The Familiars

by Halls, Stacey

  ‘Well, I doubt very much that the king should worry about us storing gunpowder around here. It’s far too wet,’ I said, and Roger laughed. I wondered then if I should tell him about my letter, folded deep in my pocket. Might he know already? ‘Where is Richard?’ I asked instead.

  ‘He has some business with his steward and then he is showing me his new falcon before accompanying me back to Read. Will you join us?’

  ‘He spends more time with that creature than me. No, thank you. But you could tell him to ask the tailor to call. I need some new clothes.’

  Roger chuckled as we passed the entrance to my chambers and reached the top of the stairs.

  ‘You and my Katherine are two equal forces. But still, neither of you are a match for Richard. He has the largest collection outside of the king’s wardrobe.’ He paused at the top of the staircase. ‘You will come and see Katherine soon? She often asks after you and your latest fashions. She is fascinated to see what the young people are wearing.’

  I smiled and bowed as he descended the staircase that curled around the tower, but before he disappeared I called his name again, because I felt a sudden ache, and wanted desperately for him to embrace me as a father might. Roger certainly smelt as a father might, or so I imagined – of woodsmoke, and horsehair, and tobacco. He stood waiting below the portrait of my mother and me as a child – the one I would not hang in the long gallery or anywhere else. The reason was that nobody paused for long on the stairs, meaning guests walked past it and often forgot to mention it by the time they reached the next floor. In the picture, which was about the same height as me, my mother dominated in her wide collar and scarletwork gown. I occupied the bottom left corner, my mother’s arm bent towards me, as though about to hurry me out of the frame. A little black martlet sat on my hand, the pet I had kept in a cage in my room made immortal. I could still recall the unpleasant silence of sitting for the portrait in the great hall at Barton, and the pointy-faced artist with the coloured oils on his fingers, the blackened tip of his tongue that flicked out of his mouth like a serpent.

  ‘Roger …’ My voice died in my throat. ‘Do you think John Law will live?’

  ‘Do not fret,’ Roger said. ‘His son is caring for him.’

  I went back to my chamber, wondering how Roger Nowell slept with a witch in the house, and decided soundly.

  I’d hidden the pan under the bed for when I needed it and covered it with a cloth, but Richard still recoiled when he walked into our chamber. I was lying in my nightdress, weak and empty, what little pike I’d had at dinner clinging to the bottom of the bowl. Richard sighed and came to kneel by me.

  ‘Are you no better? You’ve barely eaten. I so want you to be well.’

  I pulled at my nightdress so the tiny mound of my stomach showed through. Richard gazed at it, resting a gentle hand on the bump. I rolled his gold ring, the one his father gave him that he never took off. I could not decide what was worse: how sick I felt or not knowing if my husband was keeping this great truth from me. At some point that evening it had dawned on me as I sat in my chamber with only the candles’ cheerful sputter for company: of course Richard valued his child’s life more than mine. Would any man not, who had a great deal to leave behind?

  ‘Richard?’ I asked. ‘What will happen if I cannot give you an heir?’

  I thought of the old kings’ wives, their necks on the chopping blocks. What would be better: to go painfully and messily, thrashing about in a blood-soaked bed, or clean and resigned, wearing your best dress? Divorce was decades old, but the word struck as much fear as death.

  ‘Don’t speak such things. It will not happen this time – the Lord will be kind to us. We will employ the best midwife.’

  ‘We had a midwife last time; she did not stop it from coming out dead.’

  He stood to undress, the candlelight casting off his buttons then settling on his bare skin. I watched him change into his nightshirt, then he came to my side and took my cold hand and held it, pink against grey. Although his voice was calm, his face was worried.

  ‘Until you are well again, I will sleep in the dressing room.’

  My stomach lurched. ‘No! Richard, please, I won’t hear of it. I’ll not be sick again. I’ll have a maid remove the pan.’

  I tried to climb out of bed but Richard stopped me.

  ‘I will only be in the next room until you are better, which will be very soon—’

  ‘Richard, don’t. Please. I don’t like sleeping alone, you know I don’t – The Nightmare.’

  When I woke, soaked with sweat and blind with terror, he would hold me until I stopped trembling. It only happened a few times a year, but he knew I would be terrified if he was not there.

  ‘Please don’t sleep in the dressing room. Please stay with me. I’m afraid.’

  But he kissed my forehead and, with a pained face, left holding the soiled pan at arm’s length. I slid down the headboard, feeling tears press at my eyes. He would never have done this when we were first married. After the wedding, in the house on the Strand, I could not sleep with the chaos outside the window. London was new to me, and everything in it – I’d never seen so many carriages in one place, or heard the cries of boatmen coming ashore, or so many loud bells and crowds of people. Richard would sit up with me at night, reading or drawing or just lying quietly, stroking my hair. When it got colder and we moved further out to the fields and wide skies of Islington, I told him I’d grown used to the sounds of the Strand, and now wouldn’t be able to sleep because it was too quiet. He laughed and said I was far too spoilt and the only thing for it was for him to make the noises for me. Night after night, just as I was about to fall asleep, he neighed into the darkness, or gave the cry of a knife sharpener, or juggled like a coal seller pretending to scald his hands. I’d never laughed so much in all my life. Once, when it was snowing outside and the fire was low in the grate, I asked to see what he was drawing in my sketchbook. He told me to wait until he was finished. I watched him work, his face taut with concentration, his hands making quick little movements and soft noises on the page. When he turned the paper around, I saw myself. I was wearing a beautiful trimmed hat, a fine ruff and collar, and elegant Spanish slippers. Around my shoulders was a cloak that flowed off the page, pressed with Paris buttons. I could almost feel its thickness.

  ‘What colour is it?’ I whispered, running my fingertips along the lines.

  ‘The cloak is of branched satin and orange wool,’ he said proudly. ‘I’ll have it made tomorrow. This is what you will wear to ride home in. To Gawthorpe.’

  Nobody had ever done such a thing for me before. When the winter ended we arrived at the brand-new house that no one had ever lived in, just as he said. The journey took nine days, and all I could think about the whole way was arriving in Lancashire as Mistress Shuttleworth, wearing an outfit the likes of which not a soul in these parts had ever seen. Richard looked equally fine in an outfit he designed himself, a dagger and sword at his hip. Villagers lined the streets as we drew closer to our new home, smiling and waving. But with time the picture had changed in my mind, and all I could see was two children dressed for a play.

  I blew out the candle and listened for sounds from the other room. This was the first time in our marriage we were both in the house and I was sleeping alone.

  He did not come to me the next morning, going down to break his fast without waking me. He read his correspondence while I sat opposite, trying to force bread and honey into my mouth and keep it down. I watched his face, creasing or brightening as he read; I did not ask who wrote. As the servants passed in and out of the dining chamber, I wondered who knew a truckle bed and fresh linen had been placed in the dressing room next to our bedroom. As though in answer, one of the kitchen girls caught my eye and looked hurriedly away, the tops of her ears turning red. I felt cold, and could not eat or say what I wanted to, so like a coward I went to walk up and down the long gallery and pray, hoping for a sign from God. I watched the trees and the sky,
and felt that burning itch to be outside without my thoughts, instead of inside with them.

  Much later, I found Richard in the great hall, seated with James the steward, the household ledger open between them. The Gawthorpe ledger was as important in our house as the King’s Bible: everything we bought, every bill we paid and everything that came in or out of Gawthorpe, whether on wheels, horseback or rolled in a barrel, was inked on its thick pages in James’ immaculate hand. Suits of armour, tapestries and other frivolities that Richard liked to spend his money on were committed in ink, as well as everyday things: stockings for the servants, cork for the wine. But like me, Richard took little interest in it, preferring to leave it to our men, so when I found him I knew he would be impatient; talk of quit-rents and profits bored him. As if reminding him to take the estate’s business seriously, the grave portrait of his uncle, the Reverend Lawrence, sat overlooking them, the words Death is the way unto life painted at his shoulder.

  I swallowed. ‘Richard?’

  He looked up quickly, welcoming the distraction. Then two things happened at once: James turned a new leaf so the pages were blank, even though they had only been halfway down the last, and I noticed Richard was dressed to travel.

  ‘You are going away?’

  ‘Lancaster. I leave tonight.’

  ‘Oh. Did someone write to you this morning?’

  ‘Only my sisters with news from London. They always write me a letter each but it might as well be one – they only talk of the same people and plays and the latest victim of scandal. At least there is more to entertain them there than at Forcett with my mother; I expect they’ll never want to move back to Yorkshire. Did you need me?’

  Yes, I need you.

  The room rang with silence. James’ feather quivered, its inky point eager to scratch.

  I wanted to say ‘Don’t go’, but instead replied, ‘How are the Mistresses Shuttleworth?’

  ‘Eleanor hints at something that has quite excited her, but Anne refers to it not at all.’

  ‘Perhaps she is engaged.’

  ‘It is not like Eleanor to be subtle.’

  ‘Perhaps she hopes to be engaged, then.’

  James cleared his throat pointedly.

  ‘I am going into Padiham this morning for some linen from Mrs Kendall’s. Is there anything you need?’

  ‘Why don’t you have one of the servants go?’

  ‘They will get the wrong thing.’

  ‘You are well enough?’

  Lawrence’s grey eyes stared at me from the frame. Death is the way unto life.

  ‘Yes.’

  I did not want him to go; he was always going, and I was always staying.

  ‘When will you be back?’

  ‘In a few days. Shall I check on Barton on my travels?’

  ‘Why? My mother no longer lives there; there will be nothing but empty rooms and mice.’

  ‘I should look in every now and again to check all is in order.’

  James sniffed and shifted in his seat. I was taking up valuable time with his master. Perhaps then Richard looked at me properly, for he came to me, tilting my chin towards him with his finger.

  ‘And how about we fit in a trip to London soon? Eleanor and Anne have made me miss it. We can get you one of the best midwives, and I’ll take you to a playhouse, the Lord knows we are starved of entertainment in these parts. This dreary hall could use some joy. James, find out if there are any players travelling in the area that could come and perform. Or send for some.’ He wrapped an arm around my waist and held my hand, as though we were about to dance. Puck shuffled up to us, grunting curiously. ‘Otherwise I shall have to train Puck to be a dancing bear. Behold!’

  He discarded me and pulled the dog up to his height, so Puck’s great paws rested on his shoulders and his monstrous head was level with Richard’s. I could not help but smile as they sauntered in an awkward dance, Puck’s tongue lolling as his feet staggered on the stone flags before he crashed ungracefully to the ground. He came immediately to me for a rewarding pat.

  ‘Useless creature. We will have to work on our performance,’ said Richard.

  He left me with James, and James with their unfinished business. I knew I was not the only person in the household left disarmed at times by my husband’s shifting moods. I watched him go, feeling his kiss feathery light on my cheek, and the weight of everything else heavy as a wet cloak around my shoulders.

  CHAPTER 4

  I’d heard of wise women, who could give you a cup of something and make you bleed so your stomach went flat again. Just as there were herbs and potions to make the child come out, were there not different ones to make it stay in, make it live? The little I’d heard was in snatches of conversation I was on the edge of, when the servants hadn’t realised I was sitting quietly in the next room, or from pursed lips at a dinner table in some hall or other, before the topic swiftly moved on to one more tasteful. If only I had a friend I could ask; I could hardly question the apothecary myself.

  The ride from Gawthorpe to Padiham was a pleasant one, through wide-spaced trees until the land opened out on to the road. It was cold and bright, and I was glad my thick wool cloak covered me. I tied the horse outside the clothier’s, stroking her coal-black mane before leaving her.

  ‘Good morning, Mistress,’ said face after plain face as the villagers passed by.

  I returned their greetings, noticing them greedily examining every inch of me, from my hat to my gloves. It was impossible to be inconspicuous.

  I paused at the apothecary’s door, imagining for a moment entering the dark, narrow little shop with all its scents and the dozens of miniature bottles and tapestries of herbs hanging from the walls. It was very possible that some might stop the sickness coming, stop the child leaving. Stop me from dying, even. But it was a different language, and one I could not speak.

  I ordered my linen from Mrs Kendall the clothier and thought I saw her bright little eyes flick down my front. It was hard to tell with village people whether they suspected you were in childbed or were admiring your buttons.

  ‘Mrs Kendall,’ I imagined whispering. She would no doubt grow confidential and press her round stomach against the counter, leaning forwards. ‘Do you know a wise woman?’

  ‘What for, Mistress?’ she’d ask in astonishment.

  ‘To help me grow a baby.’

  ‘All you need is a husband for that!’

  And she’d slap her red hands on her apron as tears streamed down her face while she laughed and laughed. Then the whole town would know, and it might get back to my servants, who would tell in turn how the master had quit my chamber, and us not five years married. No, it would not do.

  I rode my horse out of the town and took a shortcut through the woods. It was easier to think there than in the house, which was too quiet when Richard was away. I’d found the scale of Gawthorpe and the silence of it frightening at first. Wherever Richard went I would follow, and he began to call me the little ghost.

  I suppose if only I had been more assertive, Miss Fawnbrake would never have arrived. When Richard had called me into the hall that spring morning, I saw her wide back turn from where she was standing at the fireplace so she could regard me with her glassy, vacant eyes that were too far apart, like those of a fish. Ten or more years older than me, she looked all wrong – her ruff was floppy and needed starching, her dress was too tight. Even her name was wrong: ‘Miss Fawnbrake’ belonged to a coltish, beautiful young woman, and she was none of those. But what unnerved me the most was how she stood at Richard’s shoulder as though she had lived at Gawthorpe all her life. Richard was telling me he had found me a lady’s-maid, to keep me company in the house. Dread poured into me, filling me from bottom to top as he told me how I’d be like a lady at court, who had women to sit and read with them or play games and music. In my meekness I could only stare at her hands, which were pink and dry like smoked ham, folded patiently with too much wrist showing because her sleeves were short. Richard
knew I didn’t play music or practise my Latin vocabulary; he knew I liked to hunt and be outside with my dog, did he not?

  By this point I’d lost the first baby, but this was worse. I’d gone tearfully into the dining chamber, where Richard came to me, leaving Miss Fawnbrake curling her swollen knuckles.

  ‘I don’t want a nursemaid, Richard,’ I had told him, my voice cracking.

  ‘You prefer to be alone? Fleetwood, you say the suits of armour frighten you.’

  ‘They do not any more.’ Hot, salty tears were falling down my cheeks, and I began to cry like the infant I was. My husband did not see me as mistress of the house. ‘I am not a child, Richard,’ I’d sobbed.

  If only I could go now to that frightened girl, I would kneel on the Turkey carpet and take her cold little hands in mine. If only I could have done it years before that and said things will get worse before they get better, but get better they will. Would I believe myself?

  Recalling Miss Fawnbrake’s rough pink hands and her bloated, pockmarked face still made me queasy. She was with us for eight months and I lost two babies in that time, one after the other. When I began bleeding and begged her not to tell Richard, she marched from the room to inform her master. Richard raced upstairs to find me hunched over the bed as pain folded me in half again and again. I wish he had not seen how incapable I was, how keenly the child did not want me as its mother. The first time I’d miscarried, before Miss Fawnbrake arrived, we’d been walking in the long gallery, talking about commissioning our portraits, when I felt a strange plucking below, and thought my bowel had opened. I did not know what was happening, did not know there had even been a baby, and Richard had tucked me in bed and washed me with a warm cloth and fed me broth and marchpane. He was sad, but also delighted that we had conceived.

  ‘We will have a baby by Christmastide!’ He had smiled, and I had smiled weakly back, believing him.

  There had been barely any pain, just sorrow, and love. But then Miss Fawnbrake arrived, and that time there had been a great deal of pain, and even more sorrow, and guilt, and everything else.