Alice in Love and War

by Ann Turnbull

  Now, with the greenery in place and the yule log lit, the day’s feasting could begin: a leisurely dinner shared by all, seated along the length of a long table garlanded with ivy and coloured ribbons and illuminated by beeswax candles in gold holders. Everyone sang as Tobias Fairthorne carried in a roasted and garlanded goose. (“It would have been a boar’s head before the war,” Mistress Florey told Alice.) There was more meat – beef, duck and capon – and pies and rich sauces. After the meal the candies and comfits Alice and Christian had made were passed around in small bowls.

  By the time the meal was over, the early dusk of winter was crowding against the windows. Lady Weston sent for candles. She lit them herself, handing them out to the maids to be set in sconces and windowsills and fill the hall with soft light and leaping shadows while they all sang another carol. Surely no edict from Parliament could ever suppress this, Alice thought.

  The snow began in earnest before the end of December, and by Twelfth Night, Weston Hall was cut off from the village by deep drifts. The community turned inwards, relying even less than usual on the village and the world beyond. The livestock had been killed and there was fresh meat in the larder, and Mistress Florey would soon be busy salting and preserving what could not be eaten. There were stocks of root vegetables, green beans layered with salt in earthenware crocks, summer fruits bottled or made into preserves. The wood stack in the yard was heaped with logs, and the baskets indoors with kindling; candles, both beeswax and tallow, were stored against the dark evenings and sunless days.

  The servants had received presents on St Stephen’s Day, mostly of clothing. Alice, so newly come to Weston and not a bound servant, was surprised and pleased to receive a gift of a pair of blue woollen stockings. During the days that followed there was plenty of merrymaking, and – until the snow set in – visitors coming and going. One of these was an elderly neighbour and widower, Sir Walter Clare, who, Alice noticed, paid particularly courteous attention to Christian.

  Twelfth Night was the last great day of feasting. Christian told Alice that before the war they would have had a houseful of guests, the gentry from all around. Even so, it seemed grand to Alice. Lady Weston had hired musicians, and everyone danced and joined in the feasting. At dinner Mistress Florey carried in a Twelfth Night cake, baked with ginger, honey and cinnamon. Somewhere inside it was hidden a dried bean, and whoever found the bean would be king or queen of the revels. Mistress Florey cut the cake and made sure that everyone took a slice. Almost at once shy Bess found the bean and, in terror at the thought of being the centre of attention, put it back in and pushed her plate away, declaring that she wasn’t hungry.

  “Oh, Bessy!” exclaimed Joan. “Now everyone knows where it is!”

  But it didn’t matter. The young groom, Tom Pether, exchanged slices with Bess, brought out the bean with a flourish, and was crowned king with a wreath of ivy and a velvet cloak from the storeroom. Enthroned on a chair, he commanded, as if born to it, an evening of music, dancing and spiced wine, as well as a number of games of the kind that involved hiding and chasing.

  Because this was a night when order was overthrown, Lady Weston danced with old Tobias Fairthorne, the head groom; and Lady Grace with Lucas Rowles. Alice was grabbed by Tom, who kissed her clumsily under the mistletoe. Nine-year-old Walter Nevell danced with young Anne Florey, the cook’s niece, who helped out in the kitchen. Even the three little boys joined in. Alice found herself partnered by five-year-old Martin in his petticoats, and saw Mistress Florey holding the hands of baby John, who could not yet walk more than a few steps.

  “None to dance with but boys and old ’uns!” said Joan. “The war has taken all the men away.”

  The evening ended late, with songs and kisses and wassails, and then they all retired to bed. The bakehouse was snug against the winter cold, and the girls lay close together, chatting and giggling.

  “I reckon young Tom has a fancy for you, Alice,” said Joan.

  “What? He’s only fourteen!”

  “That don’t stop ’em!”

  They laughed, and Bess said, “You’ve taken his eye for sure. He’s a well-enough-looking lad.”

  Joan lay flat, giggling from too much wine. “No. Little Master Martin. He’s the one for me.”

  They subsided and drifted towards sleep, until Bess groaned, “Oh, that spiced pudding…” and stumbled out to the yard to be sick.

  The next day order was restored. The ladies lay late in bed with headaches while the servants swept and cleaned and threw out the greenery or burned it on the fire. There was plenty of rich food left, but nobody fancied it.

  “Lady Weston will send some down to the village, for the poor,” said Mistress Florey, “if Rye can get through the drifts.”

  Rye was one of the six horses kept at the house. Lady Weston’s own mount was Amor, a bay; Christian, when she needed to ride, rode Capel. There were more horses at the home farm, half a mile away.

  Weston Hall, cut off now by the snow, was self-sufficient. Alice knew that there was no possibility of Robin coming to Copsey until the weather changed, and so, as January went by, she allowed herself to be happy. She grew to love the house, which always felt welcoming. It was built of warm golden stone, only two storeys high but with gabled attics; not a great house, but a comfortable home, built by Lady Weston’s grandfather after he was knighted by Queen Elizabeth.

  She worked steadily with Christian in the still room, making remedies for winter ills. Lucas Rowles had developed a cough that racked him at nights, and Tobias Fairthorne and Lady Weston both suffered with the aches and pains of old age. The children all caught colds, and their mother watched them fearfully for signs of fever. Alice learned how to make a simple cough syrup for the children, and a more powerful one for Lucas using powdered betony and caraway. Using her father’s notes, she also experimented with a salve containing mustard, vinegar and honey, which Lady Weston said eased the pain in her hip.

  “You are a great help to me, Alice,” said Christian. “You have a gift for this work.”

  Alice knew it was true. She seemed to have an instinct for what might be troubling someone and what would be the best remedy to try. When she made tisanes or poultices for the family, it was gratifying to see the comfort they gained from them; and she loved the cleanliness and order of the still room. She was a servant here, but not a menial; she knew Christian respected and valued her. She settled into the routine of the work and went about it happily, sometimes singing as she chopped, ground or sieved.

  Christian asked one day, “What’s that you’re singing? What language?”

  “Oh – it’s Welsh.” Alice had woken that morning with the tune on her mind and it would not leave her. It was the song about the girl refusing to sell her sweetheart’s shirt. She remembered singing it with Nia as they washed clothes in a stream, and now she felt a pang of sadness that she had not seen her friend for so long, and did not know if she was well.

  “It’s a song about staying faithful,” she said.

  1645-1646

  Fourteen

  “King’s men, or Parliament’s, do you reckon?” the woman asked, leaning on her gate.

  Alice, on her way back from the draper’s shop, had paused near the turning to Weston Hall to gaze across the fields at a line of horsemen riding by. Sunlight flashed on their weapons and harness.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “They all look the same.”

  And yet… She glanced at them again. There was something about the orderly way this group rode that made her think they might be Parliament men; and when a faint sound of singing was carried towards her on the wind she knew she was right. The song had the plodding simplicity of a hymn. Perhaps these were soldiers from the New Model Army – the new Parliamentarian force they had all been hearing about: professional soldiers, godly men, who believed in the righteousness of their cause and sang hymns as they marched along.

  “There have been troops all around, these last few days,” the woman said. “Th
ey say the armies will soon be on the move again.”

  Her words stirred a restlessness that had been growing in Alice. Much as she loved Weston Hall, she knew she could not stay there much longer. It was late April. The king’s army would move on, and Nia would go with it. Alice missed Nia, the closest friend she had ever had. She missed their easy-going companionship, the songs and laughter, being together in the same daily struggle for survival. The long march, with its pleasures and hardships, had forged a stronger bond between them than she could feel for Joan or Bess at the Hall. And Christian, though in many ways a friend, was a member of the gentry, and Alice was her servant; their relationship could never truly be one of equals. Nia must be near her time now, Alice knew; and she remembered how sadly they had parted, and the promise she had made to her friend that she would be there with her when the child was born.

  Alice had told Christian and the maids about Nia. But Nia was not the only reason she needed to return to the army. There was also Robin. These days the thought of Robin aroused in her a mixture of grief, resignation and anger – but mostly anger. For all he knew, she thought bitterly, she was nearly seven months gone with child, her shame visible to everyone; prey to the gossip of the villagers and with no one to protect her. She had long since ceased to meet the army carrier when it arrived at the King’s Arms, or to hope that Robin would appear, asking for her, at Weston Hall, dazzling the other girls with his dark, handsome looks. She knew the most likely reason why he had not come lay in the purse full of coins she still carried under her skirts: he had paid her off and abandoned her. The money was to assuage his guilt at leaving her with child. That was what Lady Weston and Mistress Florey and Christian and the maids all believed, and no doubt they were right. But she could never be certain. The country was at war; there was plague in Oxford; disease and danger were all around. She could not forget the baker’s lad she had once been fond of, back at Tor Farm, how hurt she’d felt when he no longer sought her out; and then how she’d heard he had fallen ill and died of a fever. She could be wronging Robin. I have to know, she thought; I have to find out, be sure.

  She took the turning that led back to the Hall. On the fringes of Weston’s woodland she found violets growing, and gathered a posy and tucked it into the neck of her gown. Christian had said they might go out collecting flowers and leaves tomorrow, if the weather was fine, as it promised to be. The air smelt sweet and summery, and lifted her spirits.

  She was up early next morning, so early that Bess and Joan were still slumbering on the bakehouse mattresses. She dressed in a gown of fine blue wool, a cast-off of Christian’s that she liked for its graceful shape and the low neckline that made her feel womanly.

  Last night’s fire was cold in the kitchen grate. A cat uncurled itself from the hearth, stretched, and came to rub hopefully against her leg.

  “Not now, puss,” she said. “Talk to Mistress Florey when she comes in.”

  She went into the pantry and poured herself a cup of milk, then relented and gave some to the cat before joining Christian in the still room.

  “It’s going to be a perfect day.” Christian prepared two flat baskets, lining them with clean linen, tied in place. Alice remembered her father explaining how much care should be taken to ensure that the flowers and leaves were not bruised or tangled.

  They waited until the sun was high enough to have dried up the dew.

  “We’ll start with the meadow at the edge of the woods,” said Christian, “and work our way down to the brook.”

  They stepped outside, into the cool, bright morning. Bess was in the yard, tossing grain to the hens, calling each bird by name. She bobbed a curtsey as Christian passed. Alice could hear movements from within the stables: a soft knocking on wood, a whinny, rustlings of straw. The distant clamour of geese sounded from the home farm.

  At the top end of the meadow, near the woodland, were primroses and violets. They gathered leaves and flowers, laying them carefully on the linen. Christian took several whole primroses, root as well as flower. The root would make a decoction for the coughs and colds that still plagued the household; and the flowers were used in remedies and could also be crystallized to decorate cakes.

  As the sun rose higher they grew warm. The work was tiring, despite its seeming delicacy, for they had to dig and clamber about in woodland and through the long grass of the meadow.

  “We’ll go down towards the brook,” said Christian. “I want to cut some willow bark. It eases pain and brings down a fever – but you would know that, I’m sure?”

  Alice did. But she did not remember everything her father had taught her. It was so long ago, and she’d had only occasional need for such knowledge since. Christian, however, had been reading William Newcombe’s book, taking notes from it to add to her own collection of remedies, and their discussions had rekindled Alice’s interest.

  By the water they found yellow flag, not yet in flower. Willows shaded the bank, and Christian set to work with her knife, taking only a little bark from the smaller branches on each tree. They were distracted by the sight of a mother duck followed by a flotilla of fluffy brown and yellow ducklings. One duckling was left behind, paddling hard to catch up, and cheeping.

  They both watched a moment, listening to the duckling, willing it on. Another sound was carried on the breeze: a distant whinny. It came again, louder.

  Christian glanced back at the house. “That sounds like Capel. What’s got into him?”

  Then they heard barking, and shouts – men’s voices, but not Tom’s, nor old Tobias’s. This was someone shouting orders. Alice felt a stab of alarm, and saw her own fear reflected in Christian’s face.

  “Come!” said Christian.

  She began walking back up the sloping field, and Alice followed. As the house came into view they saw movement: horses, men – more men than lived at Weston Hall. These were soldiers. They could tell that from the harsh commands even before they caught a glimpse of helmets, buff coats, the glint of a sword. Alice and Christian started to run, catching up their long skirts and stumbling over the uneven ground. They arrived, breathless, in the yard, to see soldiers all around, the stable doors open, horses being led out. Tom was trying to block the way to the stalls, and Lady Weston stood protesting.

  “These are my own horses! They are not trained for war. You cannot leave us here without a horse!” She held on to Amor’s bridle while the dogs barked and snapped at the soldiers’ boots.

  Their leader was a stern-faced young man with a fair moustache. “The horses are requisitioned by Parliament,” he said. “We will pay you for any we take. But we need more. We understood that you had officers from the king’s army quartered here?”

  “You were misinformed,” said Lady Weston. “We have no soldiers here, and no garrison to protect us. There was sickness, and the officers were sent elsewhere.”

  “Then we will see to it that you keep some of your animals…”

  Alice heard no more, because Christian said, “Alice, take my basket and yours, and put them safely in the still room.” She added in a low voice, “And find out what’s happening in the kitchen. They are sure to be in search of food.”

  Alice nodded, and hurried indoors. The back door led into the passage between the kitchen and hall. In the kitchen, to her left, she heard voices raised in argument – Mistress Florey’s, Joan’s, and a man’s – and was about to go in there, when she caught a glimpse of movement in the hall. Two soldiers were rough-handling something. She heard cracking sounds.

  She rushed in. “What are you doing?”

  For answer the nearest man pulled down a painting from the wall, flung it to the floor and trampled it. He turned on Alice, snarling ugly words like “malignants”, “papists” and “idolatrous”.

  “No! Leave it!” Alice put down her baskets on the table and ran to defend the painting. It was of Mary Magdalene and Mary the mother of Jesus at the entrance to Christ’s tomb, and had been hanging there ever since she came to Weston, and pr
obably for long before. She threw herself at the man, who held her off easily with one hand. The frame snapped under his boots and she saw a split appear in the canvas.

  “Idolatry and superstition,” he said. “It should be burnt, along with the others.” He looked at her with disgust. “And you, mistress, in your wanton gown, should be brought to repentance.”

  Alice stepped back, momentarily shocked and frightened by this attack. But the other man was on the stairs. He had pulled down two more religious paintings and now he tossed them over the banisters.

  “Stop! You can’t do this! Get out of here!” she shouted, goaded into fury again.

  They ignored her, broke up the paintings and carried them out into the front yard.

  Alice ran back to the stables. Their leader was still there, negotiating with Lady Weston. In her distress Alice forgot all deference to her employer, and pushed between them. “Captain! Your men are all over the house, pulling down paintings and destroying them—”

  “Paintings?” Lady Weston looked alarmed.

  “The Magdalene,” said Alice, “and two others, on the stairs—”

  “The trappings of popery are banned—” the officer began, but Alice interrupted him.

  “Not here, surely? Not in the house!” She felt outrage that this house, which had taken her in and sheltered her, should be violated by such men. “This is Lady Weston’s home! Her family have lived here since Queen Elizabeth’s time. She has been good to me. I won’t let you destroy her home. You are responsible for those men. Get them out of there!”

  He looked taken aback at her outburst. But before he could respond, there was a crash of breaking glass, and fragments flew from one of the chapel windows and scattered in shards across the stones.

  The horses shied. Christian, who had been showered with glass, screamed and staggered, blood springing on her arms and face. Lady Weston ran to help her.

  The officer leapt into action. He raced towards the chapel, where more sounds of destruction could be heard. As he ran inside Alice heard shouting, argument and remonstrance. She found that she was shaking. She turned to Christian, now the centre of a concerned group.