by Emma Carroll
A couple of chained-up dogs barked when we hit the outskirts of Nether Stowey, but as we followed the main road down the hill, the town slumbered on around us. Everything looked different at night – the pretty church like a dark castle, the bakery a mere barn, and the marketplace, usually buzzing with people, bleak and empty as our footsteps echoed off the stones.
Once we’d left town behind and were on the open road again, Mother finally stopped. Her face was all shadows in the starlight.
‘Now then, Fortune, let’s have a look at you.’ She eyed me critically. ‘You’re skinny, flat-chested, short-haired, coarse-mannered. Yes, you’ll make a convincing enough boy.’
I stared at her in surprise.
‘Why’s that a good thing, suddenly?’ I asked. At home it was a constant battle to make me wear skirts, though I never actually wanted to be a boy. It was more that I didn’t see myself as the sort of girl who did sewing and kept her mouth shut and wanted only to find a husband. This new thinking from Mother made me suspicious.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked again.
‘Didn’t I tell you not to make a fuss?’
‘I’m n—’
‘No questions, remember?’ She took my arm.
We started walking. The trouble was, by now, I was so full of questions I had to press my lips together to stop them flying out. Mother, sensing a rebellion, kept me moving – and moving fast.
*
After another few miles downhill, the land flattened into the moors. Every winter they flooded: it was something to do with the land being low-lying and the boggy peat that lay beneath, only that night the cold was so fierce it’d turned the floods to ice. Ahead of us, the frozen fields glowed temptingly in the starlight.
‘Is it thick enough to walk across?’ I asked, hoping it was. I’d never seen the moors like this before and was eager for a closer look.
Mother was more cautious. ‘We’d best stick to the banks. Don’t want you falling through the ice and getting a chill.’
So we clambered up on to the willow banks that ran above the fields. The air smelled not of mud or silt like usual, but of a cold that made my head ache. It was as if the whole world was different, not just Mother and me, and it made me feel jittery and restless.
Mother, meanwhile, kept stopping, finger to her lips. She was sure she could hear something. All I caught were the owls and the rooks roosting in the trees above our heads.
She flapped her hand. ‘Shhh! Listen!’
This time I heard it too – the faint thud of hoof beats.
Quick as lightning, Mother pulled a parcel from inside her shawl, urging me to take it. The package was small, wrapped in sackcloth. I didn’t recognise any part of it.
‘It’s yours,’ she insisted, thrusting it at me. ‘For your travels.’
Confused, I didn’t take it. ‘But you haven’t said where we’re going.’
‘To Bridgwater,’ she replied, not meeting my eye. ‘To the hiring fair.’
My jaw dropped to the ground.
‘You’re not thinking of hiring me out, are you?’ I gasped.
‘I know it doesn’t sound much of a plan,’ Mother answered quickly. ‘But what with Jem having his responsibilities now and you finding that hard … it’ll be good for you to make your own way in the world … and besides, we could always do with the extra coin …’
‘No, Mother, please!’ I interrupted. The hiring fair was like a cattle market, only it wasn’t beasts that were bought and sold, but people. I’d gone once with Abigail, and it was a horrid, bustling place, full of housekeepers inspecting people’s teeth.
‘I’m too young!’ I begged. ‘Take me home!’
But Mother was listening for the hoof beats, not to me. They were louder now. The thud-thud of a fast trot.
‘Quick!’ she hissed. ‘Keep walking! Don’t wait for me. If you pretend to be a boy, you’ll get decent work and better pay.’
I was too stunned to move. She’d never mentioned money being short before. Since Old Margaret left there’d been more work at the dairy than we could manage: some days there’d been so much milk left we’d had to pour it into the ground.
Mother, I realised, was lying. This was about the boat. About me and Jem, and the landowner man seeing us.
‘But I’ve argued with Jem!’ I cried, tears in my eyes. ‘It’ll be ages before I see him again!’
Mother froze. The rider was so close now, I heard creaking leather, the snort of the horse.
‘Drat it!’ Mother cursed. ‘Get down in the ditch.’
I gulped. The ditch in question, running alongside the path, was a drop down of two yards or more. At the bottom of it, the ice looked as hard as marble.
‘As soon as it’s safe to run, get yourself as far from here as you can.’ Mother pressed the parcel at me again. ‘Goodbye, daughter, and go well.’
But it felt too final, a parting gift for someone who wouldn’t be home again for a very long time.
‘I don’t want it,’ I said.
‘Take it!’ She was fierce again. ‘Get gone or I’ll fetch my boot to you!’
She pushed me so hard I stumbled. My feet slipped. I went crashing through brambles, then too much thin air, landing with a wallop in the ditch below.
None of me seemed broken, thankfully. By the time I sat up, the horse had stopped in front of my mother. Shuffling into a crouch, I peered through the tangle of tree roots, at eye level with Mother’s worn-down clogs. The man jumped from his horse. He was wearing long leather boots with spurs on them. He barked at Mother to keep still.
Then came the terrible sshhhh of a sword leaving its sheath.
My heart beat so fast I thought I was going to faint. But I shifted closer, and made myself keep watching. If this man was about to kill our mother, then I had to see who the scoundrel was.
7
The thistle motif on his cape told me the man was someone loyal to our Scottish king. He wasn’t a landowner but a soldier who, judging by the size of his weapon, meant business.
‘Beg all you like,’ the soldier sneered. ‘My orders are to question any suspicious-looking women, and I’d say you fit that description, wouldn’t you?’
‘Let me pass,’ Mother pleaded. ‘I’m a decent Somerset woman. I mean no harm.’
The soldier shifted his weight. ‘Then you’ll know about the folks practising magic round here, won’t you? Little nests of witches popping up everywhere, so the king’s been told.’
I kept absolutely still. The sword hung in the air, directly above Mother’s upturned face. A mere swipe and her nose would be cleaved right to the bone.
‘I have no truck with magic,’ Mother said, and scrabbled in her pocket. I wished to heavens she’d keep still. ‘I carry no herbs or—’
The sword came down so fast, I had to shut my eyes.
‘Keep your hands where I can see them!’ the soldier barked.
When I dared look again, the blade was resting on the bridge of Mother’s nose. A thin line of blood trickled down her face. I’d been holding my breath.
‘The king is wrong, is he?’ The man laughed. ‘Because there’s a woman in Ilchester gaol swearing she’s cursed every cheesemaker in the land.’
I knew who he was talking about and felt sick. Somehow, Mother kept her shock in check.
‘I’m sure the king knows his subjects better than I,’ Mother replied meekly. ‘Now, if you please, I’m on my way from the cider house and I’m expected home,’ and for added effect gave a little tipsy hiccup. It was pretty impressive, all told.
‘Where’s home?’ the soldier demanded, not moving an inch.
‘Fair Maidens Lane, eight miles hence.’ Mother’s eyes flicked in the direction from which we’d come.
‘That nest of strange women? Where the cheese-curser lived?’
If anything, in that moment, the sword pressed harder, the blood on her face trickling faster. I fought to hold in a scream.
‘Times have changed. We’ve seen the
error of our ways, sir,’ Mother said, so calm it astonished me. ‘A Master Sharpe now presides over us. We pays our rent to him, see, and he speaks for us at market and so on.’
The soldier grunted his approval. Finally, he lowered his sword, and I let out a long breath of relief. He grabbed Mother roughly by the shawl, heaving her to her feet, then spun her round till she was facing the way back to our hamlet.
‘Go home,’ he instructed. ‘Where Master Sharpe can keep you safe from harm.’
Mother set off immediately without a backward glance, her shoulders hunched against the cold. I watched her go, a lump in my throat. The soldier’s gaze didn’t leave her, either, till she was almost out of sight. Then, satisfied, he mounted his horse again and turned in the opposite direction. Moments later, he too was gone.
I stood up with care. My legs were numb from crouching in the ditch, my thundering heart only just slowing. All around me the moors lay starlit and silent, as if nothing had happened, as if I’d dreamed the soldier and his bloodied sword, threatening my mother.
Yet the love I had for her felt very real. How she could’ve knelt there and not quaked in fear, I’d never know, but it strengthened me, somehow. I was the daughter of a strong woman. I could make my way in the world. If she wanted me to go to the hiring fair, then I would, and I’d make her proud. Though I didn’t know quite yet what path I might take, I did at least know the way to Bridgwater.
Slowly, just in case someone was out there still, I inched along the ditch. There was ice underfoot. Brambles everywhere that snared my hair and jacket. And that cold, heavy silence covered everything like snow. Deciding it was safe to risk it, I scrambled out of the ditch up on to the bank. And there, caught between the bare fronds of a willow, was the package Mother had tried to give me.
Intrigued, I took hold of it. It was tied with a leather thong and was the size and shape of a small person’s fist. It would hardly have been eye-catching in broad daylight, though out here under the stars, the sackcloth wrapping seemed an enticing silver. When I gave it a little squeeze, it felt as soft and light as air.
To be clear, Mother wasn’t the gift-giving kind, and yet she’d definitely wanted me to have this. I untied the thong and parted the cloth.
Inside was – well, I didn’t know exactly what it was. It looked like skin, or dried-out innards. A sheep’s bladder maybe, a thin slice of lung, yet when I braved a quick sniff all I got was the mustiness of sackcloth. I had no idea why Mother was so insistent that I have it. Or why she was so certain it was mine.
But it was something from home, at the very least. Stuffing it inside my shirt, I took a very big breath for courage, and started walking.
*
It was daybreak by the time I reached Bridgwater. The last hiring fair of the year was always exceptionally busy. People came from miles around to buy what they needed and sell what they didn’t, before retreating to their firesides for the rest of the winter. Already the town was lively with carts, dogs, horses, barrels and huge-eyed children begging for a crust or a coin. It filled me with a keen sense of purpose. I’d be all right, just so long as I didn’t dwell on my parting quarrel with Jem. Or that niggling sense that Mother had been lying about why I’d needed to find work.
Joining the crowds, I made my way down to the river where the heart of the fair was held. There’d be stalls along the riverbank selling cakes, bread, chops, apples, cheese – you could buy anything and everything, if you’d money. Me, I didn’t have a single penny and, after a night of walking, was hungry enough to eat a cartful of capons. It didn’t help that I was following a pie-seller, whose steaming wares smelled like heaven and made my stomach growl something monstrous.
An incredible sight lay before me as I reached the riverbank. Just like the floodwater on the moors, the river had frozen over, only here people were walking on it, tottering from bank to bank as if it was nothing more than a slippery street. Almost the entire fair had shifted on to the ice. Row upon row of stalls, including ones I’d never seen before: lace-sellers, spice merchants, musicians, a dancing dog, someone offering to paint likenesses for the price of a mug of beer. I couldn’t imagine how the ice was holding everything up, but I was sure as anything going to find out.
Except there was a girl in my way, dithering. She was on the arm of an extremely tall gentleman – her father, I supposed, since both were dressed in matching dark blue velvet. I was about to dodge past them both when I heard her ask, ‘Won’t everything sink if the ice cracks? Won’t we drown, and horribly too?’
I thought it wisest to wait for his answer.
8
‘The river has been freezing up for weeks, my dear,’ the man replied. ‘It is perfectly safe.’
‘I am not convinced it is, Papa,’ the girl kept on.
She was probably a year or two older than me, with mouse-brown ringlets and the smooth skin of someone who spent her days indoors. If Abigail were here, she’d have been sighing over the girl’s wide skirts, and the little hat perched on her head and tied under her chin. Me, I was wondering how anyone could move in such a get-up, let alone try walking on ice.
Her father’s jaw tightened. ‘Beloved, after everything that has befallen us, would I risk your safety? Well, would I?’
The girl’s face paled in a way that got me wondering what had befallen them – a tragedy, by the looks of it – though my chief concern was whether her father was right that the ice was safe. He was standing on it now, offering his hand to help her down the bank. Reluctantly, she hitched her skirts and joined him. Funny though, she didn’t take his hand.
The ice held, but proved near impossible to walk on. Just a few steps in and the man’s feet went from under him. He landed with a thump on his backside. I had to choke down a laugh, because it was funny, especially seeing his beautiful cloak getting tangled in his feet.
‘Stand still! Take my arm! Not like that!’ he hissed crossly to his daughter.
Eventually, she got the man back on his feet, and I lost them to the crowds. And good riddance too. If that’s what fathers were like then I was glad I’d been raised only by Mother.
*
Now that walking on the ice had lost its appeal, I was thankful to find the hiring fair in its usual place on my side of the river. There were farm hands and kitchen maids, grooms and carpenters, all recognisable by the tools of their work, which they’d laid out at their feet. I felt a bit daunted, then. I’d nothing to display but Mother’s parcel, which I didn’t suppose would help. But I remembered what she’d said about boys getting better-paid work, and stood squarely, chin up, ready to put on a gruff voice when someone spoke to me.
Business was brisk. It was obvious who was doing the hiring. You simply looked for the smartest coats and the loudest voices. Farmers, estate owners, housekeepers were barking out questions at whoever had caught their eye – ‘How old are you? What can you do? How much do you eat?’ – and checking hair, teeth, if a person had had the smallpox.
I waited. No one spoke to me. No red-jowled farmer shouted in my face. No housekeeper knocked the cap off my head to inspect my short hair.
Once the strongest, cleanest workers were hired, it was only the stragglers left behind – the old, the scrawny, the ones too sick to stand up – and me.
‘How old are you, child?’ a farmer demanded. ‘Can you kill a pig?’
‘He looks rough enough,’ smirked another. Then he noticed Mother’s parcel, which I was hugging to my chest. ‘What’ve you got in there?’
Before I could answer, he’d hooked his cane around the package. A quick flick sent it flying up into the air. It landed some way off in the gutter.
‘Hey!’ I cried. ‘That’s mine!’
As I lunged for the parcel, someone’s foot got there first. And I found myself eyeballing yet another pair of leather boots, only these ones were smaller and scruffier than the soldier’s.
‘Not so fast,’ said their owner, pulling me upright. ‘You, boy – you got a name?’
‘Ummm … errr … Fortune Sharpe,’ I said, swiftly adding, ‘It can be a boy’s name too.’ I’d no idea if this was actually true.
The woman looked narrowly at me. ‘Hmmm. Then no wonder this belongs to you.’ The parcel, in all its grisly glory, now lay open in the flat of her hand.
I took a very deep breath. ‘And who are you, Mistress …?’
‘Maira. Just Maira.’
It wasn’t a Somerset name, either. Other people were studying her now – her different clothes, her skin, her tall, upright frame. She wasn’t one of them, one of us. She stood out from the locals like gold amongst pewter.
‘Do you know what this is?’ she asked, meaning the dead skin inside the parcel.
‘A bit of lung, maybe? My mother gave it to me on the way here. She said it was mine.’
‘Which explains why you were named Fortune.’
I almost laughed out loud. I was cold, hungry and rather bewildered: I certainly didn’t feel especially fortunate.
Yet this Maira woman wasn’t like the bawling farmers or the housekeepers with their eagle eyes. Her waist-length hair and men’s clothes made her look magnificent. I didn’t know if I was scared or in total awe.
‘Are you having the boy or not?’ the farmer wanting a pig-killer asked.
I had to think fast.
‘Don’t let the parcel put you off. I’ll get rid of it, if you’ll hire me,’ I begged Maira.
She stared at me. ‘You must NEVER do that!’
‘But surely it’s only dead skin, so—’
‘Listen to me,’ she interrupted, fierce enough to make me flinch. ‘Your mother was a sensible woman in keeping it, unlike her child.’
I frowned at her, at the thing in her hand.
