The Honey and the Sting

by E C Fremantle

  Felton replaces the pin in George’s jacket, forcing its sharp point through the thick fabric, and takes his leave.

  Hester

  The latch rattles. I lift my head to listen, gooseflesh prickling its way up my arms. I can see nothing at all, not even my hand when I hold it in front of my face. Then I hear the definite scuff of feet against floorboards.

  Someone is in our room.

  Cold sweat springs up over my brow.

  I feel for Rafe in the bed, relieved to find his warm body. Beneath the pillow my fingers come into contact with the brittle papers hidden there and also the steel contours of Ambrose’s pistol. I draw it out, breath held. I don’t know how to load or fire it but it might scare someone off … unless they, too, are armed.

  Trying to quash that thought, I jump up, holding the pistol ahead of me. ‘Who goes there?’ My voice booms through the quiet. I imagine firing, a flare exploding outwards like a firework, the thud as the bullet meets its mark, the slump of a body. I don’t know if I could, even if the thing were loaded.

  I begin to see vague shapes in the darkness and, grasping the bed frame, feel my way towards the door where I can see a pale figure emerging from the gloom. The latch rattles again. Whoever it is is trying to leave and seems unable to open the door.

  Hope stirs. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Who goes there?’ I repeat, taking several tentative steps towards the door, pistol brandished, until it meets resistance against the intruder’s back. I give it a hard shove. ‘Don’t move. I’m armed.’

  ‘Where am I?’ It is Melis calling, not from the bed but from the door. ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Melis?’ I reach out, feeling the thin fabric of her nightgown, and retract the gun. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I don’t know. Where are we?’ She sounds befuddled.

  Hope is up and opening the shutters, allowing the grey dawn to filter into the room. ‘We’re at the King’s Head.’

  ‘Oh.’ Melis slumps onto the bed, rubbing her eyes. ‘I thought we were back at Orchard Cottage. I couldn’t open the door.’

  I feel my exhaustion now, my whole body aching from days in the saddle and lack of rest.

  ‘You were sleepwalking.’ I describe how we came to be here and she slowly returns to her senses. She used to sleepwalk as a child but hasn’t done so for years. I hope it isn’t the precursor to one of her episodes. That is the last thing I need when I have so much else to worry about.

  A bell chimes from a nearby church and I hear another, more distant, like an echo.

  ‘Five o’clock,’ says Hope.

  ‘We may as well get going.’ I try to sound positive. ‘There’s no point in dallying here.’ The idea of another day of travelling and then another after that, stalked by dread, makes it hard to muster my spirit.

  ‘Good idea,’ says Melis, who begins to gather our things together. She catches my worried scrutiny. ‘I’m all right. No need to watch me like a hawk.’ There is a slight edge of impatience to her tone, which reassures me. I smile. She returns it, her annoyance draining away.

  ‘Like an oven in here.’ Hope opens the window to air the stuffy room. Despite the heat we hadn’t dared leave it open during the night, as the room is on the first floor with a tree close by that would have been easy to climb.

  Telling myself it will be over soon, I tuck the letters safely out of sight into my bodice. They are my only hope, but changing George’s mind, even with Ambrose’s help, seems impossible. If I allow my misgivings free rein, all I can see lying ahead is a landscape of fear stretching into the far distance, an endless fugitive life.

  I watch Rafe for a moment, still asleep, his hand clutched around his monkey, the dear curve of his mouth twitching minutely. Gently, I shake him awake. He is bleary-eyed and thrusts the toy at me. ‘Why did you think I wanted this? It’s for babies.’ I stuff it into my bag, knowing he will ask for it again.

  I try to lighten his mood as I help him dress, but my words ring with insincere brightness. Shaking out the brocade gown, filthy with dust from the road, I see it has been torn from neck to hem, making it unwearable. ‘How did this happen?’

  Rafe shrugs, insouciant, saying he doesn’t know.

  ‘I’ll tack it back together quickly, shall I?’ suggests Hope, rummaging for the sewing things.

  ‘I won’t wear it.’ The firm jut of his chin is clear indication that he is ready for a prolonged protest.

  ‘There isn’t time and it won’t hurt for him to wear his own clothes for one day.’

  ‘Don’t you think …’ begins Hope, then seems to think better of it. Without finishing her sentence, she emits a snort of disapproval and stuffs the torn dress into one of the bags.

  ‘There’s been no sign of anyone following us and we’re so far from Oxford now …’ My words trail off. Even I am unconvinced it is a good idea to let him go undisguised, but if he makes a fuss about it he will draw unwanted attention to us. ‘I don’t understand how it was torn.’

  Hope is looking at Rafe, clearly assuming him the culprit. Certainly the evidence points to him but I can’t imagine it. It’s such a wilfully destructive act.

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ he says vehemently. ‘Aunt Hope thinks it was.’

  ‘We believe you.’ I stroke my hand over his cheek, noticing that he shrinks slightly from my touch. ‘Don’t we, Hope.’ I look at my youngest sister, whose back is turned, pointedly.

  ‘I’ll go down and see that the horses are fed,’ says Melis, who is by the door, bags packed already. I wonder if it is possible that she ripped the dress in her sleep last night. She has done stranger things.

  Rafe puts on his usual clothes and offers me a quicksilver smile. George may think he is growing up but to me he is still so young, everything about him out of proportion, his body still too slight for his head, awkward gangly limbs, the pair of new front teeth dominating his mouth. He is still a nestling, in need of my protection. I cannot imagine that one day he will be a man.

  Hope and I lug the bags downstairs, Rafe following, and out to the yard where Melis is already preparing the horses. We slide quietly out into the dawn, plodding steadily towards the north-west. According to Ambrose’s instructions, with luck and good conditions, we ought to reach Ludlow by nightfall.

  We stop every now and again so the horses can drink, and by midday we are at a small inn, suitable for an hour’s respite and a simple meal. Once we have eaten, we sit outside to rest awhile in a small meadow at the rear of the building.

  Rafe and Hope, their quarrel forgotten, doze off in the long grass, Rafe’s head resting on his aunt’s lap. Melis is drawn to inspect a row of hives set in a wooded area, while I find myself contemplating a colony of ants marching up and down a nearby tree, marvelling at their order and their ability to carry vast objects over uncertain terrain with apparent ease. They are relentless to the point that when one of their troop becomes injured, or is unable to continue its task, the others simply climb over, or make a path around, their suffering comrade. I wonder what lesson God intended by putting them on this earth – the example of industry, perhaps. They are absent of either conscience or empathy yet their colony appears the apogee of efficiency. Were humans also lacking in those qualities the world would be in chaos, though I can think of one in whom they are absent.

  A sudden disturbance jolts me from my thoughts and I become aware of Melis rushing towards me. Scrambling to my feet, my hand goes instinctively to the pistol. She is dashing through the grass, wild-eyed. ‘There is a wasp in our hive. We must be rid of it.’

  I notice, to my dismay, that her behaviour has drawn the attention of a group of travellers, who have stopped to gawp. She must seem to them like a creature possessed. Desperate for her to stop, I slap her briskly around the face, stunning her into an abrupt silence.

  Her hand at her cheek, she regards me in shock, tears welling. I am shocked too. My palm is smarting, my nerves shredded. I have never before lost my patience with her so violently. �
��I’m sorry,’ I say quietly. ‘You were attracting attention.’

  The ogling travellers are now in an avid semi-circle, several paces away from us, nudging one another and making tuts of disapproval. I turn to them with an attempted smile. ‘All is well now. I have it in hand. My sister is ailing. There is no need for concern.’

  A voice comes out of the group. ‘Don’t I know you from somewhere?’

  I freeze, unable to respond. The man who spoke wears a clergyman’s cassock and collar and is vaguely familiar but I cannot place him. Finally, I find my voice. ‘I’m not aware of having met you before, reverend.’

  Leaving his companions, three women of varying ages, he approaches. My stomach lurches with the abrupt notion that he might have been George’s mother’s chaplain and remember me from when I was in her household.

  I glance over to the long grass where Rafe and Hope are stirring. Turning to Melis, now calm in the wake of my slap, I tell her beneath my breath to keep the others away.

  ‘I never forget a face.’ He is standing quite close now, and seeing him properly I remember, with no small relief, that he is the vicar of a church to which we occasionally supply candles. Mostly I had dealt with the sexton but eventually recall dealing with this man once, briefly.

  ‘Aren’t you the vicar of St Laurence at Cowley?’ I am astonished that there is not so much as a wobble in my voice. From the corner of my eye I am thankful to see that the others have wandered away towards the wooded area at the end of the paddock.

  ‘Indeed I am.’ He appears delighted that I have remembered him. ‘I must apologize for my lack of manners, but I find I cannot quite place you, Mistress …?’

  I cross my fingers behind my back. ‘Mistress Holtby. My family worshipped at St Laurence for a month or so when we were living nearby.’ I tilt my head with an obliging smile. ‘I remember you principally for the quality of your sermons.’

  He puffs up under this nugget of praise. ‘Which in particular?’ He is scrutinizing me carefully.

  ‘Much as I would like to discuss such things with you, sir, I’m afraid duty calls. My husband awaits me in Worcester.’ I count up the lies I have told since our journey began, silently begging God for lenience. Worcester is where we travelled from this morning. ‘He will be wondering where we have got to.’ I dip into a small, respectful curtsy and bid him goodbye.

  As I marshal the others in preparation for a swift departure, I hear the vicar’s companions ask how he knows me. ‘One of my congregation,’ he replies, pricked with pride. ‘An enthusiast of my sermons.’

  I hurry my small party, making haste to leave before his memory is jogged.

  Felton

  When he lifts his eyes over the lip of the sill, Felton can see the shadows of the two men moving about in the pale glow of the lamplit interior. He is concealed in a yew bush under the window of what appears to be Dr Cotton’s study, or library, considering the books around the walls.

  The weather is hot and dry but there must have been a downpour in the last few days as it is damp in his hiding place, where the sun doesn’t reach. He has been there for some time and his body is stiffening, the familiar pain pulsing through his injured arm. Feeling for the phial in his bag, he swallows a liberal measure of his tincture, leaning back against the cold wall, and waits for the discomfort to recede.

  A door bangs at the back of the building. He can hear two male voices talking, about women, he gathers, which of the maids they would like to ‘vault’. They are smoking. The smell wafts through the thick vegetation of his hideout making him crave a pipe of tobacco. He vaguely wonders which of the several maids they mention is George’s informant.

  Before long, his pain is banished to a place where he can recognize yet not feel it – akin to the place his conscience hides. His head swims pleasantly and a glorious feeling builds in him that he is capable of anything and impervious to everything.

  He had watched Dr Cotton’s visitor arrive at Littlemore Manor a good two hours ago, when it was still light. The man had the straight posture and meaningful stride of an officer. A business-like sword was attached at his waist and, from the way his coat hung off kilter, Felton could tell he was carrying a firearm. He would recognize one of his own kind at a hundred yards.

  He is about to take another peep into the room when the gravel crunches nearby, the pipe smell strong now. It must be one of the smoking servants walking about nearby, doing the evening rounds, perhaps. He makes himself small, hackles up, primed for a fight, touching his fingers to the knife he wears tucked inside his belt.

  The footsteps recede and Felton relaxes, removing a hunk of bread from his bag. The satchel holds a small firearm with ammunition and the purse of money, both given to him by George, a tinderbox and the precious tincture, more of which is in his small travelling box left at an inn in Oxford: the Lamb and Flag. George had informed him that this was the place Dr Cotton’s groom had been instructed to take the women. However, according to the landlord, whom he had quizzed thoroughly, no group fitting their description has passed through the inn recently. Either George has been misinformed or the man is lying.

  He creeps up to peer inside again. The two men are deep in conversation and he sees Dr Cotton hand a roll of papers to the other before they both rise and leave the room. Felton drops down into the dark.

  Almost immediately the front door opens. Felton is close enough to hear the scuff of the visitor’s shoes on the stoop. There is the merest sliver of moon, casting a thin, cool light over the night, like a dusting of frost. The man turns to face the doctor, whose hands alone are visible. He is removing a ring from one of his fingers.

  He taps the roll of papers. ‘You have directions and this will serve as proof that you are sent by me.’ He hands over the ring. ‘In the meantime I shall attempt to open negotiations with the duke.’

  ‘Understood.’ The visitor, shifting from one foot to the other, slips on the ring, tucks the papers into his jacket and clicks his heels, then marches briskly down the drive.

  ‘Take care of them, Bloor,’ calls the doctor after him. ‘They are most dear to me.’

  Felton waits for the door to shut, then follows, creeping from one dark hulk of yew bush to the next where they line the drive. Bloor stops a moment, crouching, appearing to tie his bootlace, then continues. Felton allows him to go ahead fifty yards, knowing there is only the one way out of Littlemore Manor. He can easily catch him up if necessary.

  He hears something. The quiet crunch of another set of footsteps. The servant must be about again. Glad of the thin moon and its mean light, Felton presses himself into the arms of the foliage. A small cough sounds close – too close. Felton stands immobile, breath held.

  Someone jumps at him, forcing him to the ground with a great thud, winding him and pulling his bad arm up and back by the wrist. The sudden searing pain forces a guttural cry to burst from his windpipe.

  ‘Who in Hell’s name are you?’ Dr Cotton’s breath is hot in his ear, the weight of his body holding Felton down, face in the dirt.

  Felton struggles, flailing and kicking. Each twist rips renewed agony through his injured arm. He spits out a wad of earth. The doctor thrusts his forearm under Felton’s chin pulling his head up off the ground, pressing into his gullet.

  He sputters, grabbing at his breath. A knee crunches agonizingly into his gut. He expels a cry. A fist meets his ear, exploding, a constellation of stars in his head.

  With sheer force of will he manages to stay conscious and wriggles his good hand to his waist where it meets with the hilt of his blade. He summons all the strength he can muster and, with an almighty roar, he forces his attacker off, rolling onto him, kneeing his groin and plunging the knife deep between his ribs.

  The doctor thrashes his legs, pounding at Felton’s head, calling for help. Felton claps a hand over his mouth. The doctor bites. Felton winces, staunching the cry that wants to burst out of him.

  He holds the knife firm, can feel hot blood on his hand, waitin
g for the man’s writhing to subside, feeling now his strength sapping.

  Everything drops to silence, save the fading stutter of the doctor’s breath.

  He falls limp.

  Someone shouts from the house. ‘Who’s out there?’

  Felton hears the door go and sees the dark shape of a figure holding a lit torch searching the drive. Leaving his knife, he scrambles into the shadow of the nearest bush, crawling from one to another until he reaches the gate and from there runs as fast as he can to catch up with Bloor.

  Hope

  ‘Would you help me hitch this boy to the cart, young man?’ Gifford walks a grey gelding into the yard. From the moment they arrived at the Feathers in Ludlow the previous evening, he had seemed entirely convinced by Hope’s disguise.

  Gifford is an ancient, bow-legged man with a broad face and very few teeth. She helps him haul the cart round. An ungainly vehicle, it looks as if it might be even older than its owner and is no more sophisticated than an open box with plank benches on either side and two large wheels that sport several broken spokes.

  The hired horses are to be sent back, leaving their party with just this grey, sturdy enough if ill-proportioned, and the dependable piebald, to take them from Ludlow to their destination.

  Hester has referred to it mysteriously as ‘the Hall in the Forest’, sometimes just ‘the lodge’, and all Hope has gathered is that it is so deeply buried, its location so secret, that it can’t be found without either a guide or detailed instructions.

  The Feathers is handsome, and recently built, so the smell of sawdust still lingers. Unlike the poky old inns they have stayed in on the way, with their low ceilings and sagging roofs, it has a double-height hall and a large staircase that sweeps up and up to the bedrooms, which, the landlord had told them proudly, are each furnished with new feather beds. Hope felt like a duchess as she made her way up and sank into that cloud of down.