by Sole, Linda
‘Will you hate me now?’
‘I feel nothing for you.’
‘Nothing?’ He was silent then, ‘I think I would rather you hated me. I hate myself.’
‘Perhaps I shall hate you when I can feel again.’
‘You will never come to me now.’ He took her by the tops of her arms, his strong fingers bruising the tender flesh. ‘If there is a child you must tell me.’ She shook her head. ‘Listen to me. I shall help you. For now, the cottage is yours – everything is yours. It always was. I would not have stolen your things.’
‘No?’ She raised her head, her pride suddenly blazing as anger rushed through her. ‘Then why did you steal something that can never be replaced? You have made me a whore. The village lads called Marthe a whore and I did not truly know what they meant, but I know now for it is what you have made me.’
‘You could never be that to me, Beth. I know I hurt you but if you gave me a second chance I would make things better. Please let me take care of you. There are those who would harm both your mother and you.’
‘What more harm can they do me?
He flinched as though she had struck him.
‘You do hate me. I cannot blame you.’
‘I should go now.’
He moved to prevent her. She stilled, wondering if he would attack her again.
‘Let me go. What more do you want of me?’
‘I want your promise that you will come to me if you are in trouble or afraid. You will not forgive me yet but perhaps one day…’ She shook her head. ‘Go then. I shall protect you as best I can even though you hate me.’
Beth walked past him, out into the heat of a summer morning. Somewhere a lark was singing but she did not look up as she normally would, ignoring its sweetness. She hurried through the oddly silent village, past Mistress Grey’s cottage, praying the woman would not come out and stop her. She was too numbed even to cry. She could not go home to Marthe yet. She was too shamed to face her mother – and the pictures she’d seen when Sir William raped her confused her mind. Had she really witnessed that terrible rape in the woods as a child? For a moment it had been clear in her head but now she was no longer sure. The curtain of mist in her mind had fallen into place once more and she was no longer sure of anything but the soreness between her thighs.
Marthe had told her they must hide from the evil men that wanted to kill them. What had happened that day in the clearing? Beth seemed to recall playing by a stream close to the castle – not Sir William’s castle but another. The soldiers had come from nowhere. They had struck down one woman and captured another – and Beth had been caught too. For a moment she saw it all as clearly as when it had happened and knew that there were other things she ought to remember of that time. Surely she had lived in the castle with the lady who looked like an angel then? Who was that lady?
Marthe had said something very strange before Mistress Grey knocked at the door. She’d been frightened, muttering to herself and yet she was not ill. Beth would ask her what she’d meant, because if Marthe was not her mother she must have a mother somewhere.
Her chest was tight with misery. She was trying to block out what had happened to her in the cottage, but the pain between her thighs would remind her even if her thoughts turned elsewhere. Beth had heard the word rape before this day, but she had not known what it meant. Now she understood how ugly the word was, because it described such an ugly deed. She thought that what she’d seen in the woods that day might have been multiple rape. The woman had screamed so loudly, begging them to stop, but they had not listened to her, each of them taking their turn. Who was the woman those men had so cruelly hurt? Was she her mother? Had she died? Was that why Marthe had taken her, because her mother was dead?
She wanted to ask Marthe so many questions but she felt dirty and shamed. She must cleanse herself before she returned home.
Beth would go to the pool. It was a secret magical place deep within the wood, the water deep enough for her to bathe and play but not so deep that she might drown. The centuries had hollowed out a basin in the rock where the stream fed into a little tributary and then wound its way onward to its end, wherever that might be. Because of overhanging willows the pool was hidden and seldom discovered by humans, though she’d seen deer and foxes drinking there at twilight. Beth had discovered it long ago while out foraging and it was her special place. She had not shared it with Marthe, who seldom bothered to wash herself or her clothes, drawing what water she needed from the stream itself – the lord’s stream, as he had reminded her.
No, she would not think of him or what he had done to her. She would bathe and pretend that nothing had happened, blocking out the pain and humiliation. If she did not allow him into her thoughts it would be as if he had never existed.
Twenty One
Lord Tomas walked into the chapel and saw his wife lighting a candle on the small stone altar. For a moment his heart caught with grief. She was as beautiful as she had always been but the sadness on her face told him why she was here.
‘Does it hurt you so much, Beatrice?’ he asked and she turned to face him, tears on her cheeks. ‘I had hoped that the years might have softened the pain. We have sons to light our lives and one day they will marry and give us grandchildren. And, despite the fines that the late King imposed, because we supported Owain Glyn Dwr, we do well enough here. I think we lack for nothing in the material sense?’
‘I am content with what we have,’ Beatrice said. ‘You have been good to me. I honour you and love our sons, Tomas – but, as I have told you before, I can never forget my sweet Elspeth. She would have been seventeen today. It is twelve years since we lost her.’
‘Seventeen? Have the years gone so fast? To me it seems such a short time since we wed.’ He sighed for the sadness in her struck him to the heart. ‘It seems but yesterday that we came here. Yet Elspeth must be a young woman if she lives.’
Beatrice turned to him, tears on her cheeks. ‘I light a candle for her on her birthday and at Christ’s Mass, and I pray for her each day. If she lives I pray that she is well and happy.’
‘We have heard nothing from that day to this,’ Tomas said in a tone of regret. ‘No one brought us proof of her death but we could not find her. I think she must have died and been buried secretly. We may never know the truth of what happened that day. It does no good to hope, Beatrice.’
‘Then I pray that God has mercy on her soul and that one day in Heaven, I can hold her in my arms and beg her to forgive me.’
‘Amen to that, my love.’ Tomas held out his arms to her. ‘Come, it is cold here and I would not have you catch a chill for you were ill after the birth of our last child. You have only just begun to regain your strength.’
Their third child had been a girl. Tomas feared that the child’s death so soon after her birth had brought back the pain of loss, reminding Beatrice of other losses. She was at last regaining her beauty and her health, but the sadness remained. The physician that attended the birth had predicted that the babe would be Beatrice’s last. Had she been given the blessing of a daughter mayhap she would have begun to forget Elspeth – but it was not to be. Beatrice was smiling at him, a look of apology in her eyes.
‘You are always so good to me. I think I do not deserve your goodness, Tomas.’
‘Do not say such things. I love you, Beatrice. I wed you because I wanted you and I have never regretted it.’
‘You said differently once.’
‘I was a different man then and jealousy makes a man say many foolish things. You are mine now and I would make you happy.’
‘You have. It is only when I remember her that I am sad.’
‘Come then. Let us go back to the house.’ Tomas smiled and offered his hand. ‘The wagon has come from London with the goods we ordered. Silks for your new gowns, Beatrice, spices, dates, all manner of treats for the boys – and that special something I ordered for you.’
‘What have you bought me this time?’ she asked. �
�You are forever spoiling me, Tomas. I am sure that I do not deserve it.’
‘I am sure that you do. It is a surprise. You must wait and see.’
It would be a silver trinket for her comfort or a pretty jewel to adorn her hair. Tomas was not as rich as the king he had replaced in her life, but he was generous and whenever he had money to spare he bought her something. In her heart she knew that she was lucky. She should put her memories aside and devote herself to making her husband and sons happy.
Her secret loss must be forgotten.
‘Come, my love, the boys are waiting for their treats.’
‘’Yes, we must not spoil their pleasure in the day.’ She looked up at him. ‘You have heard nothing from Hugh?’
‘No, were you expecting him to write?’
‘He has been in my mind since his last visit, but no I do not expect it. There is no reason why he should.’
Beatrice took his hand and they left the chapel together.
Twenty Two
William cursed himself for a fool. He had ruined any chance he’d had of making her care for him. She hated him and he deserved her scorn. He’d treated her as he would never have treated a common whore, forcing her when he knew she was unwilling and hurting her. She’d had blood on her thighs, proof of her innocence if he’d needed any. She had begged him to stop but she had not screamed or cried. His lady of the woods was too proud to cry or shriek abuse at him. He had raped her and yet when she looked at him it was he that was shamed. It was his own fault that he’d lost her. His lust had made him impatient. When she’d refused him he’d lost his head, carried away by his own desire, his own need. He’d believed that if he had her once the hunger might go, but he still wanted her. If anything his need was greater now and he knew she would never come to him.
What was he going to do? He could seize her, bring her here to the castle where she would be safe. William had heard the whispers. The priest had spoken to him more than once, denouncing the witch of the woods. As yet he had no proof of her evil ways but it was clear that he wished the woman ill. William hardly cared what happened to the witch but he wanted Beth safe. He had given orders that Mistress Soames’s cottage belonged to Beth and all its contents.
‘If anything is taken I shall punish the thief,’ he’d told Mistress Grey.
‘No one would steal Mistress Soames’s things. She was one of us and we look after each other. Some say she was a witch – but a white witch. She did only good unlike some…’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Master Black had a pig in sow but it took sick and died last week and there is illness in the village. Three children lie in their beds close to death and two men have similar sickness. People say that someone has ill wished us.’
‘That is nonsense, mistress. Sickness comes and goes every year. It is the way of life – and perhaps the will of God.’
‘Yes, that is what I told Master Blacksmith, but he says the priest is of the opinion that the witch of the woods may be behind this illness.’
‘You are mistaken. There is no such thing as a witch,’ William said. ‘I shall speak to the priest. I shall not have such foolish superstition. Those who spread such lies will be punished.’
William had spoken to the priest, reminding him that spreading malicious lies and whipping up hatred for the woman who lived in the woods could lead to a witch hunt and evil practices.
‘We are a peaceful community. I prefer that we worship God and cast out all thought of Satan or his followers.’
‘It is the woman of the woods who conjures up Satan’s form and performs lewd rituals with him.’
‘You have seen this for yourself?’
‘John the Blacksmith swore to me that it was so. He witnessed her unholy rituals himself before he grew afraid and ran away. He has sworn this as a holy oath.’
‘Then he must stop his lying tongue or I shall take it from him.’ William glared at the priest. ‘Enough. Know this, priest. I will not hear these lies. If you or any other man on my land lays one finger on Beth I shall hang them and they will suffer before they die.’
‘The witch has…’ the words died on the priest’s tongue as he saw his overlord’s look. ‘The girl may be innocent – but her mother is an evil woman.’
‘I have warned you of my displeasure. Let me hear no more of this.’
William knew that he had aroused the priest’s enmity but his fear for Beth had made him unwise. He could command, but one day he might come to regret his harsh tongue.
If Beth had come to him she would be under his protection and the priest would not have dared to speak against her. He regretted his stupid mistake in forcing her. Had he coaxed her with smiles a little longer she might have come to like him or even to love him – as he loved her.
Groaning, William accepted that the feelings inside him were love, a deep, hungry need that made him lie sleepless for want of her. He had bedded women since he was thirteen and pleased them well enough, but never once had he cared two groats for what happened to them after he’d taken his fill of them. He understood now that a lifetime of loving would not be enough. Somehow his lady of the woods had wormed her way beneath his skin. He wanted her, wanted to protect her, to see her in his bed and with his child at her breast.
What had he done? He cursed himself a thousand-fold for his stupidity. He must find a way to make good what he had destroyed. Beth was angry now but perhaps in time he would find a way to ease her hurt and bring her to him.
In the meantime it might be best if he went away. He would go to London and attend the King, as he had been requested to do. He still felt hostility towards Henry and the house of Lancaster but William would bide his time. Somehow the things that had once made him bitter had faded into a blur of regret that he tucked away in his memory. What mattered now was Beth. He had to make sure she was safe and to think of a way to bring her to him.
Twenty Three
Beth felt better after she’d bathed and rubbed her skin with leaves and herbs. She had rubbed between her legs with dock leaf, which would take the sting of nettles away and she thought had eased her soreness a little. Nothing would ease the humiliation of being used as a whore by the lord. Until the moment he used her so ill she had been beginning to like him. His face was not as handsome as that of the knight she’d seen riding to the castle on the day of the proclamation, but his smile was pleasant. She had suspected that his reputation was unfair but now knew that she had been mistaken. He was as much a devil as his father had been before him.
She must try to forget what had happened. Sir William had wanted her to promise him she would tell him if there was a child, but Beth intended to brew a drink that would protect her from giving birth. Marthe often made them for village women who did not wish to have more children. Often they already had three or four babes under the age of six and were desperate not to have another, because at times they could not feed the children they had. The Church forbade such practices, branding them witchcraft, and, could its ministers prove that Marthe had made such a brew for another woman, might punish her by putting her in the stocks or whipping her. If she was denounced as a witch she might be hung or burned at the stake.
Beth would have to be careful when she made her brew for Marthe would be suspicious. She would want to know who it was for, because she was wary of whom she gave such dangerous potions.
‘If the woman takes too much she might abort too hard and die,’ Marthe had said once. ‘The mixture is very strong and must be used exactly, too little and it will not work, too much and the result can be fatal.’
The last thing Beth needed was Marthe to scold her. She needed her mother to be in a good mood so that she would tell her whatever it was that had been on the tip of her tongue when they were interrupted that morning.
As she entered the cottage, Beth saw that Marthe had drawn strange circles on the floor of the hut. She had lit a candle, a rare indulgence, and there was a pungent scent in the air – strong and unpleasant
. It made Beth wrinkle her nose.
‘What have you been doing?’
‘Mind your business,’ Marthe snapped. ‘You have been a long time. Have you nothing to show for your labours?’
‘The cottage and contents are mine. We could live there if you chose.’
Marthe shook her head. ‘It is too dangerous to live in the village. Here we are out of sight and if we are careful they will not notice us, except when they need us. You should take her things and we can sell them at a market.’
Beth had no intention of selling the beautiful silk gown Mistress Soames had given her but she would not quarrel with her mother. She would bring only the things that might be useful here until she was ready.
‘What have you been making?’ she asked, indicating the pot Marthe was stirring over the fire.
‘There is fever and sickness in the village. Many will take it and some will die – I have made a brew that should help. You should drink some of it, Beth. You will be called upon to help them and this will protect you.’
Marthe held it out to her. Beth took it, sipped it and made a sound of disgust for it tasted foul but swallowed as she had been bid. Marthe nodded approvingly.
‘You will be safe to go to the village now.’
‘How do you know that I shall be needed?’
‘They will come in the morning and ask. You must do what you can, Beth – but be sure to tell them that I brewed the cure. If it does not save them they must blame me not you.’
‘I tell everyone that I can only ease them,’ Beth said. ‘We know so little and we should not pretend that we can cure all ills.’
‘This is special. I used witchcraft to prepare it. If this does not save them nothing will.’
‘Mother! You should not use the dark arts. You know it is forbidden. Do you want people to name you as a witch?’
Marthe scowled at her. ‘Sometimes it is the only way to get what you want. You should let me show you how to summon the dark lord. One day he might save your life.’
