North Side of the Tree

by Maggie Prince

  John returns with Cedric and my mother within the hour. By then my father is showing signs of wakening. Cedric administers an infusion of willow bark, hawthorn and motherwort, and asks Mother Bain to mix comfrey and mustard in with the poultices she is applying. My mother holds her husband’s hand, and weeps.

  “He’s not fit to be moved.” Cedric stands back and stares critically at his patient. “He’ll have to stay here for the time being. Is that all right, John?” Huge, bearded, fish-scented, the Cockleshell Man is lover to my elegant mother, and of late they have stopped bothering to conceal the fact. My mother was married to my father when she was sixteen, as I am now sixteen. Our lives have revolved about this union, and all that stemmed from it, for as long as I have lived. It frightens me that what was a secret liaison between Cedric and my mother is now known even to such people as Widow Brissenden. There is the feeling, this night, as I watch over my father into the small hours of the morning in Mother Bain’s hot little room behind the hearth, that certainties of all sorts are crumbling.

  Mother comes to relieve me as first light shows through the high window. Her face is puffed from weariness and weeping. She nods to me, and I am too tired to do more than kiss her cheek and leave, whilst behind me my father groans and dribbles in his sleep.

  The kitchen feels icy after the heat of the little room. A draught cuts under the ill-fitting door. In the hearth, a large log has burnt away underneath, and now arches in an empty carapace over cold ash. I go to the kindling box and take out tiny wisps of dried moss and chips of bark to coax the fire back to life. I push them into the ash until little by little, smoke rises again. I add bigger sticks, and on top of them a new log angled to fall in once the flames have grown higher. I fill a pot with water from the well outside, hook it on the rackencrock and winch it over the tiny flames. It will boil by the time everyone is up for breakfast.

  It scarcely seems worthwhile going to bed, but I do, and sleep uneasily for an hour or so. The sound of many voices wakens me. Crowds of people are converging across the green. It is Sunday, time for church, and I am late. I struggle into my clothes and hurry down. Today was to have been Verity and James’s betrothal. I wonder if John will still perform it, after what has happened, but when I arrive in the kitchen I find that the bishop is insisting it should go ahead, and that he now intends to conduct the ceremony himself.

  John says only one thing to me before he leaves for church. “Did you know, madam, about your father’s activities?”

  I gaze at him, so goodly to look at, and so savage of expression, and I answer, “Yes.”

  He leaves.

  I look in on my father. He is propped on bolsters, his eyes closed and his breathing laboured. Mother Bain insists she will stay with him, and that it is more important for me to attend Verity’s betrothal.

  There is a feeling of winter in the air today, with the sun low on the horizon. I put on my blue, beaver-trimmed winter coat and hat for the first time since early spring. My mother, and Cedric who has also stayed overnight, join me as I step out into the chilly autumn air. I am astonished to find that Cedric will also be attending church. I have never known him to before. He has always preferred to pay fines to the churchwardens rather than attend.

  Verity arrives in the carretta with James. George and Martinus ride behind, wrapped in sheepskin jerkins. Verity is shocked when she learns what has happened, and at first declares she would rather stay with Father than go to church to become betrothed. She is briskly persuaded otherwise by my mother.

  Word about my father has spread, and villagers and homesteaders, in their wool caps and Sunday best, crowd round, asking how he is. Gerald and Germaine arrive too, riding fast, looking flushed and happy. Aunt and Uncle Juniper come along some distance behind, unsmiling. We all go to stand together in our usual place at the entrance to the lady chapel.

  The words of the betrothal are beautiful and solemn. Verity and James stand together in front of the bishop, hand in hand, and are formally blessed and betrothed. At Communion I look at John, to try to judge his mood, but he is always inscrutable when he is here, doing his job.

  At the end of the service the first banns of marriage are called between Verity and James, and then we all troop out into the sunshine. Gold leaves lie like reflections under the trees on the green. I shake John’s hand at the church door, the contact unsettling. “Are you angry?” I ask him.

  “I want to talk to you,” he says. “At the parsonage. Now.”

  “Very well.”

  I talk to Germaine and Gerald for a while, then after the last parishioner has left, I watch John stride off across the green, his black robes swinging, and after a few minutes, I follow him. Mother Bain meets me in the hall and I ask her, “How is my father?”

  “Sleeping. Not in his right senses yet, but his colour is going down. Mistress Verity is with him just now.”

  “I’ll go in and see him.”

  “Best see John first, I think. He’s up in the schoolroom.”

  I frown. This feels like being summoned. Nevertheless, I gather up my skirts and climb the stairs. John meets me at the top. I stop in my tracks at the look on his face.

  “What…”

  He throws open the door of the schoolroom. This is the place where I spent many hours of my childhood, first under the tutelage of old Parson Pattinson, later with John. It is strangely comforting to be back here amongst the familiar benches, ink-stained table, shelves of books, tall iron candlesticks and prie-dieu in the corner. I smile, and am about to say this to John, but the door is scarcely closed behind us when he turns on me.

  “You knew. You knew about your father and you never told me? This has been going on under my nose, and you didn’t think to give me the chance to stop it? What do you imagine my job is supposed to be round here? Just conducting pretty services?”

  I cannot answer him.

  “Beatrice, I thought we meant something to one another. How long would you have gone on concealing this from me?”

  I cross to the small window. The glass is thick and green, and I cannot see through it. I turn back. “For ever, John. I would have concealed it from you for ever. Believe me, I have tried to stop him. We all have. The honest truth is, it never entered my mind to tell you. We have all been so used to keeping it secret. I am sorry, though, and I understand your indignation. It just goes to show how bad a match we would have made.” I cross the room to leave, but there is a loud rapping on the door just as I reach it.

  “Parson?” It is Widow Brissenden. “Parson? Come along now! The bishop is waiting!”

  John steps in front of me and throws open the door. “Madam, I couldn’t care less if the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse are waiting. Go away.”

  Widow Brissenden draws herself up in speechless indignation, then she looks past him into the room and sees me. Her mouth drops open. “Mistress Garth! Whatever are you doing here? In very truth, this is not proper. Will you kindly accompany me downstairs?”

  “I cannot for the moment, Mistress Brissenden,” I reply. “Parson Becker wishes to speak to me, and I am obliged to hear him.”

  Widow Brissenden frowns. “You are young, Mistress Garth,” she states, with exaggerated patience. “Let me tell you, it is possible to be too obliging to our menfolk. It certainly is. I think you will find that no one has ever accused me of being too obliging.” She glares at John.

  “I don’t doubt it.” I too give John an experimental glare. “Very well, I think perhaps Parson Becker and I have concluded our discussion.” John bites his lip and holds the door open for us.

  “Well,” says the bishop as the widow and I reach the kitchen, “this has all been quite bracing, but now I must be away. I have two hours before Vespers, and I must not disappoint my Hagditch flock any further. Perhaps I might give you a lift, Mistress Brissenden? I noted that your kinfolk were looking most unhappy without your good advice to guide them.” He smiles at her and offers his arm.

  “Indeed, I don’t doubt you
are right, my lord.” Widow Brissenden simpers at him. It is a frightening sight. As the bishop guides her towards the door she looks round at me. “Bear in mind what I have said to you, young woman. I can’t be everywhere at once, giving guidance to everybody. Would that I could!” She sighs, and beams down at the bishop. “I’m sure you find the same problem, bishop.”

  As John and I see them off, a mist is rising on the green. A light breeze swirls it like smoke. When he has settled Widow Brissenden in his coach the bishop comes back and says, “Children, go for a ride together. Get away from us busybodies. Take some wine with you. You have a couple of hours before Vespers.”

  “Do you wish your priests to associate with highway robbers’ daughters, my lord?” I enquire. The bishop pats my arm.

  “Abduct him, madam. I command you. He needs it.” With that he squeezes into the coach next to Widow Brissenden, and with a wave they move off. We stand in silence and watch them until they are out of sight.

  In the little room behind the hearth, my father has opened his eyes.

  “Father?”

  He stares at me, yet does not seem to see me. Then, with a puzzled look, he turns his gaze up to the angled beam of light coming in through the high window.

  We go to Little Cove. It is a strange afternoon. We talk as we have never talked. John tells me about his parents, John and Naomi, who both died of plague whilst he was away studying. I talk about my parents and their loveless marriage, and about Robert. We lie in the florid bracken and drink nettle wine and watch the tide coming in. Waterbirds loop and dive over its white, moving edge, watching for fishes, watching for whatever is not fast enough. Their remote, woodwind voices come to us faintly on the breeze. John is in casual clothes, a blue shirt that matches his eyes, a sheepskin jerkin and old breeches. He tries to break a piece of bracken. It looks brittle, but is in fact tough and stringy and difficult to break. He looks up and says, “Marry me.”

  I lean on my elbow and gaze at him through the brown stalks. It is turning colder with the coming of the tide. A raw smell is in the air, the smell of nights drawing in, and of frost in the veins of the leaves. Our breath drifts together, part of the mistiness of autumn. “Yes,” I answer, “yes, I will.”

  Chapter 10

  “But not yet, John. I have to sort things out at home first. I have to see how my father recovers.” John nods. We get up and walk down the grassy slope to the shore. My cloak is covered in seed-heads and bits of bracken. I take it off and give it a shake, then brush the bits from the back of John’s jerkin too. “I’ll have to spend a lot of my time at Barrowbeck now, John. The farm was being neglected even before Father was ill. I’ll have to divide my time between Barrowbeck and the parsonage, until my father is fit to be moved. When he is, I’ll return to the farm full time for a while.”

  “I’ll help you. We can both divide our time. We can manage everything.”

  We sit down and rest our backs against the base of the cliff. Pink thrift is flowering here in huge drifts, and I consider the irony that thrift grows in such profusion next to the wasteful sea. John removes the bung from the clay wine bottle with his teeth. “Might as well finish it off.” He passes me the bottle. The nettle wine is fizzy and light. I pass the bottle back and kiss John’s cheek. It tastes salty, like the smell of the sea. A crab’s claw, empty and translucent, the same colour as the thrift, is caught in his hair. I pull it loose, and show him. He squints at it, then puts his hand behind my head and kisses me.

  Do I want this? I have to think. I have to think now, and know for certain before I commit myself. Out here, with the taste of salt and kisses, this was Robert. This was unfamiliarity and danger, not something to do with someone I’ve known for years. Yet John is more to me. He brings friendship and security as well as passion.

  He draws back and looks at me. “Am I ever going to be able to compete with Robert?”

  “It isn’t to do with competing. It was just all so recent.” I shrug. “I’m recovering. It’s like an illness.”

  He takes the crab’s claw from me. “Do you ever wish you’d gone with him?”

  “I did once, when I was locked in, but not now.”

  “Then I believe you will recover.” He throws the claw into a nearby pool. “Unlike this crab.”

  We stand up and walk back to where we tethered our horses. Foxes are barking on the hill as we ride back to Wraithwaite. Evening comes so early at this season. In a short while the congregation will return for Vespers, so I take John’s horse and mine round to the stables, whilst he hurries off to get ready. I really miss just being able to hand my horse over to Leo or Dickon when I return from riding, and I start to think about whom I could employ as stable-hand, when I am eventually mistress here. I hang up the saddles on the hooks at the back, and have just begun rubbing down the horses when I realise that I can hear the drum again. It is no longer distant. It is close. I go out into the street. The rain is coming down hard now, but nevertheless a crowd is gathering.

  “Ee, I’ve been hearing yon drum for weeks,” says one of John’s parishioners, who has clearly spent the afternoon in the tavern. With everyone else, we look along the street towards the north end of the village, the source of the drumbeat. It is as before, two slow beats and three fast. More villagers come out of their houses, some half-in and half-out of their Sunday best, peering along the street. A few Barrowbeck parishioners are just arriving too. Everyone stares and waits.

  They come like ghosts down the road from the hills, the long road round the bay, with the last of the day’s light behind them. A young drummer in red leads them. Two slow beats and three fast, on and on, never wavering. A captain on horseback with his sword at his side comes next. Four young boys in red and brown uniforms follow him, swords drawn and held in front of their faces. Behind them stumbles a company of spectres, emaciated prisoners in filthy rags, some half naked and some barefoot, most of them a patchwork of festering sores, each man joined to the next at wrist and ankle, by chains. Two more soldiers march behind them, never faltering, never losing the beat of the drum, whilst their charges shuffle, lurch and stagger ahead of them, to no known beat.

  The crowd is silenced.

  “Who are they?” It is Dickon, Leo’s son, newly arrived. Gradually, people are finding their voices.

  “Thieves and highway robbers for Lancaster Assizes, I reckon.”

  “For hanging.”

  Some of the prisoners are coughing and shivering. One man is bleeding regularly from a wound in his neck as he limps along. The chains look heavy, old and rusty, and the men seem not to be able to co-ordinate the swinging of their arms.

  “For trial, anyhow.”

  “Mebbe for drawing and quartering.” Tilly Turner has arrived.

  “Nay, they’d hardly all be up for treason, would they. Don’t be daft.”

  As the column of men passes the crowd outside the parsonage, the captain salutes us with his gloved hand, and the boy soldiers salute with their swords. John comes out and stares in horror. He puts his arm round me. “Who are your prisoners, captain?” he calls out. I could have saved him the question. Gently I free myself, and move along behind the crowd, keeping pace with the prisoners.

  “Scots, sir.” I hear the captain’s reply behind me. A shiver runs through the crowd. Scots, here. The enemy in chains, humiliated, without their arrogant woollen draperies and crowbars and scaling ladders. “I can tell you, we’ve driven off any number of local revenge parties so far.” The captain gives a grin and a graceful bow. The crowd starts to move along with the prisoners. I edge between jostling bodies, trying to move faster.

  “Aye, but they’ll not be such efficient revenge parties as we have round here,” calls back a young man with a wild, flickering eye.

  People begin to mock and spit at the prisoners. A stone flies past my head and hits one of them. I see Cedric pushing his way to the front. “When will they be tried, captain?” he shouts.

  The captain turns slightly in his saddle. “The
y’re for the November Quarter Sessions, sir. Then they’ll be up for the March Assizes. The queen wants them tried all open and above board in her Royal Duchy of Lancaster. Set an example to others, you know. At this rate we’ll be lucky if we get there by Christmas. It’s taken us weeks to march this weak-kneed lot down from the hills.”

  I reach the edge of the crowd a little further along, and watch the Scots stagger past me. Their chains clank. They sag with exhaustion. Bruises and wounds cover their limbs, and even in this failing light I can see the blood crusted on to their shackles liquefying again in the rain, and pasting itself back on to pale hands and feet.

  Robert is last in line. He is wearing the clothes I sent him off in. His guards, little more than children, stamp importantly behind him. He walks steadily with his eyes cast down. He does not look at me again. Once was enough, as I stood outside the parsonage, with John’s arm round my shoulders.

  The drum can no longer be heard when I return to the parsonage. I know I have been gone too long, and missed the church service, but the wet beechwoods on the outskirts of the village were the only place private enough for the pain.

  Church is out. A few people are standing about talking in the damp twilight. A horse goes by, throwing up clods of mud. Light from the cottages glows and flickers. I can hear Universe whinnying in the stables behind the parsonage.

  Mother and Cedric are waiting for me in the small courtyard at the front of the house.

  “Come in,” I say to them, kicking off my muddy shoes on the step.

  Mother puts out her hand to me. “Oh, Beatrice.”

  Cedric steps forward and puts his arm round me. He does not smell so strongly of fish today. “Are you all right, Beatrice?” he asks.

  I try to control a feeling of overwhelming physical collapse. “You’ve told Mother, I gather,” I say to him.

  “I had to.”

  I shrug. “Do come in. It’s cold out here.” I look back across the green. Villagers are still moving about, going to each other’s houses, talking about the Scots. “Where’s John?” I ask.