by Emma Carroll
Next, it was the turn of the mummers. Their performance, about a dragon and a knight, was a bit lost on me because I kept having to fill people’s glasses. But I could see Ellis at the front of the crowd, Bea on his hip, both totally spellbound. Mr Spicer, meanwhile, was nowhere to be seen.
*
As the night went on, the celebrations grew rowdier. The Great Hall, with its fire blazing, was stiflingly hot and full of sweating, belching bodies. Someone shouted that we should open the windows and doors, and doing so, the party spilled out into the gardens. The cold night air was no longer just for the disapprovers.
In amongst the mayhem, I was still serving drinks. And it was as I walked a loop of the garden, refilling glasses and listening to the waves on the beach below, that I heard two men talking. It was their voices that alerted me – low and tense – and that one of the speakers was Mr Spicer himself.
‘It’s a sure-fire way to win the king’s favour,’ he said eagerly. ‘You saw what happened at Ilchester, how easily people are stirred up by the merest hint of witchcraft.’
I slowed my step. He was talking about Old Margaret’s trial.
‘Don’t dismiss your daughter’s talents, either.’ The other voice was Dr Blood’s. ‘Word has it crewel work is very popular at the royal court. A little gift to His Majesty might not go amiss.’
Mr Spicer went quiet.
‘I mean it, man. The shipment should’ve been here by now, and the other cargo should be on its way to America.’ Dr Blood sounded impatient. ‘And now everything is delayed. That’s what happens when you hire a weak-minded ship’s captain.’
‘Not weak-minded,’ Mr Spicer cut in. ‘Far from it. Too opinionated, that was the problem.’
‘The point is, the cargo is late,’ Dr Blood snapped. ‘This is not how I do business.’
The shift between them was notable. It was Dr Blood who seemed to have the upper hand.
‘I believe the witchcraft route is our best chance.’ Mr Spicer was circling his argument. ‘Find one witch, and hundreds will follow. Somerset is rife with those practising the black arts.’
‘So you’ve said, many times. Though that soldier you hired found no evidence, did he?’
A chill passed over me. Were they talking about the same soldier who’d stopped us on the moors, under orders to seek out nests of witches? It seemed a coincidence, but I was more thankful than ever that Mother had got away.
‘Then we must have a better plan,’ Dr Blood pressed. ‘One that will yield impressive results.’
‘We could hire a proper witchfinder,’ Mr Spicer suggested. ‘I hear there’s a very effective man operating in Essex, and with his expertise we could make a huge success of this.’
Dr Blood chewed his fingertip. ‘That Hopkins fellow? Yes, send word to him. We’ll get started with our own men while we wait. That son of yours might be useful too.’
Mr Spicer snorted. ‘How?’
‘People seem to like him. They listen to him. He could interview our suspects.’
The shock made me almost drop the wine jug. Ellis? He’d not willingly hunt a rabbit, let alone an innocent woman.
‘Hmmmm, we could try him. It’s about time my son proved his mettle,’ Mr Spicer mused. ‘I’d hoped hiring a rough sort as a servant might help—’
‘That scrap of a lad with the girl’s name?’ Dr Blood cut in. ‘We could put him to use too, taking messages and so forth.’
I must’ve gasped a bit too loud, for they both looked round and saw me. It took all my courage to step forward with the wine.
‘More drink, sirs?’ I said, a bit too brightly.
Mr Spicer held out his glass for me to fill: Dr Blood covered his with his hand.
‘None for me,’ he said. ‘I like to keep a clear head when talking business.’
I’d rather he’d been in his cups, frankly, then at least I could’ve blamed what I’d just heard on the wine.
15
An hour or two past midnight, I finally crawled into bed. Yet try as I might I couldn’t sleep. Mr Spicer had been looking for someone to blame since his wife died. Now it was about to happen: a proper witch-hunt throughout Somerset, in which we’d all be given a part to play. Well, I wouldn’t do it. And I was certain Ellis wouldn’t, either.
When I finally did fall asleep, I was promptly woken by a rush of cold air.
‘What the …?’ Mistress Bagwell was standing at the foot of my bed in the dim light of early morning, my blankets in her hand. Under the other arm, chattering, was Bea.
I sat up groggily, thinking I’d overslept. ‘What hour is it?’
‘Never mind that!’ She glared at my night shift, at my skinny girl’s legs. The look on her face said it all. I felt badly ashamed that she’d discovered my secret like this; I was fond of Mistress Bagwell, and didn’t enjoy tricking her. Yet before I’d a chance to explain, she’d thrust Bea into my arms.
‘Master Ellis is missing!’ Now she was throwing my clothes at me. ‘Get dressed! We need to find him!’
‘Missing? How?’
‘He didn’t sleep in his bed last night.’ She gave me a stern look. ‘Mr Spicer’s already furious about the boy’s conduct at the party – and you’ll catch the blame for that. So if you know what’s good for you, you’ll find him.’
‘Oh mercy!’ I leaped out of bed, pulling on clothes.
‘I’ll alert Susannah. You start searching. Oh, and,’ she gave me Bea, ‘look after Miss Beatrice, will you?’
‘Can’t you? You’re better at it than I am.’ I tried to hand her straight back again, but Mistress Bagwell folded her arms.
‘It’s about time you did your share of baby-minding,’ she said sternly.
‘Because I’m a girl?’
‘Because you’re a member of staff in this house!’ she cried.
Though she was clearly angry, she did tie a sling for me so I could carry Bea more easily.
‘You look after her, mind,’ Mistress Bagwell said, kissing Bea’s head.
I nodded. I didn’t tell her I’d never held a baby in my life.
*
While Mistress Bagwell went to wake Susannah, I hurried downstairs. Bea was surprisingly heavy, her body humid and smelling slightly of cheese. She was also quite drowsy, which helped when it came to climbing down the ladders. By the time I’d reached the beach, she’d gone to sleep. It was a bright, sharp morning. The sky was patched with little clouds, the sea calm and moving lazily over the sand. Shielding my eyes against the sun, I scanned the beach in all directions. If Ellis was still at Berrow Hall, then this was where I’d find him.
If.
What he’d said last night about running away loomed in my head. Would he really take off like that, without a word to anyone? I dearly hoped not, for Susannah’s sake at least.
I went right down to the shoreline, scouring the sand, the rocks, the dunes beyond. There was no sign of him anywhere. Yelling his name woke Bea, who copied me, screeching ‘Eeeeeewwwwwwooooo!’ painfully close to my left ear. Then she wanted to get down and play in the sand, and when I wouldn’t let her, the shouts turned to tears. I jiggled her a little like I’d seen Susannah do, but it didn’t really help.
‘We’ve got to find him, grumpy guts,’ I told her. ‘There’ll be big trouble if we don’t.’
But once Bea started crying, I knew how hard it was to make her stop. In the end, I turned back for the house, resolved to bribe Mistress Bagwell into taking her again so I could search for Ellis properly. I was almost at the top of the beach when I sighted an odd disturbance in the sand. It was a series of flattened patches, as if someone had rolled over or fallen. And there, caught under a rock, fluttering slightly, was a yellow feather.
Ellis’s.
I was startled and relieved, for the marks in the sand were the sort he’d make when practising somersaults or tumbling. How long they’d been there I didn’t know. But as it was only a little past daybreak, and Ellis wasn’t an early riser, I guessed he’d been here last
night. During the party. Before the players, with their songs and acrobatics, had packed up their boxes, loaded their wagon and trundled off into the night.
If Ellis wasn’t in the house or on the beach, then he could have gone with them. Or, said a dark voice in my head, perhaps some horrible accident had befallen him, as happened to my father all those years ago. This coast was unpredictable and wild. A boy out here in the dark might slip, or … I shook my head clear. No, Ellis was as fleet-footed as anyone I knew. If he was anywhere, he’d have followed his heart.
I picked up the feather. Somehow, I was going to have to explain what I’d found. What I thought had happened to Ellis. And though I felt low that I might not see him again, that Susannah and Bea might lose their brother, and me my job, I wasn’t sad. How could I be when I knew he’d be happier with a travelling theatre troupe than his bully of a father?
Bea had stopped crying. Her little hand reached out to touch the feather.
‘What do you think? Has Ellis gone with the actors?’ I asked her. I truly hoped he had; better that than being dragged into his father’s witch-hunt.
At the thump of footsteps, I looked up to see Susannah, still in her nightdress, coming across the beach. She reached us out of breath and agitated.
‘Ellis has run away with the players, hasn’t he?’ she cried.
‘It looks that way,’ I agreed, showing her the feather. ‘He mentioned leaving last night, but I didn’t think he’d do it this fast. Did he tell you too?’
‘No, he didn’t. This did.’ She shook her fist: in it was another piece of crewel work, covered in dark blue swirls. ‘It’s happened again, Fortune. I was working on this late last night after the party, and now it’s come true.’
I felt suddenly uneasy.
‘Show me,’ I said.
She smoothed out the piece for me to inspect. All I could see in the needlework were high, arching curves like a huge blue forest, or waves coming up the beach.
‘But today’s sea is calm as anything, so this can’t be right,’ I reasoned.
‘Here.’ She tapped the design where a tiny shape, topped with a flash of yellow, seemed to be fleeing the sea. ‘It’s Ellis. The needle moved by itself. I couldn’t stop it.’
I looked closer. There. She was right. It was a boy, running. I stepped back, slightly alarmed. It might be a coincidence – another one – but whatever it was, this thing Susannah’s needle did, it was a bit strange, a bit magical, and I dreaded to think what Mr Spicer or Dr Blood would make of it if they ever found out.
‘You mustn’t show this to anyone,’ I said. ‘Or tell them what the needle does. Promise me.’
‘I’ll hide it,’ she said, tucking it up her sleeve. ‘Though Father’s watching my every move.’
‘I mean it.’ I was firm. ‘Your father and Dr Blood want to send your work to the king. I heard them last night, discussing it. It’ll be dangerous for you if they do.’
She bit her lip until it whitened.
‘I can trust you though, can’t I, Fortune?’ she asked.
The truth was, I was concerned by how much she’d told me. But I felt so glad that she’d been able to.
‘To the grave,’ I promised.
Susannah almost smiled, before frowning at me. ‘My goodness, I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you holding my little sister before.’
‘Mistress Bagwell made me. It’s not really helping matters, so I was heading back to the house. She may have news of Ellis by now.’
Susannah stiffened: she’d seen someone on the beach. ‘I believe that news is coming our way.’
It was Mr Spicer. From how he strode towards us – arms swinging, jaw set – he was clearly angry.
I’d have to face him sooner or later and explain where I thought his son had gone. Still, I hastily dropped the feather and covered it in sand.
‘Go,’ I whispered to Susannah. ‘You don’t need to witness your father tearing me to shreds.’
She shook her head. ‘We’ll face him together.’
I could hear her quick breathing, and feel my blood pound. Bea, her face squished into my chest, had fallen asleep again.
‘Susannah!’ Mr Spicer was a good thirty paces away when he started shouting. ‘Return to the house!’
She didn’t move.
‘I mean it!’ As he came closer he didn’t lower his voice. ‘I don’t wish to find you here, conversing with your brother’s servant!’
She stood her ground.
Mr Spicer stopped in front of us, thunderous. ‘Do you defy me? Your own father? Did you not see what a spectacle your brother made of himself last night in that preposterous hat? All because Fortune Sharpe didn’t do the job for which he’s paid.’
‘Ellis looked rather fine, Father.’ Susannah tried to calm him. ‘And happy. Your guests admired him.’
Mr Spicer was white with fury. ‘You, all three of you, made me look weak. But don’t worry, I’ve plans for you that will wipe those smug looks from your faces.’
‘I’m not taking part in any witch-hunt!’ I blurted out. ‘You can’t make me do it. Nor your children!’
‘Why, you pox-ridden toad!’ He made a grab for me.
I felt a rush of air as his arm swung back to wallop me. There was no loud slap. No stinging pain. Susannah stepped between us, blocking the blow.
‘Stop it, Father!’ she pleaded. ‘We should be considering Ellis, not fighting amongst ourselves!’
‘Go back to the house, Susannah.’ Mr Spicer jabbed a finger at her. ‘And find me your very best piece of needlework. That is an order.’
I wasn’t listening. I was staring at the shoreline.
Something was wrong with the sea.
III
IN WHICH EVENTS TAKE A DEVASTATING TURN
16
The waves were breaking on the beach, but with none of their usual rhythm, no in and out. They were overlapping each other, spilling sideways, as if the whole ocean was contained in a pan and someone had given it a shake. The sight was strange enough to silence us. Bewildered, we hurried down to the shoreline where the water swirled around our ankles, so eerily like the sea in Susannah’s latest crewel work, it made me suddenly afraid. Bea, who’d been woken by our raised voices, started to cry.
‘There, there,’ Susannah murmured, resting her hand tenderly on Bea’s head. I wondered if the soothing was meant for all of us.
Stranger still was how the sea retreated, which it did very suddenly, all at once. I waited for waves to roll in again. Expected it – like one breath following another. But the sea kept shrinking down the beach, going further away from us, until it was just a line of silver on the horizon.
‘It must be the spring tide,’ I said, for want of an explanation.
Mr Spicer shook his head. ‘I’ve never seen a spring tide retreat in this manner.’
‘A storm surge, then?’ Susannah suggested.
‘Whatever it is, the sea can’t just vanish,’ I said.
Yet it had. I’d seen it happen with my own eyes.
Where the sea had been was now grey, sodden sand. A whole great stretch of it, pitted with little pools. Rocks that had been hidden underwater were dripping in the bright sunshine. And all the time the tide carried on draining away, like an emptying washtub. In all my days of gazing at the sea, I’d never seen it behave so oddly.
Nor had I ever seen Mr Spicer so animated. He was pacing up and down, just like Ellis did when some new idea had seized him and he couldn’t keep still.
‘This must be an act of God,’ he muttered excitedly. ‘A punishment for our transgressions. Yes, I do believe that’s what this is – a sign from above that our work needs to be done.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I couldn’t hold my tongue. ‘It’s the sea. It doesn’t follow our bidding!’
But Mr Spicer, already lost to his own theory, kicked off his shoes and strode off across the newly wet sand.
Within minutes, he was easily sixty yards out, small as a flea again
st the empty seabed that stretched in all directions. Perhaps he’d keep walking until he reached Wales on the other side. I hoped he and his poisonous ideas would stay there too.
‘There must be a storm coming,’ Susannah said firmly. ‘We’d best go back to the house and warn Mistress Bagwell.’
‘What about Ellis?’
‘I feel certain Ellis, wherever he is, is a long way from here by now. Besides, Bea’s getting cold.’
The storm idea was certainly a better explanation than Mr Spicer’s. The tides had been thrown out by the weather, and we’d do best to return to Berrow Hall, pull the shutters and wait it out.
But I didn’t believe it.
How could there be a storm about to arrive when the sky was clear blue and cloudless? There wasn’t so much as a breath of wind. Everything was very still. Very hushed. I realised what was missing, then: the gulls.
Normally you’d hear them calling, shrieking. You’d see them too, hovering above a fishing boat or swooping low over the water. You’d catch a flash of white. A yellow beak. A frogspawn eye. Today, there wasn’t a single gull in the sky. It was as if they’d kept away on purpose because they knew something wasn’t right.
When we turned for the house, I saw them. They were crowding on to a thorn tree. But there wasn’t space for them all, so the tree was alive with beaks and flapping wings. Queerer still was the wall of Berrow Hall, on which more gulls sat like soldiers on guard. I’d seen swallows do something similar at the tail end of summer, but this felt eerie and wrong.
I had an overwhelming sense, then, an ice-cold dread, that something very terrible was about to happen.
‘What are the birds doing?’ Susannah asked.
‘They’re watching something out to sea,’ I realised, and we both turned to discover what it was.
The bank of dirty brown-grey cloud on the horizon was coming towards us, billowing like the smoke from damp wood.
It was moving too fast for a sea fog. Instinct made me step further up the beach. Bea was getting heavier, and wrigglier. My back ached from holding her; I wasn’t sure if I could for much longer.
