible protest. ‘You must indeed be mad or drunk! I never—’
But I couldn’t finish. He was off again. One might as well have told a thunderstorm or a charging bull to stop.
‘Perhaps the potion was made with the help, the advice, of the witch Gladys Morgan. I suspect that it was. And on those grounds, madam, I base my accusation. I say that YOU are guilty of the crime of witchcraft too!’
He paused once more, with an air of triumph, and Dr Fletcher burst out: ‘That is a most offensive and unjustified accusation. Hawkswood is a respectable and God-fearing household, and you should be ashamed! You have forced your way into a feast to which you were not asked and flung shameful accusations at people who have done you no harm. Master Stannard!’ He turned to Hugh. ‘Surely you have menservants enough to remove this man?’
‘What better disguise for a witch than to appear respectable and God-fearing?’ demanded Walter.
There were indeed a good many able-bodied men in the hall, and Dr Fletcher’s words had started a ripple of movement among them, but the reiteration of witch, that word out of nightmare, had a strangely paralysing effect. It hinted of demons behind the faces of dull, ordinary women, all the more dangerous because they are invisible; detectable only by their works. In the moonlit garden only two nights ago, I had learned that we all have those fears, somewhere within us. Even able-bodied men, it seemed.
Then, amazingly, Ferris nodded towards Meg and George and, in a perfectly normal tone of voice, said: ‘Ah, the newly-weds. Honest newly-weds, these, marrying in accordance with the wishes of their elders, as all young people should. I congratulate you and wish you happiness together. As one day I shall wish happiness to my son Thomas and Margaret Emory, the young lady to whom he is lawfully promised. He shall marry her, and no other. Meanwhile, since anyone who attends a wedding feast should bring gifts, I have brought some for you.’
He stepped right up to the high table, elbowed some dishes out of the way and put down the bundle he’d had under his arm. Then he bowed, twisted on his heel and strode out. He left the hall door open behind him, but we heard the crash when he slammed the outer door as he swept out of the house.
Brockley, half-rising from his seat, caught my eye and said: ‘Madam, should we have the dogs see him off?’
I shook my head, and Hugh said: ‘Not if he came on a horse and it’s still standing in the courtyard. We can’t have the dogs nipping at its hocks, poor beast. The horse isn’t responsible for this . . . this scandalous scene.’
He sounded dreadfully shaken. His flush had faded, and his complexion had turned yellowish, while his lips had taken on a blue tinge that I did not like. He had sunk back into his seat. I got up and moved quickly behind him, pressing my hands down on his shoulders. ‘Hugh. It’s all right. He’s gone.’
‘And what a figure I cut as master of this house!’ said Hugh, choking on the words.
‘That doesn’t matter. Forget it.’
‘I would like to point out,’ said Dr Fletcher, who had also seated himself again but now leant forward to speak to Hugh, ‘that even if your good lady supplied a dozen love potions for the benefit of young Mistress Cobbold, she didn’t break the law. Witchcraft is not illegal unless it’s undertaken for the purpose of murder. There have been no deaths. Ferris is a foolish man, bellowing nonsense. Now, this is your daughter’s wedding feast. It must proceed. What kind of wedding gift did your unpleasant guest bring her and her groom, I wonder?’
George was already pulling the strange bundle, which seemed to be wrapped in coarse black cloth, towards him. Meg helpfully cleared some extra space by moving more dishes out of the way, and George unrolled the cloth, revealing a pile of golden brown velvet, which he held up. ‘A cloak! An expensive one, too.’
‘There are two.’ Meg pulled out some more velvet, moss green this time. She shook it out. ‘Yes. Another very fine cloak. I think it’s lined with silk.’ Then, as she examined it more closely, her young face stiffened. ‘But it isn’t new! There is scuffing inside the collar, and the lining’s been torn and mended!’ She pointed to the place. ‘George, is the one you are holding a new one, do you think?’
George was frowning. ‘No, it isn’t. There’s a lot of rubbing at the neckline – it’s very well worn, I’d say. What an insult! What does the man take us for? Does he think we’re an old clothes stall in a cheap market?’
‘The wretched things are still velvet,’ said Hugh tiredly. ‘They can go into the alcove with the other old cloaks that everyone uses. They’ll be warm at least. Take them away, Wilder.’
The garments were removed. Then, with a visible effort, Hugh stood up, and I stepped back, releasing his shoulders.
‘Dr Fletcher was right,’ Hugh announced. ‘The feast must continue, despite this deplorable interruption. I fear that my neighbour Master Ferris really is either insane or intoxicated. Either way he shall not disturb our revels any further. I ask you all to see that you have wine or ale in your goblets or tankards, and to raise them in a toast to my foster-daughter Meg and her bridegroom George, to wish them joy.’ He picked up his own goblet, and raised it high. ‘To Meg and to George!’
We all reached for our goblets and raised them. I saw Sybil creep back into the hall and to her place, and pick up her own glass. Everyone was trying to recreate the normal world.
In vain, as far as I was concerned. The hatred in Walter Ferris’s eyes had been unmistakable, and for some reason, it had been aimed far more at me than at his traditional foes, the Cobbolds. I was terrified.
SIX
The Unexpected Onslaught
The feast went on. Hugh, with that well-timed toast, John Hawthorn and his helpers with a further array of excellent dishes, Adam Wilder with his dignified announcements of every new course, the musicians in their gallery: all combined to wre
nch the occasion back on course as though it were a ship in a heavy sea, being kept to her heading by a squad of brawny steersmen. Everyone stayed put and continued to eat.
Gradually, the atmosphere settled. I did my best to push my fear away. When the feast was over, everyone withdrew to the parlours or to tidy themselves in their rooms while the hall was cleared for dancing. Then we went back to it, the musicians struck up a merry tune, and George led Meg out on to the floor.
A buffet supper was to follow the dancing, but while the tables were being set, I caught Sybil’s eye, beckoned to Fran and the two remaining bridesmaids and Meg’s Aunt Anne. We gathered round Meg and took her upstairs. Behind us, we knew that George’s cousins and friends were similarly gathering round him.
For this night, Hugh and I were occupying a spare room, because our usual bedchamber was the best one, and tonight, the newly-weds were to have it. Rose petals were strewn over the coverlet and new candles placed in all the holders. A tray of cold meats, bread rolls, fruit, and jugs of wine and milk, had been placed in the room as well. The young couple would have their supper in private.
We undressed Meg, put her affectionately into the bed, kissed her, wished her luck, and left her. Presently, back in the hall, we heard masculine voices and laughter overhead and knew that George had been escorted to his bride. After a while, his entourage came down to join us, and supper began. I ate very little. Half my mind was with Meg, my little, young Meg, and what was happening up in the nuptial chamber. The other half was remembering Walter Ferris’s pointing finger and his ugly accusations.
I think the same was true of Hugh. It seemed a long time before the goodnights were finally said. Uncle Ambrose had drunk too much and fallen into a stupor. Brockley, Adam and the valet Ambrose had brought with him carried him to bed, but we didn’t feel we could go to ours until everyone was settled. When at last we retired, Hugh looked exhausted.
However, he fell asleep easily, and his deep, steady breathing reassured me. But for me, sleep was elusive. Dawn was breaking before I slipped into an uneasy doze. In the morning, Hugh seemed rested, but I was heavy-headed and late to the hall for breakfast.
The morning sun was already growing hot. Uncle Ambrose and his family and the Cobbold party were all to leave that morning and had broken their fasts before I ever came downstairs. When I did, I found them preparing for departure. Out in the courtyard, horses were being saddled or laden with packs or harnessed to wagons. Ambrose looked as though he had a headache, and his too-elaborate doublet was causing sweat to run down his temples.
‘How can he stand that doublet?’ Hugh whispered to me. ‘It’s already scorching hot, and he’s got padded shoulders and fur trimmings!’
‘Showing off,’ I said. ‘He’s like that.’
‘He’s Gerald’s brother. But surely Gerald wasn’t . . .?’
‘No,’ I said. ‘Gerald was quite different. Meg takes after him.’
Gerald had been dark like Ambrose, but there the resemblance ended. He had been stocky, instead of tall, and far more intelligent and sensible than Ambrose. Gerald never drank more than he could hold (though his capacity was certainly good) and wouldn’t have dreamed of donning a fur-trimmed doublet in August. I wished he could have seen his daughter married. But that was not something I would ever say to Hugh.
I finished my meal in time to wave goodbye to the Ambrose party, and then turned to assist the Cobbolds, who, having been much embarrassed by Walter Ferris’s revelations about his son and their daughter, were now embarrassed again because they couldn’t find Christina.
‘We spoke to her severely last night,’ said her mother in exasperation, standing in the courtyard with Christina’s hat and cloak on her arm. ‘And the end of that was that she ran off, crying. Now, this morning, we can’t find her at all! The servants say she took breakfast early and then went outdoors. Oh, where is she?’
She was eventually discovered wandering disconsolately, all alone, in the herb garden, bareheaded, with her brown hair carelessly plaited and coming out of its braids. She must indeed have come out early, before it grew so warm, because she had snatched a cloak from the alcove in the entrance hall. In fact, she was arrayed in the green velvet affair that had been part of Ferris’s objectionable wedding present.
Her parents, scolding, haled her back to the courtyard, removed the despised mantle, handed it disdainfully to one of our maidservants, planted a hat on their daughter’s untidy head, bundled her on to her horse and took their leave. Jennet, Margery and Bessie went with them, to have their company part of the way to Woking.
As the tail of the last horse whisked out of sight beyond the gatehouse, the courtyard suddenly seemed quite empty. Hugh and I went back inside. The Hendersons and George’s friends were sitting at leisure over an even later breakfast than mine, and I was glad to find that Meg and George were with them. One glance at their happy faces told me all I needed to know. There was an air of confidence in the way George held himself, while Meg looked mysteriously different – not older, but more adult – and the softness in her eyes whenever she glanced at George was a joy to see.
That first night had gone well, then. I was thankful. But now they must prepare for their own departure and the journey to Meg’s new home in Buckinghamshire. They intended to be gone before noon and to dine on the way. The moment of parting was rushing towards me. We both cried a little when it came, and Meg, endearingly, also cried at having to leave her spaniel bitch, Marigold, behind. Marigold was feeding a family of young pups and to take her on a journey wasn’t feasible, so she would stay at Hawkswood and become my dog. George had promised to find a new one for Meg. The Cobbolds had been interested in the pups, and on the previous evening, they had asked to have one of them as soon as the litter was old enough.
‘Perhaps training a puppy will take Christina’s mind off romantic assignations,’ Anthony had said, with a snort.
The goodbyes were over at last. I watched my girl, sitting straight-backed on Bay Gentle, ride off through the gatehouse arch. As she did so, she turned, just once, to wave, and then she was gone. There was something gallant in that wave, but I knew well enough that before she had travelled much further beside George, the wrench would be over and she would be thinking of the new life that lay ahead. I wiped my eyes. I mustn’t grudge that to her. Only now, of course, I was free to think about Walter Ferris and those lurid accusations.
It was no surprise to me that, soon after dinner, I was stricken with migraine.
I had always been prone to these agonizing headaches. Back now in our own bed, I lay still, because the slightest movement sent bolts of agony through my head. Gladys brewed me a remedy and Fran Dale brought it to me, but although it had often been effective, it didn’t help this time.
Towards the end of the afternoon, Hugh came to me. He sat on the side of the bed and said bluntly: ‘Is it Meg or Walter Ferris that brought this on?’
‘Sir Edward Heron’s the sheriff,’ I said. ‘What if Ferris takes his tale to him? We know the kind of views he holds! He was good enough to tell us, at the Cobbold wedding! Heron has a chaplain who thinks as he does, who preaches on texts like thou shall not suffer a witch to live.’
‘Well, let me tell you one or two things,’ said Hugh bracingly. ‘You are not a witch, and no one can pretend you are. All Ferris actually has against you is that you gave Christina a posset to calm her when she was upset! You made it yourself, in the kitchen here, presumably in the presence of John Hawthorn and Abel Forde and the Floods. They no doubt know what you put in it. Surely they took an interest when the lady of the house came to make a posset with her own hands?’
‘Yes, they did. Hawthorn was amused, and Joan warmed the wine for me, and Ben helped me to chop the herbs. I just used valerian and chamomile with honey to sweeten the taste. That was all.’
‘And Fran Dale was with you when you gave it to Christina. You both watched her drink it. All the absurdities about Thomas getting you to make it for her because it wa
s a love potion, that’s just Walter Ferris’s crazed imagination. I think he really is crazed, you know.’
I tried to nod but thought better of it.
‘Also,’ said Hugh, bent on reassuring me, ‘the verdict against Gladys was overturned by the queen herself, and Gladys, mercifully, has behaved properly ever since. Edward Heron won’t be able to find anything against either of you, no matter how he tries. I will deal with him if necessary. So, I fancy, would the queen.’
‘I couldn’t ask her for help again, Hugh. I did it once, for Gladys’s sake, but it isn’t the sort of thing one can keep on doing.’
‘I don’t think you’d have to ask, Ursula. We’d only need to make sure your royal sister knew the situation. We could leave the rest to her. She owes you too much. Don’t be afraid, Little Bear. The queen is your sister, and I am here.’
Shortly after that, my malady reached its usual climax. Fran Dale and Sybil were at hand and came at my call, but Hugh was there as well and it was he who held the basin while I threw up, with such abandon that it was a wonder I didn’t turn myself inside out. Then, exhausted, I slept. By the next day I was myself again. All the same, I was still afraid.
But nothing happened. The rest of the guests departed. No riders bearing the sheriff’s badge came pounding into our courtyard. No more menacing letters came from the Netherlands, either. The events at the marriage feast were gossiped about in the village, of course, for many of our servants had families there, and the talk presently spread beyond the village because gossip always does.
Much of the spreading was done by a father and son, Harry and Eddie Dodd, the Hawkswood thatchers. These two had clients for miles around and had the busiest tongues for miles as well. Hugh always said that although women were traditionally said to be more talkative than men, the Dodds outdid them by far. But because there was no more excitement, the talk died down quite quickly.
I had of course told Sybil, who’d missed most of it, all that had happened, and she duly shook her head over it but agreed with Hugh that there was no evidence that anyone could use against me, and as for Christina and Thomas, they were not our responsibility.
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