by N. J Ross
‘Fuck,’ I gasped, my body collapsing in joy over him.
‘Don’t tell the Lord, my dear. I think you are ready for him now, though, don’t you?’
I knew that I was.
But I knew that I would ask to take several more trips to the Doctor over the years to come.
‘It’s part of your prescription,’ said the Doctor, when I asked him about it. ‘And I think a regular dose of your dark medicine would work wonders for me, too.’
PART THREE
BOUND BY THE WHITE DUKE
Chapter 13
Past the bustling, smoking metropolises of London and Manchester, north, past sleepy villages where fishwives and farmers mill and chatter all day long, even further, past the tilled fields and tended crops of wheat and barley, past the wild places, the towering grey rocks and fierce bushes of foxglove and dandelion, past the shrubs and the grass, and the frosty heather, that’s where you’ll find me, striding over the landscape with a knife in one hand and a basket in the other, lonely and shivering, but happy and free.
My name is Faith, like my grandmother before me, yet, unlike my grandmother, I know the bleak beauty of the North Yorkshire Moors like no-one else. I live in Malton, you see, a small village which lies on the doorstep of the moors, and twenty miles from the centre of the county of York. My grandmother, being the finest African woman you ever laid eyes on, never knew this pale country. It was my mother who was brought to England as a slave, some thirty years previously. Happily, slavery was now abolished in this part of the country, but that did not stop black women from being frowned upon by certain white gentlemen and ladies of the English countryside.
However, I am one of the lucky ones, born into this country with a trade and a certain level of independence, despite my lowly birth. I am what is known as a herbalist, and my education started as soon as I could walk. My mother was a hard woman, and although she was a slave, she didn’t suffer fools gladly. In fact, she didn’t suffer them at all. She taught me that the best way to know for sure if a plant stings is to ‘grab it ‘tween yer fingers’. And a lot of the plants I’m after sting like buggery. My mother died only three years ago, when I was but sixteen. Losing her was like losing my heart, but she always taught me to be tough and strong in the face of misery, so after grieving, I just carried on with life. I never knew my father, so now the inhabitants of Malton were like my family. Even though, being the only black woman in Malton, I stuck out like a sore thumb.
Milkthistle, St John’s Wort, Rosehip and Lovage; those were the tools of my trade. I’d be sent out by my master, Alec Harding, who managed the stores of the Duchy in Yorkshire, into the wilderness to restock our supplies every few weeks, depending on our needs. I was actually quite useful to the Duchy of Yorkshire. Ever since the Duke had gone missing a few years ago, I’d needed to find the special herbs which the Duchess’ physician gave her to calm her and quiet her worries. I used to live for my trips away, because the work I completed from day to day in the workshop was so tiresome that it fair drove me round the twist. I would either spend time grinding herbs in the pestle and mortar, or drying them by the furnace in the local pub. Sometimes, if the weather was fine (which was of course an unusually rare occurrence) I could dry my herbs outside, on racks in the courtyard. Spending time out there wasn’t so bad, although I’d often get hoots from the stablemen and the other brutes that inhabited the village.
You see, I was what you might call a ‘bit of alright’. That means I was young, and not so hard on the eyes. My hair was raven-black and smooth, and my eyes were like two sparkling pools of onyx. My black skin was highly exotic to the men of this town, and because of my hard labour, I had a strong, muscular young body with an ample bosom and a pert backside, the like of which the skinny white women of this country would never achieve. People used to tell me that I must be descended from black faeries. I was no princess, that’s for sure, but compared to a lot of the other serving wenches round here, I was a beauty queen. You might think that that’s a good thing, but it caused me no end of trouble. I got cat calls and vulgar demands shouted at me almost every time I crossed the courtyard. The men all asked for a ‘peek at yer black snatch’ (which has such a disgusting meaning I’ll spare your blushes), and then usually would ask me to ‘flash us your tits’ (again, I’ll leave this to your imagination).
I’m sure you can understand quite why it is that I’m happiest out in the moors, rooting around for plant and bud.
It was on one of those trips out into the moors that I discovered something remarkable. I remember the day so clearly because unlike almost every other trip I’d ever made; the sun was fat in the sky and the clouds (my almost constant companions) were nowhere to be seen. I’d decided that because the weather was fair, it’d be safe enough to search for bog myrtle in the marshland to the east. It wasn’t somewhere I’d been to many times in my young life, but I knew that we were dangerously low on astringent herbs, and the bog myrtle would be invaluable to old man Harding and the court of the Duke’s family in York.
When I finally crossed the stream which marked the start of the marshland, I noticed something in the distance that I’d never seen before. It was a dirty looking hut, not big enough to be anything more than a single room, really, but it looked sturdy and, yes, there was a plume of smoke curling from the chimney on its roof. Obviously someone lived here, or at least stayed here sometime. I immediately felt excitement pluck at my heart. I’d been looking for somewhere, anywhere to stay on my excursions into the wilderness. If I was lucky, I could speak to the owner of the hut and negotiate it as a place to stay on the odd time that I’d come out this far. It would mean that I’d be able to gather that many more herbs, and I’d be just a little bit less tired when I returned to the village. It was probably a hut of an old shepherd or similar I picked up my skirts and got myself ready to cross the oft-treacherous ground of the marsh.
Chapter 14
The marshland was surprisingly firm underfoot, and although I felt the wet squelch of the muddy ground a few times when I stepped slightly awry, I managed to make it across the boggy ground without so much as a slip or a mishap. There were clear patches of very soft ground though, which I avoided like the plague. I shuddered to think how treacherous it would be out here, late at night, with the moor fog descending and visibility poor to non-existent. With rain in the air it would be even worse, with one wrong foot-step sealing your fate at the bottom of the slimy bog.
When I came close enough to the hut to examine it a little, I was surprised to see that by its side was a section of tilled land, which had been planted with crops. I recognised potato plants, lined up in neat rows, and a brace of cabbages, also growing big. Whoever lived or stayed here was quite the adept farmer. The hut seemed quaint to me, somehow, and friendly, as though it had been well looked after. Indeed, rather than being made from festering old beams of wood, which would not have surprised me given the shack’s environs, the quality of the timber was excellent, and the little abode looked dry and quite cosy.
I circled around the building, peeping in at the window, trying to see what was inside. I was hoping that someone didn’t live here all year round, as that would mean I most certainly would not be able to stay here on my nights away from the fort. As I approached a window on what was the backside of the structure, I saw that there was a gap between the hanging curtains which I could sneak a look through. Inside the cottage was the warm glow of a dying fire, and I could make out what looked to be the shape of a bed, and perhaps a cabinet or table of some kind.
I surveyed the area, and was saddened to see no obvious signs of bog myrtle which was an essential ingredient in the Duchess’ medicine. The lush green little tufty plant was quite obvious for someone as experienced for me to spot, and try as I might, I could see none of it. It struck me as strange, as the last time I was in this area, I most assuredly found a few shrubs of the plant, and took half a sack’s worth with me. Perhaps whomsoever lived here had been harve
sting the local herbs, as well as running a well appointed farm.
After waiting for what must have been three quarters of the hour, and knocking a few times on the door of the hut, I decided that the time had come for me to head back to the fort. The late afternoon sun was beginning to dip below the ragged Yorkshire hills, and if I left it much longer, I’d struggle to make my way back through the marsh without suffering a mishap of some kind. And then, I heard a sound which chilled me to the very core.
A howl. Shrill and inhuman, charged with the hungry desperation of nature’s most fearsome hunter: the grey wolf. I froze, and for a moment thought that if I remained still, the threat might disappear. The sound had come from nearby, and I turned my head slowly to the left. Standing on top of a small hill not a hundred feet from me was a wolf. It was silent and still, and it had its trained on me. Then, from behind me, came an answering cry, even more feral and grotesque than then first. I felt my heart start to pound heavy in my chest, and sweat came quick to my brow. I’d never come face to face with one of these creatures before, and the coarse advice my mother had given me stuck in my mind like a knife: If you spy a wolf, save yourself an’ run, girl. Well ma, that might work if there’s just one wolf, but it didn’t help me with a pack bearing down on me.
When the wolves started running down the hills, streaking their way like silver fire towards me, I did the only thing I could: I grabbed the handle of the door in desperation, and plunged myself into the warmth of someone else’s home.
Chapter 15
The first thing I noticed in the little hut was how beautifully cosy it was. Although the sun had been shining outside, the heat of the Yorkshire sun was wan and thin compared to that of warmer climes. It was nice not to have to rub my hands together to ward off the prickling feelings that sometimes ran through them.
It was really quite comfortable in here. Although the hut had seemed small from the outside, inside it was roomy enough, with a large four-poster bed, the likes of which I had never seen. Across the bed was a huge stag’s fur. I imagined for a second the size of the beast which this rug must have come from. I imagined the hunt and the chase of the thing, how it must have fallen to a skilled musket or keen blade. Indeed, I could see the ragged wound where the shot must have found the stag’s heart. The bed had large pillows which, when I touched them, yielded softly to my touch. These were pillows of the finest quality duck down, surely. Not the kind of thing one would expect to find in the middle of a treacherous boggy marsh, indeed.
The fire was on its last embers, with a stack of seasoned logs resting at its right hand side. I could still hear the howl of the wolves outside, and I knew the creatures weren’t going anywhere for the time being. I had the crazy thought of catching a long log on the fire and running at the wretched beasts, brandishing the flaming wood in an effort to scare them off. But I knew that it was just desperation taking hold of my common sense, and that they’d tear my throat from my body as soon as I stepped foot outside the safety of the cabin. Aye, I was going to have to stay here awhile. I never thought that I’d be pining for the safety of boring old Malton, but here I was, in the wilderness, with only the howling of the wolves for company.
I threw another log on the fire, and watched in silent admiration as the bark of the wood caught aflame first, followed by the harder timber at its core. I luxuriated in the heat, and felt jealous that the little shack that I lived in was more wretched than the tiny little hut I’d found in the wilderness! There was a table in here, too, and two sturdy looking pine chairs. The place was like a palace compared to my usual lodgings, in fact. A sudden rumble in my stomach reminded me that now was about the time I’d normally be having my evening meal. I got up from in front of the fire, and started to look through a row of cabinets which were under the windowsill. Amazingly, I found fresh bread, cheese, and a couple of large potatoes, as well as salt and what looked to be a small bottle of some kind of alcohol, most likely wine.
I took a hunk of the bread and broke a corner of cheese before biting down on the hard loaf. The flavour wasn’t great, but it filled me up in no time. Although I was nervous that the owner of the hut mat come back, I thought it unlikely that he’d be back this evening, and if he did happen to, surely he’d understand my predicament, and take pity on me in my current vulnerable state. I took hold of the bottle of rich, dark liquid, and uncorked it. It was port! I could smell its rich, deep, fruit-like aroma assaulting my senses. I took a swig and felt the warm, sensation of the liquor encircle my heart and then my belly. It was fantastic, not like any of the grog I normally drank in the pub back home. It was usually only cooking wine that us servants could afford to drink at the end of each day. I took another sip, amazed by the intoxicating power of the brew, feeling already tipsy, my cheeks reddening with the alcohol’s potent fire.
I sat alone but warm in the hut for a while, enjoying the feeling of being warm and in luxurious surroundings. I’ve neglected to detail some of the items which decorated the walls, but suffice it to say that should I ever have need of a mighty boar’s head, mounted on a plinth, I’d know exactly where to come. I’d found it a little disconcerting to begin with, but soon, as I became more and more drunk, the deer’s had seemed like an old friend.
‘Oh, Johnnie,’ I said to the boar, ‘it’s just you and me, mate.’ The boar’s head was not even polite enough to smile at my good humour, but I carried on talking nonetheless. ‘You’ll look after me, eh, Johnnie? You’ll skewer those foul wolves on your proud tusks, won’t you?’
I could feel sleep start to take me, so I crawled underneath the deer’s hide, and dreamt of the moon.
Chapter 16
‘Well, well, well, what do we have here?’
I woke in a start and tried to pull the covers up to my chin. I couldn’t! There was something holding my arms tight, and when I looked down, I saw that I was held in place by leather cords, tied to the bedposts like a criminal. I looked up at the source of the sound, and saw, to my horror, that there was a man, sitting at the table.
‘I come back in the middle of the night to find an uncouth wench in my bed and a gang of lupine horrors at my door. Could there be a connection between the two occurences, I thought to myself…?’
I’d never seen a man like him before. If anything, I’d have said that he had more in common with the wolves which had chased me into this shack than with any other human being I’d beheld in my life. His hair was long and thick, matted and coarse, with twigs and leaves and what looked like mud worked into it, giving it a rough, layered appearance, like that of a beast. Not what you’d expect from a white man of the genteel English countryside! He had a beard, a thick dark brown mass of wiry hair which sprouted from a rugged, hard face. His eyes looked crazed, like two saucers of milk, and the tiny dark pupil at the centre of each of them was surrounded by a warm hazel colour. The strange thing was, he spoke with the proud, cruel voice of a lord! He had a commanding ring to his voice.
His clothes must have been grand and expensive, at one point. His jacket was well cut and gave him a look of odd, stately grandeur, but it was grim and faded and covered in mud and marks of the wild. His trousers too were absolutely foul, streaked with stains and other marks upon them. But truly, once, his outfit would not have looked out of place at a palace, or stately home. He even had a pair of clearly expensive brogues on his feet. Their leather would have once been shiny and bright, now dull, and scuffed to oblivion.
‘Don’t… don’t hurt me, please,’ I said. I tried again to fight against my bonds, but found that I was securely fastened in place.
‘Hurt you? You must think me mad, and a brute to boot. I haven’t seen a woman in months, no… years. Why would I want to hurt you? To come home to one so beautiful as well, among all this stinking marshland. Such an exotic, beautiful, dark-skinned creature. It’s like I came home to my very own black rose, peeping up through the manure and the reeking peet. Why would I want to cut a rose’s stem, when I could just carefully p
luck it?’
He stood up and I saw that he held a small, sharp dagger in his hand. Its blade was slick with blood. He must have slaughtered the wolves outside. Who was this wild, well-spoken man? And was he going to kill me too?
He wiped the blood from his blade on his jacket, and when it was clean, he slid the knife into his waist-band, so that its handle was on display.
‘I don’t know, sir, it’s just, you’ve got me strapped to this bed...’ I stammered.
He chuckled to himself in a deep, cruel way.
