The Binding

by Bridget Collins

  She said, ‘You’ve made your peace with it.’

  I looked up, into her eyes. She nodded to herself. Then, with a long sigh, she sat back against her pillows. ‘Good lad,’ she said. ‘I knew you would, sooner or later. How does it feel?’

  I didn’t answer. It was too fragile; if I talked about it, even to her, it might break.

  She smiled at the ceiling, and then slid her eyes sideways to include me. ‘I’m glad. You suffered worse than most, with the fever. No more of that for you. Oh’ – she shrugged, as if I’d spoken – ‘yes, other things, it won’t ever be easy, there’ll always be a part of you missing, but no more nightmares, no more terrors.’ She stopped. Her breath was shallow. Her pulse fluttered in the skin above her temple.

  ‘I don’t know anything,’ I said. It took an effort to say it. ‘How can I be a binder when I don’t even know how it works—’

  ‘Not now. Not now, or it’ll turn into a deathbed binding.’ She laughed, with a noise like a gulp. ‘But when I’m well again I’ll teach you, lad. The binding itself will come naturally, but you’ll need to learn the rest …’ Her voice tailed off into a cough. I poured a glass of water and offered it to her, but she waved it away without looking. ‘Once the snows have gone we’ll visit a friend in Littlewater. She was my …’ She hesitated, although it might only have been to catch her breath. ‘My master’s last apprentice, after I left him … She lives in the village with her family, now. She’s a good binder. A midwife, too,’ she added. ‘Binding and doctoring always used to go together. Easing the pain, easing people into life and out of it.’

  I swallowed; but I’d seen animals being born and dying too many times to be a coward about it now.

  ‘You’ll be good at it, boy. Just remember why we do it, and you’ll be all right.’ She gave me a glinting sideways look. ‘Binding – our kind of binding – has to be done, sometimes. No matter what people say.’

  ‘Seredith, the night the men came to burn the bindery …’ The words came with an effort. ‘They were afraid of you. Of us.’

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Seredith, they thought – the storm … that I’d summoned it. They called you a witch, and—’

  She laughed again. It set her off coughing until she had to grasp the side of the bed. ‘If we could do everything they say we can do,’ she said, ‘I’d be sleeping in silk and cloth-of-gold.’

  ‘But – it almost felt like—’

  ‘Don’t be absurd.’ She inhaled, hoarsely. ‘We’ve been called witches since the beginning of time. Word-cunning, they used to call it – of a piece with invoking demons … We were burned for it, too. The Crusade wasn’t new, we’ve always been scapegoats. Well, knowledge is always a kind of magic, I suppose. But – no. You’re a binder, nothing more nor less. You’re certainly not responsible for the weather.’ The last few words were thin and breathless. ‘No more, now.’

  I nodded, biting back another question. When she was well I could ask whatever I wanted. She smiled at me and closed her eyes, and I thought she’d fallen asleep. But when I started to rise she gestured at me, pointing at the chair. I settled myself again, and after a while I felt my body loosen, as if the silence was undoing knots I hadn’t known were there. The fire had nearly gone out; ash had grown over the embers like moss. I ought to tend to it, but I couldn’t bring myself to get up. I moved my fingers through the focused ellipse of lamplight, letting it sit above my knuckle like a ring. When I sat back it shone on the patchwork quilt, picking out the curl of a printed fern. I imagined Seredith sewing the quilt, building it block by block through a long winter. I could see her, sitting near the fire, frowning as she bit off the end of a thread; but in my mind she dissolved into someone else, Ma or Alta or all of them, a woman who was young and old all at once …

  The bell jangled. I struggled to my feet, my head spinning. I’d been drowsing. For a while, on the edge of wakefulness, I’d heard the noise of wheels and a horse, trundling down the road towards the house; but it was only now that I made sense of it. It was dark outside, and my reflection stared back at me from the window, ghostly and bewildered. The bell jangled again, and from the porch below I heard an irritable voice muttering. There was a glimmer of light from a lantern.

  I glanced at Seredith, but she was asleep. The bell rang, for longer this time, a ragged angry peal as if they’d tugged too hard at the rope. Seredith’s face twitched and the rhythm of her breathing changed.

  I hurried out of the room and down the stairs. The bell clanged its impatient, discordant note and I shouted, ‘Yes, all right, I’m coming!’ It didn’t occur to me to be afraid, until I had shot the bolts and swung the door open; then just too late I hesitated, wondering if it was the men with the torches, come back to burn us to the ground. But it wasn’t.

  The man in front of me had been in the middle of saying something; he broke off and looked me up and down. He was wearing a tall hat and a cloak; in the darkness only his shape was visible, and the sharp flash of his eyes. Behind him there was a trap, with a lantern hanging from the seat-rail. The light caught the steam rising from the horse, and its plumes of breath. Another man stood a few feet away, shifting from foot to foot and making an impatient noise between his teeth.

  ‘What do you want?’

  The first man sniffed and wiped his nose on the back of his glove. He took his hat off, handed it to me and stepped forward, forcing me to let him cross the threshold. He pulled his gloves off finger by finger and laid them across the brim of the hat. He had straggling ringlets that hung almost to his shoulders. ‘A hot drink and a good dinner, to start with. Come in, Ferguson, it’s perishing out there.’

  ‘Who the hell are you?’

  He glanced at me. The other man – Ferguson – strode inside and stamped his feet to warm them, calling over his shoulder to the trap-driver, ‘Wait there, won’t you?’ He put his bag down on the floor with a heavy chinking thud.

  The man sighed. ‘You must be the apprentice. I am Mr de Havilland and I have brought Dr Ferguson to see Seredith. How is she?’ He walked to the little mirror on the wall and peered into it, stroking his moustache. ‘Why is it so dark in here? For goodness’ sake light a few lamps.’

  ‘I’m Emmett.’

  He waved me away as if my name was incidental. ‘Is she awake? The sooner the doctor sees her, the sooner he can get back.’

  ‘No, I don’t think she—’

  ‘In that case we will have to wake her. Bring us up a pot of tea, and some brandy. And whatever you have to eat.’ He strode past me and up the stairs. ‘This way, Ferguson.’

  Ferguson followed him in a waft of cold air and damp wool, reaching back in an afterthought to shove his hat at me. I turned to hang it on the hook next to the other one, deliberately digging a fingernail into the smooth felt. I didn’t want to take orders from de Havilland, but now that the door was shut it was so dark I could hardly see. I lit a lamp. They’d left footprints across the hall floor, and thin prisms of compacted mud from the heels of their boots were scattered on the stairs.

  I hesitated. Resentment and uncertainty tugged me in different directions. At last I went into the kitchen and made a pot of tea – for Seredith, I told myself – and took it upstairs. But when I knocked, it was de Havilland’s voice that said, ‘Not now.’ He had a Castleford accent, but his voice reminded me of someone.

  I raised my voice to call through the door panel. ‘You said—’

  ‘Not now!’

  ‘Emmett?’ Seredith said. ‘Come in.’ She coughed, and I pushed open the door to see her clutching at the bedcovers as she tried to catch her breath. She raised her head and her eyes were red and moist. She beckoned me in. De Havilland was at the window, with his arms crossed; Ferguson was standing at the hearth, looking from one to the other. The room seemed very small. ‘This is Emmett,’ Seredith managed to say. ‘My apprentice.’

  I said, ‘We’ve met.’

  ‘Since you’re here,’ de Havilland said, ‘maybe you would
ask Seredith to be reasonable. We’ve come all the way from Castleford and now she is refusing to allow the doctor to examine her.’

  She said, ‘I didn’t ask you to come.’

  ‘Your apprentice did.’

  She shot me a look that made my cheeks burn. ‘Well, I’m sorry that he wasted your time.’

  ‘This is absurd. I’m a busy man, you know that. I have pressing work—’

  ‘I said I didn’t ask you to come!’ She turned her head to one side, like a child, and de Havilland rolled his eyes at the doctor. ‘I’m perfectly all right,’ she said. ‘I caught a chill the other night, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s a nasty cough you have.’ It was the first time I’d heard the doctor speak to her, and his voice was so tactful it was positively unctuous. ‘Perhaps you could tell me a little more about how you’re feeling.’

  She worked her mouth childishly, and I was sure she was going to refuse; but her eyes flicked to de Havilland and at last she said, ‘Tired. Feverish. My chest hurts. That’s all.’

  ‘And if I might …’ He moved to her and picked up her wrist so swiftly she didn’t have time to pull away. ‘Yes, I see. Thank you.’ He looked at de Havilland with something in his eyes that I couldn’t interpret, and said, ‘I don’t think we need intrude any longer.’

  ‘Very well.’ De Havilland walked past the bed, paused as if he was about to speak, and then shrugged. He took a step towards me, the way he’d done before, with an absent-minded determination that meant I had to move out of his way. Ferguson followed him, and I was alone with Seredith.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was worried.’

  She didn’t seem to hear me. She had her eyes closed, and the broken veins in her cheeks stood out like red ink. But she knew I was there, because after a minute she flapped at me, dismissing me without a word.

  I went out into the passage. The lamplight spilt up the stairs and through the banisters, edging everything in faint gold. I could hear them talking in the hall. I walked to the top of the stairs and paused, listening. Their voices were very distinct.

  ‘… stubborn old woman,’ de Havilland said. ‘Really, I apologise. From what the postman said, I was under the impression that she had asked—’

  ‘Not at all, not at all. In any case, I think I saw enough. She’s frail, of course, but not in any real danger unless her condition gets worse suddenly.’ He crossed the hall and I guessed that he was picking up his hat. ‘Have you decided what you’ll do?’

  ‘I shall stay here and keep an eye on her. Until she gets better, or—’

  ‘A pity she’s all the way out here. Otherwise I would be very happy to attend her.’

  ‘Indeed,’ de Havilland said, and snorted. ‘She’s a living anachronism. One would think we were in the Dark Ages. If she must carry on with binding, she could perfectly well work from my own bindery, in comfort. The number of times I’ve tried to persuade her … But she insists on staying here. And now she’s taken on that damned apprentice …’

  ‘She does seem somewhat … obstinate.’

  ‘She’s infuriating.’ He hissed a sigh through his teeth. ‘Well, I suppose I must endure this for a while and try to make her see sense.’

  ‘Good luck. Oh—’ There was the sound of a clasp being undone, and a clink. ‘If she’s in pain, or sleepless, a few drops of this should help. Not more.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Good night, then.’ The door opened and shut, and outside there was the creak and rumble of the trap drawing away. At the same time there were footsteps as de Havilland climbed the stairs. When he saw me he raised the lamp and peered at me. ‘Eavesdropping, were you?’ But he didn’t give me time to answer. He brushed past me and added, over his shoulder, ‘Bring me some clean bedding.’

  I followed him. He opened the door of my bedroom and paused, quirking his head at me. ‘Yes?’

  I said, ‘That’s my room – where’m I supposed to—’

  ‘I have no idea.’ Then he shut the door in my face and left me in darkness.

  VII

  I slept in the parlour, huddled in a spare blanket. The settee was shiny horsehair and so slippery that in the end I had to brace myself with one foot on the floor to stop myself sliding off. When I woke up it was freezing and still dark, and I ached all over. I was disorientated; for a moment I thought I was outside somewhere, surrounded by the dim hulks of winter ruins.

  It was so cold I didn’t even try to go back to sleep. I stood up with the blanket still wrapped round my shoulders and staggered stiffly into the kitchen. I stoked the range and boiled a kettle for tea, while the last stars faded over the horizon. There was a clear sky, and by the time I’d drunk my tea and made a pot to take upstairs the kitchen was full of sunlight.

  As I crossed the landing I heard my bedroom door open. It struck me for the first time how familiar the sound had become: I knew, without thinking, that it was my door and not Seredith’s.

  ‘Ah. I was hoping for shaving water. Never mind, tea will do. In here, please.’

  I blinked away the after-image of the kitchen window that was still hovering in my vision. De Havilland was standing in my doorway in his shirtsleeves. Now it was light I could take in his appearance better – the ringlets of lightish, greyish hair, the pale eyes, the embroidered waistcoat – and the disdainful expression on his face. It was difficult to tell how old he was: his hair and eyes were so washed out that he could have been forty or sixty. ‘Hurry up, boy.’

  ‘This is for Seredith.’

  For a second I thought he was going to object. He sighed. ‘Very well. Bring another cup. The hot water can come later.’ He pushed ahead of me and went into Seredith’s bedroom without knocking. The door swung closed and I caught it with my elbow and backed into the room after him.

  ‘Go away,’ Seredith said. ‘No, not you, Emmett.’

  She was sitting up, her face haloed by wisps of white hair, her fingers clasping the quilt under her chin. She was thin, but there was a good colour in her cheeks, and her eyes were as sharp as ever. De Havilland gave her a thin smile. ‘You’re awake, I see. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Invaded. Why are you here?’

  He sighed. He brushed a few nonexistent specks of dust off the moss-coloured armchair and sank into it, hitching his trousers up delicately at the knee. He turned his head to take in the room, pausing here and there to note the cracks in the plaster, and the scarred foot of the bed, and the darker diamond of blue where the quilt had been patched. When I put the tray down beside the bed he leant past me to pour tea into the solitary cup, and sipped from it with a flicker of a grimace. ‘This is tiresome. Suppose we stop wasting time and behave as if I was concerned for you,’ he said.

  ‘Rubbish. When have you ever been concerned for me? Emmett, will you get two more cups, please?’

  I said, ‘It’s all right, Seredith, I’m not thirsty,’ just as de Havilland said, ‘One will suffice, I think.’ I clenched my jaw and left without looking at him. I went to the kitchen and back as quickly as I could, but when I glanced at the cup as I reached the top of the stairs I saw a feather of dust curled round the inside. If it had been meant for de Havilland I would have left it, but it wasn’t. By the time I opened Seredith’s bedroom door, swinging the cup from my finger, Seredith was sitting bolt upright with her arms crossed over her chest, while de Havilland lolled back in his chair. ‘Certainly not,’ he said. ‘You’re an excellent binder. Old-fashioned, of course, but … Well. You would be useful to me.’

  ‘Work in your bindery?’

  ‘You know my offer still stands.’

  ‘I’d rather die.’

  De Havilland turned to me, very deliberately. ‘So glad to see you finally managed to find your way back to us,’ he said. ‘Perhaps you would be kind enough to pour Seredith a cup of tea before she expires of thirst.’

  I didn’t trust myself to reply. I poured dark tea into the clean cup and gave it to Seredith, cradling her hands in mine to make sure that she held it securely. She glanced up a
t me and some of the ferocity went out of her face. ‘Thank you, Emmett.’

  De Havilland pinched the bridge of his nose with his finger and thumb. He was smiling, but without warmth. ‘Times have changed, Seredith. Even apart from the question of your health, I wish you would reconsider. This lonely existence, miles from anywhere, binding ignorant, superstitious peasants … We have worked very hard, you know, to better our reputation, so that people begin to understand that we are doctors of the soul and not witches. You do the craft no credit at all—’

  ‘Don’t lecture me.’

  He smoothed a strand of hair away from his forehead with splayed fingers. ‘I am merely making the point that we learnt from the Crusade—’

  ‘You weren’t even alive during the Crusade! How dare you—’

  ‘All right, all right!’ After a moment he leant over and poured himself another cup of tea. By now it was like dye, but he didn’t seem to notice until he took a sip and his lips wrinkled. ‘Be reasonable, Seredith. How many people have you bound, this year? Four? Five? You can’t have enough work to keep yourself busy, let alone an apprentice. And all peasants with no understanding of the craft at all. They think you’re a witch …’ He leant forward, his voice softening. ‘Wouldn’t it be pleasant to come to Castleford, where binders command some respect? Where books command respect? I am quite influential, you know. I attend some of the best families.’

  ‘Attend them?’ Seredith echoed. ‘A binding should be once a lifetime.’

  ‘Oh, please … When pain can be alleviated, who are we to withhold our art? You are too set in your ways.’

  ‘That’s enough!’ She thrust her tea aside, slopping it over the patchwork. ‘I am not coming to Castleford.’

  ‘This inverse snobbery is hardly in your best interests. Why you prefer to rot away in this godforsaken place—’

  ‘You don’t understand, do you?’ I had never heard Seredith struggle to control her anger, and it made my own gorge rise. ‘Apart from anything else, I can’t leave the books.’

  He put his cup down on its saucer with a clink. The signet ring on his little finger glinted. ‘Don’t be absurd. I understand your scruples, but it’s quite simple. We can take the books with us. I have space in my own vault.’