Betrayal (The Fenland Series Book 2)

by Ann Swinfen

  For three weeks, Anthony spent his every free hour searching the Rolls House. The longer he searched, the more grimly determined he became to find the charter. The last of the snow thawed and the days turned slightly warmer. Snowdrops and crocuses began to show their faces in Gray’s Walks. Anthony continued to search.

  But he found no sign of the charter.

  Chapter Five

  Mercy

  My hands were covered in blood and the damp scrap of wool and bone lay lifeless in on the straw. Another lamb lost. That made four today alone. You must not weep when an animal dies, else how can you call yourself a farmer? Yet the tears were running down my face and I could not check them. I laid the dead lamb aside and scrubbed at my hands with a fistful of straw. My very skin seemed ingrained with the blood. The ewe had lost more than normal. There was nothing I could do for the lamb, but I must care for the ewe, who lay exhausted and motionless in front of me where I knelt on the barn floor. God grant we had not lost her as well.

  Nehemiah gave me a sympathetic look from where he was bent over another labouring ewe, but there was nothing he could say. There seemed no reason for the stillbirths, yet we had already had seven. There had been no chance to go into the village to discover whether others were likewise blighted. All the sheep had been together in the glebe lands until they were driven back to their own farms in time for lambing, so I did not know whether some disease had afflicted all the sheep of the village or only mine.

  The ewe stirred slightly, so she was not dead, but she was too weak to get to her feet. She had passed the afterbirth, so I swabbed her with warm water, then helped her rise. She drank a little water, then sank down again, glancing over her shoulder in a desultory way, as if she were looking for her lamb. She was three years old and had given birth before, but seemed to know instinctively that all was not well this time. She lay on her side, but was breathing normally, so I went over to see whether Nehemiah needed help.

  This lamb slithered out easily, unlike the one I had just delivered. It was small, but its legs moved, and when Nehemiah wiped its muzzle free of blood and slime, it gave a faint cry. He laid it down beside its mother and the ewe began to lick it.

  ‘Thank God,’ I said. ‘One survivor at least.’

  Nehemiah sank back on his heels with a groan. ‘I cannot make it out, Mistress Mercy. The ewes seem healthy enough, though something thin with the poor feeding this year, but I cannot guess why we are losing the lambs. I’m no stockman, you know that. I’m an eel man. You need to talk to Jack Sawyer. He’s your man for the sheep.’

  I nodded dumbly, and rubbed my sleeve across my face.

  ‘I will see him when I can. Perhaps this evening. Is it evening yet?’ I had lost all count of time. ‘I don’t think there are any more ewes due now, do you? I think you should take some rest. You were up all night.’

  He stood up, stretching and yawning. ‘I’ll take a bite and sup, then I’ll bed down in the straw here by the sheep fold. I’ll soon wake if one of the ewes is in distress.’

  I scrambled to my feet. I was stiff too, and my right leg was numb. I could see now, by the light filtering through the half open barn door, that it was late afternoon.

  ‘Kitty was to come for the milking,’ I said, realising that the cows were becoming restless. ‘And she was to bring us some food. Do you start the milking and I will fetch us something to eat, then lend you a hand. Where can the girl have got to?’

  Nehemiah fetched bucket and milking stool, while I hobbled across the yard to the house, as feeling came back to my leg and turned to cramp. I was worried that something I was doing wrong was causing the deaths of the lambs. I could not expect Nehemiah to know, for as he said, he was a waterman first and foremost. Until he had come to live on the farm last year he had had little to do with livestock. My father and brother had cared for his few beasts in return for the fish and wildfowl he supplied to us. Those few beasts of his had been stolen by the drainers last summer.

  I had never been in charge of the lambing before. Last spring Father and Tom had seen to it, as they had every year for as far back as I could remember. I had helped only occasionally, when there was a sudden rush of lambs all at once. I knew what to do in simple cases, but if a lamb presented awkwardly, I would be in trouble. Yet I could not see how my inexperience could be blamed for this spring’s losses. The lambs had been dead before birth. After the milking, I would ride to the village and speak to Jack. Perhaps he would know the answer.

  The house was very quiet. The soldiers had been ordered over to Crowthorne this morning, for some kind of military training, and two days earlier Griet and Hans had moved back to the village. They now had a simple cottage there, with very little furniture, but Hans was eager to make a start on his vegetable growing. I was missing Griet. Somehow having her there about the house had made me feel less burdened. She did more than her share of the household tasks, leaving me free to manage the farm. And with Gideon still away, I was grateful for her companionship.

  My mother was probably asleep upstairs. In the mornings she was wakeful and would spin or weave, or even sometimes make bread, but by the afternoon she was tired and would retire to her chamber, often sleeping for the rest of the day. But where was Kitty? It was not like her to have fallen behind with her tasks. Young as she was, she was sensible and reliable.

  ‘Kitty!’ I called as I entered the kitchen. ‘Where are you, child?’

  I did not see her at first, for the light was beginning to go. She was sitting at the kitchen table, slumped forward, with her head resting on her folded arms, and seemed to be asleep.

  ‘Kitty!’ I shook her by the shoulder. ‘Wake up! What are you about, sleeping in the middle of the working day?’

  She lifted her head slowly and gazed at me with eyes that did not quite focus. I saw then that her hair was damp, clinging to her forehead, and she was very flushed.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mistress Mercy,’ she said, ‘only I had such a headache. I just sat down for a minute to rest it. Is it time for the milking?’

  Her words were slightly slurred and she shivered suddenly. I laid my hand on her brow. She was on fire.

  ‘Heavens, child, you are burning up! When did this start?’

  ‘I did not feel quite right yesterday, mistress, but I did not want to worry you, what with the lambing and Master Gideon being away. I shall be all right, only my head aches so.’

  ‘You are going to bed,’ I said firmly. ‘Here, you can use your old room off the kitchen. That way I can keep an eye on you. Come with me.’

  She protested, but I steered her across the kitchen and into the little room which had once been hers, before it had been used for one invalid after another. She sat down heavily on the bed and her eyes took on that wandering look again. I left her there, while I ran up to our shared room to fetch her night shift.

  She let me undress her and put her to bed, as unresisting and helpless as a cloth doll. Although she had been sweating profusely when I first found her, she was now shivering, her teeth chattering together.

  ‘Tell me what else is amiss,’ I said, taking hold of her hand and pressing it, as if that way I could gather her wits together.

  ‘My arms and legs hurt.’ She frowned. ‘As though I had been working very hard, but I haven’t, have I, mistress? And this morning–’ she gave me a pleading look, ‘this morning I brought my breakfast back up, but I managed to get to the midden in time.’

  ‘Why did you not tell me? You foolish girl, you should not keep such a thing to yourself.’ I patted her arm, so that she would know that I was not really angry.

  ‘You were so worried with the lambing, and with Master Gideon being gone so long, I did not want to trouble you.’

  She began to shake again. I tucked the bedclothes around her.

  ‘Keep as warm as you can,’ I said. ‘I left Nehemiah doing the milking on his own. He will wonder what has become of me. I must take him some food and help him finish the milking, then I will come back and hea
t a stone for your feet. I have something which will ease your headache as well, with feverfew and poppy juice. You should have told me, not suffered like this without a word.’

  I quickly made up a meal in a basket for Nehemiah, with bread and cold bacon, some dried apple rings and a flask of my ale. When I reached the barn, he had nearly finished the milking.

  ‘I am sorry,’ I said, setting down the basket on a shelf. ‘I found Kitty ill and put her to bed.’

  He looked up, though his hands went on milking.

  ‘Kitty is never ill.’

  ‘She is this time. Feverish and then cold. A terrible headache and pains in her arms and legs.’

  He let out his breath in a soundless whistle, then picked up his bucket and stool and moved to the last cow.

  ‘Marsh fever, do you think, Mistress Mercy?’

  ‘I am afraid it may be. I will go back to her now, but I still want to ride over to Jack’s. I wish Griet were still here, to sit with her.’

  ‘Do you want me to?’

  ‘Nay, you must get some sleep. You have been awake for two days and a night. I won’t tarry with Jack.’

  Back in the house I warmed a stone and wrapped it in an old towel to put by Kitty’s feet. The last time I remembered doing that in this little room was when Gideon was so ill after being beaten by the rogue soldiers, set on by Edmund Dillingworth. Kitty was thrashing about in the bed, shaking uncontrollably, so I tucked her in firmly and went to fetch the feverfew tonic. The herb is excellent in the case of severe headaches. Pounded and mixed with poppy juice it should ease her pains and perhaps stop the sweats. If it was marsh fever, she would alternate every few hours between burning up and shaking with cold. Someone should really sit with her, but my mother was not able and I would be needed with the lambing and all the other farm work. Even the soldiers were likely to be away for a few days. I wondered whether I could ask Griet to come. I would not ask Alice, for the last time I had seen her she had confided that she was expecting another child. I could not risk her catching marsh fever and losing the baby.

  Kitty seemed barely conscious when I brought her the tonic, and threw her head from side to side as I tried to persuade her to drink it, but in the end, as I held her up with my arm around her shoulders, most of it went down her throat and only a little splashed on to her shift and the bedclothes.

  As soon as I had made her as comfortable as I could, I went back to the barn and saddled Blaze. Nehemiah had taken my advice and was curled up in the straw just outside the enclosure we make with hurdles for the ewes when they are dropping their lambs. He was snoring softly. I took a quick look at the sheep. The surviving lambs seemed well enough and none of the gravid ewes were showing signs of giving birth yet. I led Blaze out into the lane, mounted, and set off for the village.

  It seemed an ironic twist of fate that one minute I had a house so full of people that I was at my wits’ end trying to feed them all, and then just when I needed help, there was no one. Nehemiah and I were doing our best, but we needed someone else. Even the lad Ben could have helped with the lambing while I cared for Kitty. I would have sent for Joseph Waters, who often did occasional work on the farm, but I knew he was fully occupied in helping to build the new cottages.

  And where was Gideon? I had been pushing away the thought for days, but as I rode along the lane in the gathering dusk, I could not silence it any longer. He had said he would be gone a week or perhaps ten days, but it was more than three weeks now, with never a word from him. I could hardly bear to admit it, but he might have been arrested as a recusant priest – so the Puritans deemed those who retained the Anglican services of Queen Elizabeth. Or he might have fallen in with one army or the other and been pressed into service. In the early years of the war, he had served as a priest administering to the amateur soldiers of those days, an experience he had never forgotten, but if he concealed the nature of his calling, he might be forced to become a common fighting soldier. Between my anxiety for Kitty, the worry over the lambs, and the thoughts of Gideon that would not leave me, I was in a poor state when I reached the house where Jack lived with his widowed mother.

  The first person I saw was Alice.

  I threw my arms around her and began to weep. ‘I had forgotten that you were still living here. Oh, Alice, I am so glad to see you.’

  ‘What is the matter? Rafe, take the horse, will you? Come into the house, Mercy. Jack and his mother are there.’

  They were all about to sit down to supper and were insistent that I join them.

  ‘I cannot,’ I said. ‘There is the lambing. Nehemiah is taking his first rest for two days. I have my mother to see to. And now Kitty has fallen ill. I think it is marsh fever.’

  ‘Sit,’ Alice said, pressing down on my shoulders. ‘You can eat while you explain to us why you have come. I can tell by the merest look at you. You have not eaten all day.’

  ‘I broke my fast this morning,’ I objected, but the smell of bacon and onions was irresistible.

  Mistress Sawyer handed me a steaming plate. ‘Eat, Mercy. You will do no good to anyone if you do not eat. Alice has made a dried apple cobbler to follow. I am grown quite idle with her living here.’

  She smiled at Alice, who laughed and turned pink with pleasure. She received little enough praise from her mother-in-law when they were living at the Coxes’ house. She gathered little Huw on to her lap and began to feed him small spoonfuls of chopped up bacon. He was not yet a year old, but he was well grown and almost walking.

  As I ate, I realised that I had been nearly fainting with hunger. Jack’s mother was right. It was folly to neglect meals when I had so much labour on the farm.

  ‘I came really to see you, Jack,’ I said. ‘I am in trouble with the lambing. We have had seven lambs born dead already. I do not know what to do. I do not think it is my fault. The ewes seem healthy, though thin. I had just one bad delivery this afternoon. It lasted a long time and the ewe seems exhausted. It was another dead lamb.’

  I felt the tears welling up again and bent forward over my meal. I did not want Jack to despise me or think I was incapable of running Turbary Holm. Tom had entrusted the farm to me and I must show that I was worthy of that trust. But I was very tired.

  ‘Nay, Mercy,’ Jack said, ‘it is no fault of yours. I have had the same difficulty, and so have others. There are a large number of dead lambs this year. No one knows the reason. The ewes do not seem diseased, but there is certainly something amiss. Perhaps the water they drank was tainted by the flood. Perhaps some kind of parasite has got into the unborn lambs. Whatever the cause, we are all suffering.’

  ‘So there is nothing I can do?’

  ‘Nothing,’ he said grimly, ‘except endure and hope for a better time next year.’

  ‘We have lost lambs too,’ Rafe said. ‘If it was caused by the flood waters, that is something else to set against the drainers’ account.’

  There was hardly much comfort in this, but at least it showed that I had not caused the death of the lambs.

  ‘But young Kitty,’ Mistress Sawyer said, ‘do you truly think it is the marsh fever?’

  ‘By all the signs, aye.’

  She shook her head. ‘That is serious. At least she is young and healthy.’

  None of us said that after a hard winter on short rations, none of us was as healthy as we had been before. Two years ago there had been famine. Already this year the poor weather and the sodden ground had held up the spring planting. It might be another famine year. And if this was marsh fever . . . it could be fatal. Those who recovered were never quite rid of it, for it seemed to linger in the blood, to break out again, sometimes years later.

  ‘I will come back with you,’ Alice said, ‘and help with Kitty and your mother. I may leave Huw with you, Mistress Sawyer, may I not?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Nay.’ I shook my head. ‘I will not risk you taking the fever. Somehow I shall manage. I must get back to Kitty.’

  I started to rise, but Mi
stress Sawyer placed a bowl of the apple cobbler in front of me. ‘You shall finish your supper first,’ she said firmly. ‘I know Abigail would insist, if only the poor creature were her own true self still.’

  I felt a choking in my throat, thinking of my mother lost in her dark world, but I spooned up the cobbler as I was bid, though as speedily as I might. I was grateful for their kindness, but the longer I was away from the farm, the more worried I grew for Kitty. At last I was free to go.

  ‘We will put our heads together,’ Alice said, ‘and decide what we can do for you. It is a pity that you no longer have Griet with you.’

  ‘Aye. She was a great help to me.’

  ‘Is there still no word of Gideon?’

  ‘None.’

  Jack gave me a leg up on to Blaze.

  ‘I hope you do not have too many losses amongst your lambs, Mercy. We cannot know what is causing the trouble, but I am keeping the ewes who have had stillborn lambs separate from the others, lest there is some unseen illness spreading amongst them.’

  ‘Good advice, Jack. I shall do the same.’

  Back at the farm, I led Blaze into the barn and found Nehemiah still asleep, though he must have woken while I was away, for he had lit a candle lantern and hung it on a peg by the door. I could not separate the ewes now without disturbing him, but I would follow Jack’s suggestion and do so in the morning. I hurried to settle Blaze, then ran back to the kitchen.

  The only light was from the embers of the fire, so I hastily made it up and lit some candles. Carrying one, I went softly into the small chamber. Kitty was moaning and throwing off the bedclothes. Her fever was so high I could feel the heat streaming off her body when I was still several paces away. I removed the heated stone from the bed, though it had mostly cooled by now. I would need to bathe her with cold cloths to try to bring the fever down, but I must also think about my mother. She had eaten a meal prepared by Kitty at midday, before she retired to her chamber, but she usually grew wakeful around this time, and would often start wandering about the house during the night. In the dark she was liable to hurt herself, and I had taken to wedging two chairs across the top of the stairs, to prevent her falling down them. I dared not leave a candle with her, for fear she might set the house on fire. I slept poorly these days, half listening for her stumbling steps, then worrying even more when I heard nothing. Sometimes I would creep to her chamber door and listen, to be sure she was still breathing. Alice had told me she had done the same with Huw for weeks after he was born. What an inversion of life that I should now listen for my mother’s breathing.