Alice in Love and War

by Ann Turnbull

  The woman’s voice had sounded younger than she now appeared. This was an old woman of fifty, perhaps even sixty: tall and strongly built. She wore a black velvet hood that draped softly around her face. A wing of white hair showed beneath the hood, and her eyes were dark.

  She looked at Alice, and frowned in concern. “You are not one of my people, I think? How came you here? Have you been ill-used by soldiers?”

  Alice knew the woman must have seen the blood on her stockings as she scrambled away from the dogs. She flicked her skirt to cover them, and struggled to rise, holding on to the tree, and shaking her head at the question.

  “No. No man has hurt me,” she whispered.

  “Then what … ah, I see how it is…”

  She turned to the boy, who stood some way off. “Tom, this is no sight for you. Go back to the house. Send two wenches with a pallet – and a spade.”

  “No!” said Alice. “No, I can’t. I work at the King’s Arms. I must go back…”

  “On foot? Child, if you could see yourself! You are as white as bone. You should thank God we found you in time. Much longer, and you might have frozen to death.”

  “I do thank God,” said Alice. “And you, my lady. But I can walk.” She let go of the tree and took a few steps forward, determined to prove it. She could not bring herself to look at what had come out of her body.

  But the woman looked. She said, “You have miscarried of a child. Three months, I’d say?”

  Alice felt tears sliding down her cheeks. She nodded. The dark eyes appraised her, head to foot, and Alice knew she was thinking: this girl is young, and no doubt unwed.

  “Not a village girl, are you? Is that a West Country accent?”

  “Yes. It is. I … came with the army.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  Alice knew from the woman’s tone that she thought her a whore. She insisted, “I’m to be married soon! He’s gone home, my soldier, but he will come back. He promised me.”

  The look she got in response was one of mingled pity and exasperation. “You girls! You always believe that! Well” – she turned away – “here are Joan and Bess. They will take you to the house, where you can rest awhile.”

  Alice shrank from enduring more scrutiny, but the two servant girls were friendly, as different from Sib and Nell as could be imagined. They quickly took in the situation and helped her onto the pallet. They found Mistress Tyrrell’s gloves, which Alice had dropped, and reassured her that they could carry her easily between them. Before they left, Bess, the sturdier of the two, dug into the hard soil with the spade and spread a covering of earth and twigs over the dead child.

  The lady had ridden ahead of them back to the house, and by the time they arrived she had disappeared, and the dogs with her. The maids set the pallet down in a courtyard where there was a well, a trough for horses, and a mounting block. There were several barns and outbuildings near by, and seeing them made Alice think of army quarters, and how she had heard that the army had avoided this place because of disease. It was clear that there were still no soldiers about.

  “I heard there was sickness here,” she said to the girls.

  “Oh, you’ve nothing to fear,” said Joan. “Lady Weston’s grandchildren came with their mother and a maid from Oxford. The maid was ill, and then the eldest boy sickened, and at first they feared it was plague. You know there was plague in Oxford all summer?”

  “Dirty, overcrowded place,” said Bess, shaking her head.

  “Oh, Bessy! Proper country girl, you are! I love to see the town. Well, it wasn’t the plague, thank the Lord, but it kept us free of the army. They went to Haden Hall instead, and it seems they’ll stay there.”

  She went inside, while Bess supported Alice with an arm about her shoulders. “Come into the kitchen and sit on the settle by the fire. I’ll warm some ale for you. Joan’s gone to fetch water so that you can wash.”

  There were other people in the kitchen, a cook working at the big table, helped by a little maid of no more than twelve years. The cook nodded to Alice as she sat down. No one asked questions, but Alice knew they must be curious. She saw Bess, on her way to fetch the ale, encounter Joan in the doorway; the two of them exchanged looks and whispers, and Alice heard “…one of the soldiers’ drabs, I suppose…”

  I’m not a drab, she thought, tears of anger pricking her eyes. And yet the girls were kind, whatever they assumed she was.

  It felt odd to be sitting idle while others worked, but she felt too weak to do otherwise. She glanced around the kitchen: at rows of great pans hanging on the walls; ladles, sieves and serving dishes; a shelf of jugs and another of painted china plates; strings of onions and herbs dangling from the ceiling. The cook, a strong-looking woman with huge arms, was making pastry, while the young girl chopped onions, with much sniffing.

  Bess came back with a little pan of spiced ale that she warmed over the fire before pouring it into a tankard. “Here, this’ll bring you back to yourself.” She shook her head. “You do look wan!”

  Alice sipped the ale and felt it warm her from within. The fire was hot, sleepy-making. She felt very tired. Two cats, one tabby, one black, lay on the hearthstones, asleep and purring. As she watched the gentle rise and fall of their bodies, her trembling gradually ceased.

  She looked up when Joan approached, accompanied by a young gentlewoman.

  “Here’s Mistress Christian to see you,” the girl said.

  Alice made to rise, but the woman gestured to her to remain seated, and sat down beside her. From her dress Alice thought she must be an upper servant of some kind, or even a member of the family. She was perhaps in her late twenties, slender in a gown of green wool with a wide white collar edged with lace and a white linen apron, and with tawny-coloured hair drawn back under a neat cap. Her eyes were hazel brown, flecked with green. They studied Alice with concern.

  “Lady Weston sent me to see you,” she said. “I’m no apothecary, but I have some knowledge of medicine.”

  Alice drew in her legs and elbows defensively. “I’m not hurt.”

  “But do you still have any pain?” The woman’s voice was gentle but authoritative. “If it did not all come away…”

  “I believe it did,” said Alice.

  “That’s good. But if you have more pain or loss you must tell someone. Don’t hide away again, if you value your life.” She smiled. “My name is Christian Aubrey. I am a kinswoman of Lady Weston’s. And your name?”

  “Alice Newcombe.”

  “There is water for you to wash, Alice, in the scullery. And you must stay here at Weston Hall until you are warm and rested.”

  “I can’t stay! I have to go back. Mistress Tyrrell expects me—”

  Christian Aubrey shook her head. “My lady’s orders. She won’t be gainsaid. She believes you were sent to her by God in this time of Advent, and she has instructed us to take care of you. Come. The water is warm.”

  She led Alice to the scullery, where Joan had left a bowl of water, a jug to top it up, a wash-ball and clean cloths.

  “I’ll leave you,” she said. “No one will come in.” And she closed the door.

  Alone at last, Alice found a stool and sat down. She felt weak, overwhelmed with shock. She had lost her child – Robin’s child. All connection to him was now severed. If he did not come back for her, she would be quite alone in a world that seemed suddenly huge and threatening.

  She moved, and felt her thighs sticky with blood. I must wash, she thought. Warm water and scented soap awaited her – a comfort she had not known for many weeks. She stood up, and took advantage of this rare moment of privacy to take off not only her skirt and stockings but also her bodice, stays and shift. The shift would need to be soaked in cold water to release the bloodstains. For now, she bundled it up and hid it under her other clothes.

  She stood naked and took a cloth and washed down from neck to feet, sluicing away all trace of her ordeal. The wash-ball was scented with rosemary, a cleansing smell that Alice
liked. Unable to lift the jug in her weakened condition, she tilted it to add fresh water to the bowl, rinsed away the soap, and picked up a soft drying cloth. Underneath it she saw that Joan had left a linen shift – old and patched, but clean – and a pair of brown woollen stockings. Such kindness, she thought; these are truly good people. She dried herself, and put on the stockings and shift.

  Someone tapped at the door. “Are you seemly?”

  It was Christian.

  “You are kind, mistress,” Alice said, glancing down at the shift as the woman came in.

  “Oh! We have plenty of linen stored.” She approached the bowl of water to remove it.

  “It’s full of filth,” Alice said, ashamed.

  “I’ve seen worse.”

  She lifted it, and tipped the water into a runnel that led outside, then washed out the bowl with clean water. It was maids’ work, and Alice knew this woman should not be doing it; she was shielding Alice, as far as she could, from kitchen gossip.

  Alice put on her stays over the shift.

  “What’s this?” asked Christian, her voice sharp with surprise. She had found Alice’s book lying on the table.

  “It was my father’s,” said Alice. “He was an apothecary.”

  The woman turned to her with new interest. “May I look at it?”

  “Yes, indeed. It is all remedies and observations and the properties of herbs.”

  “So I see. It is most full, and detailed. Can you read this, Alice?”

  “Yes. And write.”

  “And did you work with your father? He taught you his skills?”

  “Yes. I learned a little from him. But I was only a child. He died when I was eleven.”

  Christian studied the book a few moments longer, then closed it and handed it back; and Alice, who was now dressed, took it and, without thinking, pushed it down between her bodice and stays.

  Christian laughed. “Why do you do that?”

  Alice felt herself blushing. “To keep it safe. It’s all I have of my father – and the maids at the inn would take it from me if they knew.”

  “Would they?” Christian frowned. “Come back to the kitchen. You must be hungry. I’ll send for some bread and pottage.”

  “Mistress Aubrey, I have to go back.”

  “But eat first, to give you strength. It’s dark already. We’ve sent a boy to return the gloves and tell the innkeeper’s wife where you are. Don’t fear.”

  But Alice was alarmed. “What will he say about me? About what happened?”

  “Only that you were taken ill and fainted, and that Lady Weston chooses to keep you here till you recover.”

  She called Bess, and asked for food for Alice; and when it was brought she sat with her on the settle while she ate. In that large kitchen they were some distance from the others and not likely to be overheard. After a while Christian said, “You are not quite what I first thought, Alice Newcombe.”

  “Not a baggage train whore?” Alice retorted, with a burst of spirit. She knew that was what they must all have believed her to be.

  “Not an ignorant girl, fit only for rough tasks. What work have you done since your father died?”

  “Farm work, on my uncle’s farm. Dairying, and suchlike.”

  “Did you like the dairy work?”

  Alice paused. “Yes,” she said, surprised to admit she had liked anything at Tor Farm. “Yes, I did. It was clean work, and suited me.”

  “And yet you left?”

  Alice explained: told the woman briefly about her life at Tor Farm, about Robin, and the baggage train, and the King’s Arms.

  “So you are not happy at the inn?”

  “No. I’m only waiting there. Waiting for Robin…” Her voice had turned husky.

  “Oh, you poor child! Did he know?”

  “Yes. I told him.”

  “And still he left you? But if he is with his parents it may perhaps be difficult. Can you write to him? Tell him what has happened to you?”

  Alice looked down. “He never gave me his address.”

  They fell silent, and Alice knew that Christian was thinking, as Lady Weston had, that Robin had abandoned her. She thought it herself, often, but always pushed the thought away. “Thank you, mistress,” she said, and put down her bowl on the hearth. “That was good.”

  Christian smiled. “You look a better colour now.” She stood up. “Wait here. I must speak to Lady Weston before we send you back to the inn.”

  Alice sat quietly when Christian left, trying not to attract attention to herself. The kitchen women talked together as they prepared supper for the household. A door opened, and a lad came in shivering and hugging his arms. It was the boy Christian had spoken of, Alice realized, back from his errand to Mistress Tyrrell.

  “You look perished, Walt,” said the cook.

  “I am. Gone bitter cold, it has. Roads’ll freeze tonight.”

  Christian returned soon after. She looked purposeful. “It’s dark, Alice, and slippery underfoot, and you are not yet fit to walk. You must stay the night here and we will see about getting you back in the morning.”

  Alice felt too exhausted to argue. She had no desire to arrive late at the inn and face the curiosity and questions of Mistress Tyrrell, still less endure Sib and Nell’s attentions. It was easier to do as she was told.

  “Joan, come! We’ll make up a bed in the room next to mine,” said Christian.

  A little later she reappeared with a candle and led Alice into a large dining hall, then upstairs and along a wood-panelled corridor to a pleasant room containing a curtained four-poster bed, a washstand, a chest, and a toilet table and stool. From this room a doorway led into a smaller room, little more than a closet, and cluttered with boxes and piles of cloth. There the women had made up a bed for her with clean sheets, and provided a chamber pot.

  “Sleep now,” said Christian. “You must be tired. But I have put you here, near me, so that you may call me in the night if you are in pain, or need help. In the morning I have something I want to show you.”

  Twelve

  Alice woke early, after a deep sleep. For a moment, she could not think where she was, and reached out, expecting to encounter the warm solidity of Robin’s body beside hers. But the bed was narrow and cold. She remembered then, and felt empty, hollow, both in body and mind. Her baby was gone. Robin was gone. There was no one in the world she belonged to. She looked at the shrouded bales and boxes stored around her and the pale winter daylight showing between the gaps in the shutters and felt tears leaking from her eyes.

  After a while she got up to use the chamber pot. There was blood, but not too much, and she felt recovered, if weak. She went to the window and opened the shutters. The view was from the back of the house. She saw outbuildings, stables and a boy – Lady Weston’s fair-haired young groom – coming down the stairs from the loft, yawning and pulling on his jerkin. Ice glittered on the stones of the yard. Beyond the buildings were fields and trees, white with frost. The sky was barely light, pale as a pearl; but to her right, in what must be the east, a pink glow was spreading.

  A new day. The sight gave her hope, and she chided herself for succumbing to self-pity. She was among kindly people and would be spared the taunting of Sib and Nell, at least for a time. And Christian Aubrey had said last night that she had something to show her. What could that be? She closed the curtains again, and put on her stays over the borrowed shift and began lacing them. From somewhere in the house she heard children’s voices: perhaps the family who had come from Oxford?

  When she was dressed and her hair combed – with her fingers, since her comb was at the King’s Arms – she tapped on the connecting door between her room and Christian’s. “Mistress Christian?”

  No answer. She opened the door and looked in. She caught a flicker of movement, and thought at first that someone was there – then saw that it was her own reflection in a mirror. She felt drawn towards it. She had not seen herself for many months.

  The mirror was a
small one in a carved oval frame, standing on the table with a comb and several little glass and china pots beside it. Her aunt too had possessed a bedroom mirror, though not so fine as this one, and Alice had been in the habit of glancing into it when she swept the room or made the bed. Now she felt instinctively that she must look different. She had a lover and had been with child. Surely some subtle change must have occurred in her appearance? But the face she saw, though somewhat dark-shadowed under the eyes, was the same as ever: young, pale, grey-eyed, and framed by mouse-brown hair that hung unfashionably straight and slack to below her shoulders. At Tor Farm she had coiled and pinned her hair out of sight under a cap; or curled it, for feast or fair days, with Jenefer’s help, using tight twists of rag that were uncomfortable to sleep in. Her aunt, whose own hair curled becomingly from beneath her cap, had said Alice was without beauty – and yet Robin had made her feel beautiful. She bit her lower lip and pinched her cheeks to redden them, and instantly looked prettier. Perhaps that was how Robin saw her?

  Christian Aubrey came in, and Alice jumped guiltily, even though she had not touched anything.

  “You look better this morning,” Christian said.

  “I am. Thanks to you and the lady, Mistress Christian.”

  “Good. Then put your cap on and come downstairs with me.”

  “You wished to show me something?” Alice was intrigued, and a little anxious, wondering where they were going, and whether it would matter that she was so dishevelled. “My hair… I’ve lost its pins.”

  “Oh! You will do very well as you are.”

  They went downstairs and into the hall, which was now occupied by what seemed at first to be an army of little boys, all running about and squealing, pursued by a nursemaid holding coats and boots. It resolved itself into two boys of five or six years – only one of them breeched; the other still in petticoats but wielding a toy sword – and a baby, just old enough to pull himself up to standing and try to join in with the others.