In late February I take the mortar out of the hastening cupboard and mash the black seeds into the pale spirit. They are bigger and softer now. As the pestle presses each one flat, dark fingers of stain squirt out. I flatten them briskly until all the mixture is black and thick, and the inverted empty skins float on the surface like beetles’ wings. Then I sieve the mixture back into the tiny flagon. When I throw the thin muslin full of curled black skins on to the back of the fire, the flames roar dark purple.
In two weeks’ time the men will leave, in order to reach Newcastle by Shrove Tuesday. As they assemble there with other men from all over the northern counties, to march on Scotland, so will the Lent Assizes begin in Lancaster.
Chapter 21
It is nearly March. I wish time would move more slowly. I do not feel ready for what I have to do. My mother and I are putting things together for my August wedding. To sit and embroider linen with her and Germaine and Aunt Juniper taxes my patience to its uttermost. Each time I ride over to the parsonage to add an item to my dower chest, I am reminded of the henbane seeds which so lately lay within it. I wake in the night filled with fear and self-doubt.
I comfort myself with visits to Verity and Thomas. They are both recovering well from the ordeal of birth. On the day before the men are to march away, I go to wish James a safe return. Verity is boiling stocking wool with alder bark to shrink it and turn it black. Her face is running with tears and steam. Little Thomas is wheezing gently in his crib. “The steam is good for his breathing,” Verity tells me, then, “James may not come back.”
I hug her. My tiny nephew’s vulnerability undermines me. His father is going to war. Fifteen years from now he may be going to war himself.
Back at the tower, Kate is making an early batch of Lenten cakes. I whip up some almond butter to go with them. We work together in silence in the kitchen. What is there to say, when men are going to war? It is unreal. There is to be no feast this time. No one has the heart for it.
After the noonday meal I ride over to Mere Point to wish my cousins Godspeed and a safe return. Uncle Juniper is not to go this time. “Someone has to tend the land,” he tells me uncertainly. Aunt Juniper is sitting by the kitchen fire, trembling. I hold her hands and talk to her for a while, then kiss my cousins goodbye and go out on to the windy clifftop. Germaine is coming up the path, carrying a basket full of driftwood, kindling for the beacon turret. She looks as if she hasn’t slept for weeks. She sets down her basket, and we stand together, staring over the bay.
“You are fortunate,” she says, “that priests do not have to fight.”
“I know it.”
It is a bright spring day. The breeze catches our hair and skirts. Beyond the bay the wrinkled layers of lakeland hills look like crouching lizards, row on row to the horizon. In a few days our men will be beyond them. In a few weeks we must start the beacon watches again. Germaine frowns at me. “What are you up to, Beatrice?”
She has caught me unawares. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I answer, but I can feel myself blushing.
“Cousin, I cannot imagine what you are planning, but I want to say to you, your duty is to the living. You must remember that. Robert is as good as dead.”
“No!” I say it under my breath. “No, he is not.”
Germaine tightens her lips. “Do you not know how lucky you are to have John? Half the women in the district would fall at his feet without a second thought. Whatever are you thinking of, you foolish, foolish woman? We all have pain. We all have burdens to bear, but we move on, despite them. We cannot let them govern us in the way you are letting this Scot govern you.”
I turn away so that the wind is blowing in my face, bringing the scents of grass and flowers. I think of Robert lying amongst the scented herbs on the floor of the hermit’s cottage, looking at me, half laughing.
“I can’t help it, Germaine. I simply want him safe. If he were safe in Scotland, I could let him go.” I am overcome by the futility of trying to explain what I do not understand myself. I turn away. “I would change places with him, Germaine.”
Germaine stoops and picks up her basket. “Cousin, you are like a spoilt child. You want it all ways.” She sounds unutterably weary. From the doorway of the pele tower she says over her shoulder, “You may not get over this, Beatrice. It may always be with you, but keep it for the dark hours. Give up your days to reality. Go and pay a visit to your betrothed, and be thankful.”
I watch her go in. I want to go after her and comfort her and tell her that Gerald will come back, but I do not think she is able to be comforted just now.
Next day, when the men leave, some on horseback, some marching, the women of Barrowbeck, Mere Point and Wraithwaite assemble on Wraithwaite Green to watch them go. Some of Wraithwaite’s musicians march at the head of the procession, and they go from our sight to the sound of drums and Flemish bagpipes. For a long time the music comes back to us from round the hill.
Three weeks later, on the day after unusually subdued New Year celebrations, I make the final preparations for what I must do. I go down to the barmkin to look at the carretta. No, it will not do. Its wheels are large, but not wide enough to cope with the mud that lies on the highway to Lancaster. It will have to be John’s cart. I pray for frost, hard frost, to freeze the ground and give me speed. I have arranged to be at the parsonage for a few days, on the pretext of overseeing repairs to the doors and panelling. The bishop has agreed that we should not start our wedded life in a house that is falling to bits, so the diocese is paying for extensive repairs. I ride over there in the damp, misty morning, and wait for news.
It comes just after noon. A messenger rides into Wraithwaite, a shabby youth in a grey jerkin and frayed black breeches. John is out visiting parishioners and Mother Bain is resting, when the knock comes at the parsonage door.
“Mistress Garth?” The boy hands me a folded piece of paper. I open it as he stands there, then bring him into the house whilst I write my reply.
“Take this, please, and give it to Master Postlethwaite.” I hand him my note, folded and sealed. “This is for you.” I give him a shilling. Then I go to the hastening cupboard and take out the small flagon. “Carry this very carefully. Keep it upright in your saddlebag. I have sealed it in oilcloth and there is a note around its neck.” I feel a catch of breathlessness in my throat. “It is to be given to one of the players lodged at the George. His name is Master Guinevere, and he will understand perfectly what it is all about.” Then I give the youth a large mug of best ale, and send him on his way.
I sit by the kitchen fire for a long time after that, holding the message he brought. It is written in Master Postlethwaite’s rough but adequate hand. All condemned. Robert Lacklie included. Hangings tomorrow at noon. M. Postlethwaite.
Chapter 22
I must not sleep. I go over and over the preparations in my mind. I have checked the cart and Meadowsweet’s harnessing. I was tempted to use Universe, for speed, but it will not do to be conspicuous on this journey. My hooded cloak and a black Lenten veil are hanging by the kitchen door. A bundle wrapped in black cloth is in the cart already.
John came home late this evening, very tired. There is smallpox in Hagditch. Anne Fairweather is taking charge of care for the victims. John, who seems to get on with her very well, rode over early this morning with some spare red flannel we had at the parsonage, to drape over sufferers’ windows and prevent scarring. We discuss the outbreak, over supper, but John does not seem much inclined to talk. I have not written him an explanation for my trip to Lancaster this time. I shall simply leave him the innkeeper’s note.
In the dark hour after midnight I get out of bed and dress by the light of one candle. I am clumsy with haste. Let me not be too clumsy to help him. Let me not be too late. The stairs creak as I creep down them. There is a faint glow from under the kitchen door. The fire is still burning. I’m glad. I am very cold. I shall warm myself thoroughly before going out. I shall be cold enough in the plai
n working clothes I have chosen, but not as cold as some. I tiptoe into the kitchen and move towards the fire. There is a new log on it. Slowly, I come to a halt.
“So you’re prepared to risk everything for this man?”
I look over to where John is sitting in the semidarkness. As I struggle to recover from the shock, I find that I am angry, as angry as he is. I am on my way out. I cannot put up with delays. “I hope you’re not going to try to stop me.” I cross to the pegs and take down my veil and cloak. “How did you know?”
“You’re not the only one who can bribe innkeepers.”
“I see.”
He has been mulling ale in the hearth, and now he brings me a tankard and puts it on the dresser. “Beatrice, I want you to think before you do this. You’ve never been to an execution before. I’ve had to, in the past, to counsel the condemned. You cannot imagine how truly dreadful it is. The sounds… the sights. And when it’s someone you care for, and there’s nothing, nothing at all that you can do for them…”
I look at the ale and push it away.
“You won’t be able to help him, Beatrice. I know you think you can, but there will be armed soldiers round the gallows, and all you’ll be doing is putting yourself in terrible danger. You’ve seen what a crowd is like when it turns against somebody. If they think you are linked to the Scots… well heaven forbid. They used to let close relatives near the gallows in the past, to… to help victims die more quickly, but now that has been stopped. You will not be able to help him. I’m only telling you this because I want you to understand what you’re letting yourself in for. I’m certain Robert would not wish you to go.”
I put on my hat, hang the veil over it and pull my cloak round my shoulders. “I’m taking the cart and Meadowsweet, John. I’m not taking Universe this time.” I move towards the back door. John crosses the kitchen and blocks my path. I stop. “Are you going to force me to go out the front door and all the way round the house to get to the stables, John?”
“Wait. Just wait a moment. I’ll come with you.”
I stare at him, appalled. I notice now that he, too, is wearing his rough working clothes. He pulls on a heavy kersey jerkin and fetches his boots from where they are warming by the fire.
“No John. I don’t want you to come. If I need help I will go to Master Postlethwaite or the vicar.”
“You cannot go on your own. I will not allow it.”
His manner infuriates me. I have run Barrowbeck Farm practically unaided for years, and now this man is trying to tell me what I cannot do. I see very clearly why the queen, who runs so much more, declines to marry. I take a deep breath, and go to stand by the fire. I might as well warm myself whilst persuading John to stay behind. I lift the veil back over my hat and look at him as he comes to join me. He makes a very fetching peasant, I have to say, untidy, tired and rather flushed in the face. My anger drains away.
“Just stay. Darling please. Just stay.” I take hold of his jerkin and give it a little shake. The material is rough and warm under my hands.
He looks down at me. “You’re wasting your breath. Nothing will make me stay.” He kisses me, then pulls the veil back down and kisses me through it. I give a spluttering laugh and pull away. The veil has become rather wet. Then we stare at one another, throw the veil away and kiss again. I lean back against the warm slope of the chimney side. The candle goes out and there is just the fireglow. For a moment I am almost shamefully persuaded. He is right. It is madness. Then I push him away again.
“There’s no time. I’ve got to go.”
He sighs, and retrieves the veil. “I’ll check the cart.”
“I’ve done it.”
“Just a moment whilst I leave Mother Bain a note, then.”
I wait impatiently whilst he tears a sheet from one of his sermon books, draws two figures, a castle and a crescent moon on it, and leaves it on the kitchen table. Then he takes my hand and we go together into the darkness.
There is a warm, confused feeling between us as we ride in the cart out of Wraithwaite, though we are both in fact shivering with cold. For the first few miles we keep the lanthorns lit on the sides of the cart, then I climb into the back and extinguish them. Watery dawn comes up as we run low and fast past Mistholme Moss. The boggy land shudders to the hoofbeats. We take it in turns to hold the reins, huddling together. “We could still just go home,” John says. I look at him, and do not reply. “Do you have any idea how much I love you?” he asks. “Let’s get wed sooner than August.”
He swerves the cart to avoid running over a sleepy badger which has shambled out of a copse of wild plums, its snout purple from last autumn’s fallen fruit.
“If the militia don’t throw us into jail first because of our driving, I suppose we could. There will be talk, though.”
“Oh, talk.” He shrugs impatiently.
The mention of jail has had a chilling effect on us, however, and we fall silent for a while. I wonder if I should tell John what I actually intend to do. He clearly thinks this trip is merely to give Robert support and comfort. He is very compassionate, but breaking the law might be another matter. I decide to let things become apparent as the day progresses.
We meet the first crowds on the edge of Lancaster. I have been travelling with my veil up, but now I lower it and raise my hood. “You look like the Intervening Angel,” John comments.
There are a few others in carts and on horseback, but most are walking. Some of the women, like myself, are wearing Lenten veils. Overhead, a dark sky is threatening rain. It takes us a long time to cross the bridge into town, and the crowds are even denser on the other side as we move along Bridge Lane, past Weary Wall with its memory of a soldier’s kiss, and up towards the castle. People must have come from miles around to see the hangings. There is an air of excitement running through the crowd. Soldiers in their red and brown coats are trying to keep control. Little by little we edge forward. I look up at the dark castle on the hill as Meadowsweet labours up the steep incline, and I try to imagine Robert on the other side of the iron-studded doors. I try to imagine his feelings.
As we pass the vicarage and reach the side of the castle, John is forced to stop the cart. The crowd presses all around. He hands me the reins. “I’ll just stand up and see if there’s a way through ahead.” He steps into the back of the cart and peers over the heads of the crowd. Around us, soldiers have their swords out as they mingle with the people. Next to the cart, a youth tweaks the hat of one soldier so that it falls over his eyes. There is a gasp from the crowd as the soldier wheels with his sword raised. When he identifies his attacker he presses the sharp edge of the weapon against the boy’s neck, lifting vulnerable young skin in a little fold. The boy goes white and still, and the soldier laughs and turns away.
I am afraid, but I have to ask something which has been the source of many of my nightmares. “Sir…” I lean down to the soldier. “Are the Scots just to hang, or are they to be drawn and quartered too?”
He looks up at me, a young but vicious face, and smiles. “What would you like them to do, mistress? Do you enjoy seeing killers strangling slowly then having their bellies cut open and their guts pulled out?” He stresses each word to its full extent, then jumps back as a whip cracks in front of his face. The crowd titters.
“I think you can manage to answer her in a civilised way.” The thin, flat leather of the horsewhip swings from John’s gloved hand.
“Hanging.” The young soldier looks furious. He eyes the whip and adds, “It weren’t thought legal to draw and quarter ’em, more’s the pity.”
An older soldier joins him. “What’s going on? Troublemakers, lad? Get on your way, you two. We can do without trouble from country bumpkins. We’ve got enough from bloody Scots.” He wags his finger at John. “We’ll be looking out for you, Master Hayseed.” I feel their hostile gaze on our backs as John silently takes the reins and the cart moves forward again.
We make some progress round the castle, but cannot get near the g
ates. Cake sellers and ale wagons line the path to the twin-towered gatehouse with its slit windows, and those who arrived there first are not giving up their places to anyone. The roar of voices is all around.
“Best pasties! Come and get Fat Lizzy’s best pasties!”
“Drink whilst yer can! Grim Reaper’s coming this way, and his aim ain’t so accurate. Get yerself a mug of Ted’s best ale!”
Everyone else is raising their voices to be heard above the din.
“It’ll be a reet fine show, I reckon.”
“It’s allus good to have things where nature intended ’em, leaves hanging from trees, Scots hanging from ropes.”
“Are they stopping off at Saint Bridgie’s Alehouse as usual?”
“Nay, I heard not. It’s not for Scots to be solaced by drinking theirselves senseless. Let ’em choke slowly and know about it.”
“Anyway, who’d pay? There’ll be no relatives, unless the devil turns up.”
Howls of laughter greet this witticism. Someone knows better, though. “Nay Titus, they are stopping. Same as usual. I heard it from t’landlord. Someone’s put up money.” There are incredulous jeers and shouts of disapproval.
“Who’d put up money for a bunch of Scots, eh? Should be strung up alongside of ’em.”
John looks at me. I avoid his eyes.
There is an atmosphere of savagery here, the atmosphere of the death hunt. It seems to me that the devil has turned up already.
After a long wait, during which Meadowsweet becomes very nervous and restive at all the loud talk and laughter, there is a drum roll from inside the castle. A cheer goes up. The portcullis, rusty and spider-webbed, rumbles up, and the drum roll continues as the giant doors swing inwards. The drum slows to a regular dead beat. The crowd starts to clap in time with it. I gather the reins into a bunch and thrust them at John. I don’t think he realises what I am doing until it is too late. By then I have scrambled down from the cart and am pushing my way to the front of the crowd, muttering, “By your leave. Excuse me.”
North Side of the Tree Page 15
