Heartbeat of the Moon

by Jennifer Taylor

  Maggie’s fists tightened at her sides. She must calm herself. It would serve no one to engage the woman in an altercation, and getting angry could endanger the baby’s health… Ian didn’t seem the slightest bit perturbed. The woman defended the man who’d been so busy taking bribes last year, hence the name “Full-Pocket Pete,” he couldn’t be bothered with bringing to justice the blackguard who’d nearly buried her sister alive.

  Mrs. Stowe’s next statement snapped Maggie out of her reverie.

  “My poor boy has the most terrible pains in his hand, since his unfortunate victimization.”

  She should just leave so she didn’t have to hear this rubbish.

  Mrs. Stowe continued. “And the spot where his thumb was, it aches, as if it is still there. He cries and moans so.”

  “Hmm,” Ian said. “Let me think.”

  “He has not even been able to work, so fearful have the pains been.”

  Maggie knew why Ian turned his head to look at the drawers behind him. She could not hide her smile either. Pete Stowe spent his days at one of the ale houses, or the Siren Inn. His ability to provoke fisticuffs was not inhibited by his missing thumb and was equaled only by his ability to drink himself under the table.

  To be fair, no one deserved the torture Pete Stowe endured from Edward Carter. She had heard his screams when she and Sarah languished in the underground tunnel. And at times they still echoed in her dreams. Mrs. Stowe, Maggie surmised, blamed Maggie and Ian because of their connection with Edward Carter. But her son’s greed had been his undoing.

  Ian ground wood betony and wrapped it. “Seems to be a popular remedy today. It might give him some ease. One teaspoon in a cup of ale or wine.”

  “Oh, he does not partake, as a rule.”

  To give him credit, Ian’s expression did not alter in the least as they exchanged coins. Surely she was just trying to fool herself. “If you bring him in, I’ll look at his hand. Perhaps I can be of help.”

  “Oh, it’s not necessary. I am skilled at nursing my boy.”

  Maggie stifled her laugh with a cough. No truer words were spoken, for though he was a full grown man, his mother still held him as close as an infant on her teat.

  “Thank you, my lady.” Ian bowed.

  She ignored them both and stalked out the door.

  Maggie blew out a breath. “Why does she continue to blame us for her son’s dishonesty and shiftlessness?”

  “A mother’s affection?” Ian shrugged.

  “Misplaced motherly love can be as crippling as a missing finger,” Maggie said.

  “How did you get so wise, my heart?”

  “Mayhap it comes from having no mother to be wise for me.”

  He nodded, laying his hand upon her head in sympathy. “The Stowe family always did like to hold a grudge.”

  “Yes, old Mr. Stowe never did forgive Pete for his lack of work ethic, and you can’t blame him for growing fond of Josef. I hear he was like a son to Mr. Stowe.”

  “Josef worked for Mr. Stowe way past the terms of his indenture and was a hard worker.” Ian’s eyes grew dark as a storm-churned sea. “I remember how Josef used to come here with bruises from Mrs. Stowe. He suffered so, and my mother’s tender ministrations softened the way for him on a regular basis.” He brightened. “She always tried to get him to wash behind his ears.”

  “She tried but did not succeed.” Maggie smiled and kissed Ian behind the ear. “I’m glad she succeeded with you.” She breathed in the bayberry scent and forced herself to break away from him. “I must go.”

  He held the door open for her. “Take care, my beauty. And heed what I said about the road to McCall’s.”

  She nodded and set off, both amused and peeved at his concern. Had she not taken care of herself while he was gone? Was she now helpless just because he’d returned?

  Chapter Five

  If she had a farthing for every time she had to search for her worthless son…and of all places for him to be lurking. Margaret Stowe avoided the eyes of a group of merchants sitting at a table by the door of the Siren Inn. How could Pete shame the family by abiding here? Look at them laughing. See how they made sport of her, entering her former home, and what manner of son she must have who would lose the family inn, and then return there for a glass of ale. Her face burned with embarrassment. She had not set foot in the place since they’d had to vacate. She blinked her eyes to rid herself of the flush of shame and took comfort in her smoldering rage. The humiliation!

  There he was, in the corner, leaning against the wall like a ne’er-do-well. She motioned for him to rise, but he buried his face in his ale. He either pretended not to see her, or blatantly ignored her, she couldn’t tell which. Just a year ago, he was a proud man, the constable, not exactly the proprietor of the most popular inn in town, but at least she could hold her head up high. At least he had some influence then.

  The insolence of the lad, ignoring her. She grasped his arm. “Did I not tell you to purchase a cut of meat for dinner while I went to the apothecary shoppe?”

  “My thumb was paining me, and I thought some ale would help.” He pulled his arm out of her grasp. “Must you scold me like a child, Mother?”

  “Do not act like one.” She sniffed. “It’s little I ask of you.”

  “I am not a housemaid to be sent on errands.”

  “No, you’re more useless. And you will do as I ask. Your actions have reduced our means drastically,” she hissed.

  “You never cease to remind me of it.”

  “I’ll not spend another minute in this place.” She shuddered. “How can you come here, knowing it was once yours, and you gave it away?”

  He stared at her, eyes wide and unblinking. “The alewife makes the best beer in town.” He tipped his mug to her.

  “You know I never drink.”

  “Mayhap it might sweeten your disposition, Mother.”

  He made a big show of drinking the rest of his ale and put his payment on the table. He paid coin to a place rightfully theirs. Did it not bother him?

  “Mother, do you know you have a twitch? Below your right eye. Even in this dim light I can see it.”

  It was getting harder and harder to control him. “You impertinent sluggard. We are leaving now.”

  He stood, swaying.

  She put her arm in his and felt him stiffen. “I cannot fathom how you would make me come in here. Thank Providence the alewife and her husband are not around.”

  Once outside, she blinked against the light. He looked for all the world like a dutiful son, holding onto her arm, assisting her like any fine gentleman would. Little did these ignorant bumpkins know she held the drunken sot up. She would not have him shame her in the street. How many mugs of ale had he managed to drink?

  “You should have seen the apothecary and his wife today. No shame. All over each other like rutting beasts. And treating me like any other customer, not the least bit apologetic for ruining your life. Had it not been for them meddling in Edward Carter’s affairs, you would not have landed in the dungeon and suffered so, my poor boy.”

  “Mother. I’m a man, not a boy. Can we not move toward the future and put the past to rest?”

  She must tamp down her rage. It did not help to lose control. “A man does not give away his birthright in a card game.”

  “When will you forgive me for a mistake I made when not in my right mind?”

  “Because you were drunk? I’ll forgive you when you redeem yourself.” She drew away from him to make her point.

  “Did you hear about the alewife’s husband? He claims his nephew will rise from the grave as a monster.”

  “Really? How ridiculous.” She stopped. Was the esteemed owner of the Siren Inn, the boot-licking indentured servant, losing his mind? Intriguing, and full of possibilities. “What else did you hear?”

  He cocked his head. “Something about spreading seeds about. I don’t know, Mother. I wasn’t listening.” He grasped his hand. “The pain.”

  �
�Be a man. It’s a thumb, not a leg.” He looked every bit like a little boy who’d gotten his ears boxed. God knew it happened often enough.

  They had reached the kirkyard at St. Agnes’ church.

  Old Widow Jenkins appeared, making her way between the gravestones.

  Margaret put her arm through her son’s again, leaning toward him solicitously and suddenly raised her voice. “I will treat your thumb with the herbs the apothecary gave you. Do not despair.”

  He’d better get the insolent grin off his face, or she’d slap it off.

  “Good morrow, Mrs. Jenkins,” she called.

  The old woman glanced up. “Good morrow, Mrs. Stowe. I was just paying me respects to Mr. Jenkins, God rest his soul.” She eyed the two of them up and down, eyes rheumy but alert. “What brings you out this morning?”

  “My son’s wound is troubling him. We visited the apothecary to find a remedy.” She glanced at Pete. “Then I thought we’d pay a visit to the vicar to discuss the troubling, and quite frightening rumors about Mr. Josef’s nephew dying.”

  “Oh, aye, I’ve heard my share of tongue-wagging already this morn.”

  Mrs. Stowe stepped forward, so close she could see the rotten black pillars of Mrs. Jenkin’s bottom teeth.

  “You wouldn’t be paying those tongue waggers any mind, would you? Seems not long ago the gossip was about your son.”

  The backs of her eyelids burned as the visage of the old woman faded and turned to red, the black-red of her gnarled hands pressed on the hot coals, the screams, hoarse with fear and pain. She smiled. Better.

  Would the crone never cease her yapping?

  “Lena is a good woman, kind to me she is. Her man as well, though he doesn’t say much. Mayhap the shock of his nephew dying has addled him.”

  “This morning I heard tell he saw Satan, in his homeland of Bohemia.” Nice touch.

  “Oh?” Mrs. Jenkin’s eyes lit up. Her wrinkled lips moved, mouthing the words so she could repeat them, no doubt. “Ooh, how frightening.”

  At least the old woman would set more tongues wagging over her last tidbit. What else could she, a mere woman, do to get their rightful property back?

  “Where are we going, Mother? I thought we were headed to see the vicar. He’s always kind to me, though he’s a bit daft.”

  “No, it’s not important.”

  Pete moaned and listed sideways. Why had God forsaken her by giving her such a weak son? Must it be up to her to regain the family pride?

  “Look,” she said. “There’s the midwife, grinning like a fool. What do you suppose she’s so happy about, the little doxy?”

  Pete righted himself. “Well, I wouldn’t say she’s a doxy.”

  “Oh shut up.”

  Chapter Six

  Maggie stopped for a moment, holding her face up to the sun tucked amidst the grey clouds. Ian was home, and she could not stop the joy from singing within her and putting a smile on her face. She straightened her features. It would not do for people to see her look too happy. They would know exactly what she had been doing with him.

  The town of King’s Harbour sat upon a hill overlooking the sea with the church of St. Agnes the Virgin at the top. She and Ian lived on Market Street, a short walk to the docks.

  The muscles in her calves pulled as she climbed the steep hill and stood near the church to catch her breath. She then hastened her speed downhill, to the ancient Landgate out of town. It towered over her, formidable in what it had witnessed in over five hundred years, holding within its stone the scent of fire and strife from the French, darkness and fear, lives loved and lost.

  She hurried out the other side and shrugged off her fanciful self like an itchy cloak; mayhap her uneasiness was due to the burial and Josef’s grief. She picked her way down the heavily rutted road, travelled for hundreds of years by merchants and even the occasional monarch. She kept a wary eye out for ne’er-do-wells, those who would rob her of coin and take pleasure from her fear. It was easy enough for them to slip into a boat and escape into the blue.

  And what a rare blue sky today! She let the breeze cool her cheeks. Her heart lightened despite the strange and sobering burial. Ian had returned. Not accustomed to feeling joy, other than the simple pleasure of a good meal, or the exultation of a child safely brought into the world, she had gone her whole life without feeling the heartbeat in her throat that came with merely meeting his eye, the joy of joining flesh with him, rising in passion. She had gone her life without feeling such pleasure. And once experienced, she could not do without it.

  Still deep in thought, she crossed the bridge. Her foot sank into a soft spot in the wood, and she extricated it carefully from the hole. She should take more care. It was a wonder she hadn’t sprained her ankle, or hurt the babe. Why the bridge was still there, she did not know, as it served no purpose, merely arched over a long dried-up river leading to the sea.

  It felt good to stretch her legs; she was sore in spots she had not been for a while. She forced herself to slow her pace, for after this much walking, her limp became more pronounced. It was a daily reminder of a midwife’s incompetence during her own birth, and a constant reminder to take care with her patients. Maggie had emerged feet first, and the impatient midwife had pulled her out by one foot, giving her a permanent injury.

  She took a small rutted side road into a wooded area, following the sound of bleating sheep. She walked along a row of cottages with parcels of land behind them. The McCall family had an ideal situation, with their house at the end of the road, giving them more land to farm their sheep.

  The sounds of children at play greeted her as she reached the McCall’s cottage. They played in the field behind the small dwelling. She stopped for a moment to view the scene. A burly sheepdog, white spotted with black, romped in the field with four children. The youngest, Thomas, barely one-year-old, tried to follow his older brothers and sisters, who were calling the dog in turn, so he would chase them. The poor little lad, curls bouncing, tumbled down, and upon hearing his cry, the sheepdog returned and prodded him up with his nose, cropped tail wagging. The baby grabbed him by his ears and rubbed his face upon the dog’s muzzle. The dog in turn licked Thomas, causing him to sputter and giggle.

  The dog stayed with the tot until he was running again, leading strings flapping behind him, and herded him toward his siblings. Tall Katherine no doubt suddenly remembered her duties as the eldest, stopped short, resulting in knocking down her brother behind her. Before she could reach down and help him, the dog came along and nudged him up.

  Maggie smiled. The sheepdog was a competent nursemaid indeed.

  Mr. McCall leaned against the fence, his eyes alight on the children, ruddy face beaming. “Mistress Maggie! Have you come to see my wife, then?” With obvious effort, he rose and caught his breath as he put weight on one slightly bowed leg.

  “Are you injured?”

  He grinned beneath his red beard. “Oh no, I’m right enough. Bit of a tussle with my old tup. Nasty disposition, but the ewes cater to him, they do. It’s the only thing keeping him from being mutton this winter. Ach, I’m sorry. I have you standing out here, and ye’ve got yer basket and all.” He was a stocky man, well-built and vigorous.

  “I would swear young Katherine is growing taller on a daily basis,” Maggie said. “I saw her a fortnight ago, and she seems to have grown two inches.”

  “Aye, she eats like a draft horse, my lass does.” He beamed with pride, ruddy cheeks glowing. He shifted his weight on his leg.

  “You will let my husband know if your leg doesn’t improve, won’t you?”

  “Ah, he’s back, then? Jolly good!” Adam and Ian had been friends since childhood.

  He bowed slightly, wincing as he did so. “I thank you, Mistress Maggie, but I’m sure I’ll be fine in no time. It’s my wife I’m worried about.” He rested his hand on the door knob, and lowered his voice. “She’s big as a barn door. I’ve never seen the likes of it, even in my biggest ewes.”

  She
snorted. “I can see why you whisper.”

  “Yes, she wouldn’t be fond of hearing the comparison.”

  “Don’t worry, Mr. McCall, a woman in travail can do astonishing things, and your wife has delivered of four robust children.”

  Adam smiled. How very satisfying when a few words of encouragement could lift an expectant father’s spirit so.

  Just then, the door opened and Bethan, Polly’s sister appeared. “Mistress Maggie, how good it is to see you!”

  Bethan embraced her, squeezing her so hard she squeaked.

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I don’t know my own strength sometimes.”

  Maggie had to crick her head to meet the young woman’s flashing blue eyes. Bethan was certainly tall for a woman, as was her identical twin, Elunid. Her glossy brown hair pulled up in a simple chignon accentuated her widow’s peak and arched brows.

  “Oh! Congratulations on your pregnancy.”

  “Thank you, Bethan. How fares your sister?”

  Bethan bent slightly to whisper in Maggie’s ear. “She frightens me. She’s so immense.”

  Maggie laughed. “Bethan!” Honestly, the girl became more impertinent with every visit, but she could not help but be drawn to her like a flower leans toward the sun. How could she be so joyful, with the burden of her sister always upon her shoulders? One twin was perfectly sound in mind, and the other without an anchor to sanity.

  “Is your twin inside?”

  “No, Elunid left shortly after dawn this morning, in search of inspiration for her new needlework. She said she must finish it soon, for they were demanding it.”

  “They? Who?”

  Bethan grimaced. “She is convinced she pays penance, for what sin I do not know. But it does no good to convince her otherwise. She’ll return when she finds what she’s looking for.” She straightened her shoulders. “That’s Elunid. There is no changing her.”

  Maggie nodded.

  “But I apologize.” Bethan put her hand on the door knob. “I am keeping you from tending to my sister.” She smacked her hand on her forehead. “Oh! Elunid is almost out of thread. I must get some for her today.”