by Lucy Jago
‘What do you know of the dead boy?’ said Cess to William, taking up the conversation that had been interrupted earlier. Visitors and travellers wanting William’s blacksmith father to re-shoe their horses were expected to share their news while they waited.
‘A Yeovil man came through this morning. If it’s the same boy as the one missing from there, he disappeared three nights ago,’ said William. ‘And there are others.’
‘Others?’
‘They say two others have gone from Yeovil and –’ Cess stopped William with a prod in the ribs. The parson was passing on his way to the church. He had a way of striding forward and poking his small head to left and right, searching for souls to save but looking no one in the face. Cess noticed that he seemed unusually interested in his flock, cheerful even. But she had no desire to talk to him, so she and William shrank back amongst the barrels and he passed without seeing them.
‘– and at least one other from Martock and there may have been more,’ William went on.
‘They’ve not just run away?’
‘This is the first body that’s been found. No one knows what has happened to the rest, but there’ve been no sightings of them, which is unusual. This one seems to have had the Sweat.’
Cess was silent for a while. The sweating sickness was a terrible way to die. Sufferers shook so hard that they broke their bones and teeth. It felled everyone in its path, not just the old or babes, but the young and strong too. William seemed quite excited by the news. Cess knew he did not revel in death but that illness fascinated him. He had heard that in the great cities like London and Edinburgh it was possible to study the human body and its ailments. To become a physician was what he wanted above all else, though he knew it would take more money than he was ever likely to have. Cess wondered if he sought a cure for his foot, but had never asked.
‘Some are saying that witches are responsible,’ continued William doubtfully.
‘Witches?’ said Cess nervously. She was not only frightened of what witches could do, she was terrified of how easily someone could be called a witch, even if they were not. Her friend Edith Mildmay had been one of the most sought-out women in Montacute for her healing skills, yet, in the grief and terror that accompanied the plague, the villagers had fixed their fury on her, accusing her of being a witch and bringing the plague upon them. The parson had brayed especially loudly for her blood. ‘Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live!’ he had screamed from the pulpit, quoting the Bible. But how could anyone believe that one woman who had lived nearly fifty summers amongst them in peace could cause such devastation? Cess had lost what little faith in God she had had during that time.
Edith had escaped alive, just, but the episode had shown Cess how normal people could turn overnight into a screaming, murderous mob and hunt down someone they had respected, even relied upon, the day before. Cess had withdrawn from village life, stopped trying to make friends and accepted that to most of the villagers she would never be anything other than a bastard. With the boy lying dead so close by, Cess wondered who might be blamed this time if the disease came to the village.
‘Do you believe witches could be behind all this?’ asked William.
‘I’ve never met a witch, so how could I know?’ said Cess pointedly, even though she knew William meant well and had not agreed with the hounding of Edith. The church bells rang out for evening prayers.
William did not take offence, but smiled at her. ‘The parson says witches dance with the Devil and allow him to suckle from their breasts,’ he said, as if this was something he might rather enjoy seeing.
‘He also says the Devil is hot from the flames of hell, so the witches suckling him would be burnt to cinders, wouldn’t they?’ said Cess, always pleased to pick holes in anything the parson said. ‘I know nothing about witches, and I don’t want to. There’s your mother.’ Goodwife Barlow, pretending not to see Cess, was signalling sharply for her son to join her.
‘Will you come with me to see the fireworks at the great house tomorrow night?’ William asked as he began clambering awkwardly down the barrel stack.
‘The what?’ asked Cess.
‘I heard the grooms speak of them,’ he said over his shoulder as he limped towards the scowling woman. Cess saw the thin line of his mother’s lips tighten further as she watched her hobbling son.
‘Pull down your jerkin. Your shirt is hanging all about. Go on with you.’ Goodwife Barlow pushed William down Middle Street towards the church and then marched ahead, too fast for him to keep up. Cess’s own mother hurried past minutes later, head bowed and eyes downcast.
With a deep sigh, Cess lowered herself down the barrels and walked to the church to join the other villagers, most the worse for drink but too poor to pay the fine if they stayed away.
There was an air of expectancy, and as the church bell tolled five o’clock, another sound could be heard. The thud of many hooves through the village and a single drum. The crowd hushed as the nobles of Montacute House arrived to attend the May Day service.
.
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4
Forest grew thickly to the west of Montacute village. Rising steeply from the trees was the slope of Saint Michael’s Hill, a place no villager would venture to. In a small clearing, two women worked hard and quickly, alert for the sound of footsteps approaching. Their hooded cloaks hid them completely so only their hands could be seen, gripping long brooms. Back and forth across a patch of bare earth the women swept, until the last twig and leaf was banished. Not a word passed between them, yet they seemed to anticipate every move the other made. They placed their brooms against the wall of a small wooden shack. The taller woman brought a flask of water and the shorter poured in salt with which to purify it. From a pouch at her waist she pulled a small black dagger and dipped it in the flask, quietly whispering:
.
Cast out from thee,
O spirit of the water,
All impurities and uncleanliness
Of the World of Phantasm.
In the names of the Goddess and the God.
.
In the air she drew a circle that mirrored the shape of the cleared space. She sprinkled the water to the north, west, south and east points of the circle. The taller woman poured salt in an unbroken line between the cleared space and the world beyond. The circle was now sacred; no spirit would dare cross into it. Only then did the women push back their hoods. The shorter of the two was younger, but had a powerful presence. Her hair was fair and her skin had a translucent quality, like sun shining through water. The older woman was angular, grey and careworn, a wise creature who had witnessed both the honourable and the ignoble in the world. She walked around the younger woman, drawing straight lines in the earth until she had created the shape of a five-pointed star.
‘There is little time. Do you have something belonging to the girl?’ said the fair-haired woman.
‘I have her best cap.’
‘Has it been worn?’
‘Much,’ said the older woman, fondly smoothing out the yellowed and thinning square of cloth in which one or two long brown hairs were still trapped. She hoped her friend had not missed it.
‘Then let us begin.’
.
The liveried drummer parted the gawping villagers like a dog through sheep, allowing the men-at-arms to follow. They forced back the crowd for the mounted nobles and their retinue led by the Earl of Montacute, Sir Edward Mortain, owner of Montacute House and its vast estates.
Sir Edward occasionally inspected his fine birds in the poultry yard, but today Cess thought he seemed much grander, dressed in red and green brocade and wearing an ornate gold chain of office, more the aristocrat of Queen Elizabeth’s court than the portly man interested in hens. He wore a short, square-cut grey beard and moustache and his richly embroidered clothes and gold chains made a magnificent sight. Peacock feathers fluttered jauntily in his hat and he smiled at the crowd, greeting several by name.
Sir E
dward’s family had owned land around Montacute for generations, but he was the first to be sent to court. The Queen had shown him great favour. He had risen fast and been given several titles including, lately, an earldom. His life had been visited by tragedy as well as success though. His wife and six of his children had died during a smallpox outbreak before Cess had been born. Only one son had survived. Sir Edward had been so overcome with grief that he had fled to London, abandoning Montacute for nearly ten years. When he finally decided to return, to pull down his father’s gloomy home in which there had been so much death and build in its place a house of great beauty, everyone had been overjoyed that the village would get its heart back.
Cess’s eyes were drawn to the rider behind Sir Edward. It was hard to guess his age, for he had no hair at all. His eyes without lashes or brows looked naked, and his cheeks were as smooth as a baby’s. He did not attempt to disguise his baldness with a cap or hat, seeming to enjoy the startling effect it produced. Tall and powerfully built, he was less colourfully dressed than Sir Edward, but Cess judged his attire at least as costly. His black velvet doublet was worked in silver thread, fine lace edged his ruff and cuffs, and his cape sparkled silver as brightly as summer starlight. He rode a huge black horse with a white star on its face, and on his left arm perched a great bird, white from head to tail, hooded in pearl-encrusted leather. It looked to Cess like a hawk, but she had never seen a bird so large, larger even than the great owls in the barns. The rider gazed ahead as he passed, ignoring the crowd.
He would look more at his cattle, Cess thought. His indifference provoked her. Sir Edward at least showed an interest in the villagers who served him.
‘Who is that?’ she whispered to the old woman squashed in front of her.
‘His Lordship’s son,’ she said, ‘Drax. Viscount Drax Mortain. He’s not been here for many a summer.’
‘What happened to his hair?’ Cess asked.
‘It fell out after his family died, all except his father. You’d see his little sisters, the sweetlings, in the village, beautiful they were. And his brothers were strapping lads, God rest their young souls. Suddenly six of them dead, and their mother,’ said the crone, twisting round, about to say more, but when she realised who had asked her, she pursed her lips and turned away.
The crowd surged forward as the nobles dismounted from their horses, followed by their guests. A few smiled, but one bug-eyed man in a page’s uniform glared as if to ward the villagers away from his fine livery. Indeed his straight, thigh-length coat was made of very fine linen, dyed deep green, and his hanging sleeves were embroidered with a coat of arms, though Cess could not see whose it was. Standing close to His Lordship was Sir Nathaniel Davies, steward of Montacute House, wearing black, as always, with a starched white ruff that made his head look detached from his body.
Cess was pushed to one side. She kept her hand to her bodice, not wanting its treasures dislodged. She knew it was fanciful, but she could have sworn that the pendant was heating up like a fire poker. If it got any hotter she would not be able to bear it against her skin. She looked about until she saw a clump of dock leaves by the graveyard wall. She picked one and, as unobtrusively as possible, tucked it down her bodice between her skin and the pendant, sighing with relief.
‘May Day cider, My Lords!’ cried the taverner. Cess saw that Amelia had pushed her way to the taverner’s side and was looking up under her lashes at the nobles. Even with her crown a-tilt from dancing she looked beautiful, and Cess noticed Drax Mortain watching her. Amelia also noticed, and tried to look demure.
‘God’s blood,’ swore Cess. ‘Surely even Amelia could not think a nobleman would be interested in her?’ Amelia’s parents, Uncle Richard and his goodwife, Alice, pushed their way next to their daughter and bowed to the nobles in the manner of gentlefolk and not the lower sort. Sir Edward had little choice but to acknowledge them and their pretty daughter. The Perryns looked as smug as cats in the buttery, and Cess felt sickened by the pantomime of their gentility. Amelia and her family had been ruthless in their treatment of her and her mother and had shown them less humanity and gentleness than a herd of wild boar.
Sir Edward downed a cupful of cider as tradition demanded, followed swiftly by Sir Nathaniel. The crowd stirred as Drax Mortain calmly refused the cup held out for him.
‘I do not take drink,’ he said in a tone that invited no persuasion.
In the awkward silence that followed, Sir Edward’s face was a mask of good cheer such as any courtier at the Queen’s side learnt to adopt, but as he turned to walk into the church Cess noticed that it faded abruptly.
Cess slipped last into the church and remained near the back. Although she disliked the parson, she liked his church. The place reminded her of her grandparents, whom she had always accompanied there. Her grandfather had told her that the church had once been full of precious things but that, when he was young, men had come from London and taken all the statues, the candlesticks and incense burners, even the stained-glass windows. Edward, Henry VIII’s son, was King then. A Protestant, he had commanded his people to pray and read the Bible in English instead of Latin so that everyone could understand the word of God. But he had died at fifteen and his half-sister, Queen Mary, a staunch Catholic, put everything back into Latin. Then Elizabeth came to the throne and everything changed again. Cess’s grandfather had smiled wryly as he described all the chopping and changing that went on. The church was now plain with clear glass windows that allowed the light to stream in, the only furniture being the altar table, the choir stalls and a few benches facing each other either side of the aisle below the pulpit. The pulpit was richly carved with detailed scenes that gave Cess something to look at while the parson droned on.
From where she stood, Cess could see that the benches were filled with the Mortains and their visitors. The few remaining places were taken by her Uncle Perryn and his family, who paid an annual subscription to sit in church. The rest of the congregation stood, although a few leant against the pillars and one old fellow snored on his feet. The crowd was noisier than usual, fuelled by drink and excitement. Small children ran about while older ones whispered between themselves, earning the occasional slap from their parents. They quietened for the parson’s sermon, although now and then someone shouted out a comment. Ignatius Bartholomew suffered these interjections as long as they came from men. For women, he held that it was not seemly to have an opinion.
‘This day you drink and dance around a pole,’ noted the parson with obvious disdain. Cess could see that Sir Edward was frowning, whether with concentration or disapproval she could not tell. ‘For many years I have asked of you, should you not pray instead? Ask forgiveness for your sins?’ Ignatius stared at his parishioners, a few of whom shifted uncomfortably. Cess jiggled her leg in irritation and repeatedly tucked away a strand of hair under her frayed cap until her mother, who had moved to her side, stayed her hand.
‘Sin was brought into the world by Eve, who ate the apple of Knowledge in Eden and you, women –’ he ran his eyes over the motley crowd – ‘must lead the way in repentance.’ Cess groaned. Why did the parson never address the sins of the menfolk? Goodman Porrit had got three different women pregnant. And Browning beat his wife so hard she died.
‘Even now I look about, and what do I see? In full view of the Angels there are women with no symbol of subjection upon their heads, bareheaded, or worse, with the May crowns of pagans!’ Cess noticed Amelia look uncomfortable and put her hand up to remove her crown. Drax Mortain, sitting on the benches opposite, was drawn by the movement and watched her closely, a fact not lost on Amelia. Cess knew her cousin would be loathe to take it off, for the crown enhanced her looks and proved that she was the prettiest girl in the village. However, with a coy glance at Drax, she slipped the circlet of may blossoms into her lap.
‘She really is tipping her cap at him,’ breathed Cess, dismayed for her cousin despite their mutual dislike of each other. Amelia would be like a lamb to the slaug
hter with a man like that, and Cess thought that her parents should care more than to use their daughter in their quest to increase their importance.
‘Today we are reminded to think hard upon sin and salvation, for death has come amongst us. A boy lies cold beneath this very church,’ said the parson dramatically. The congregation fell silent. Cess wondered if this latest calamity would also be blamed on the sinfulness of women. ‘My flock, be vigilant. As your minister, I insist that any information you might have that could shed light on this death be brought to me at the parsonage immediately, no matter the hour.’ Cess strained to hear what else he had to say, but her ears began ringing strangely. The sound was soon dwarfed by a strange sensation in her legs, like intense pins and needles. The feeling travelled up her body, her head began to spin and her vision to blur. When she went to lean against a pillar she could not move. She tried to cry out, but her voice was mute.
She felt herself floating upwards and looked down at her body, still rooted to the spot. The parson’s lips were moving, but the sounds around her were becoming distant as she felt herself rising up and out of the church altogether. Her stomach lurched as she flew higher and faster, like a bird blown about on a stormy day.
Am I dying? wondered Cecily. .
.
In the forest clearing, two women stood perfectly still, more so than the trees and bushes around them that moved in the breeze. Their faces were transformed in their stillness by an inner radiance and calm. Cess recognised one. It was her friend Edith.
‘Your spirit comes to us,’ said the younger woman, who had fair hair. Cess thought she might have seen her before. Perhaps she was from a nearby village. She gave Cess a brief smile. ‘We call you here to offer our protection, for we felt the presence of evil and have foreseen danger. We can wait no longer, for you will encounter it soon.’
