‘Go home, Frannie.’

  ‘No, Mamma. I will not go until you are free.’

  She stares past me to the corner, where a pile of straw masks the excrement but fails to mask the stench. ‘I wish you would do as I say, my daughter,’ she says quietly.

  I hold out my hands, hoping she will take them.

  She does not respond. Her eyes have hardened into the familiar, closed look reserved for my father when he used to come home late from King’s Norton.

  ‘I will go, if that’s what you want, Mamma.’

  She nods. ‘Tell your father that he will have to talk with me himself. He has avoided me long enough.’ With glistening eyes she adds, ‘Go quickly now, Frannie, and be safe.’

  20

  It’s raining again. We take the track through the woods back to Hazelmere. My father rides ahead of me: far enough to convey his anger, but not so far that he loses sight of me among the trees. I keep my eyes on the track, urging the reluctant mare around the deepest holes and ruts. It’s painstakingly slow. The sickness I felt earlier this morning has subsided, but my mother’s words keep returning to me. ‘I see a woman may be made a fool.’

  There was a hungry look in my father’s eyes when I walked towards him outside the gaol. I handed the paper back to him and watched as he examined the splodge of ink where her signature should be. ‘Mamma said you must ask her yourself,’ I said, expecting that he would rush into the gaol and demand to see her.

  Instead, he folded the papers and, taking his satchel from me, placed them inside. Then he fastened the clasp and busied himself getting his horse ready.

  I could tell by his calm demeanour that he had known all along that she would not sign. He had made a fool out of me. They have had an argument, and neither of them will tell me the truth of it. And now, despite my declarations, my mother thinks I have taken his side.

  With each glint of light that penetrates the gloomy forest, I catch sight of my father’s black cloak in the distance. I have no desire to close the gap between us. I tell myself that I will return tomorrow and tell her the truth, that Father forced me to ask her. But did he force me? I could have refused. I should have refused. Once again, I am caught between them, like a rope fraying under their pull.

  I slow the horse, delaying the return to Hazelmere as long as I can. I resolve to apologise to my mother. I will start again. I will tell her of the baby; perhaps that will help mend the breach between us.

  When I reach the clearing, my father is already in the stable yard waiting.

  He takes hold of the reins when I am near. ‘There’s nothing more you can do here. In fact, you are a distraction. You should go home to Statfold.’ His voice is as cold as steel.

  I slide off the horse and steady myself against her shoulder. ‘Father, please . . .’

  ‘You can stay until your husband returns with the carriage. But you are not to visit your mother again. You are only making things worse.’

  He turns from me and I call out, ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘I will talk again to Joseph. We must protect as much as we can.’

  ‘But what about Mamma?’

  ‘Your mother is my concern, Frannie, not yours.’ My father hands the reins to the stable boy and strides to the house without a backward glance.

  I cannot face going back into the house when my mother is not there, so I pull my shawl around me and stride out through the garden at the back of the house towards the woods.

  I push my way through birch, elders and rambling bushes that have grown over the trail. Thoughts of my mother crowd my head, and I can almost hear our laughter echoing among the trees. Yet nothing feels as it did then, when we innocently played our games; the woods are darker now, forbidding.

  A wood pigeon coos and I jump. My heart is beating fast as I stride, unwilling to linger in the trees yet not entirely sure where the path is taking me. A distant chime makes me stop. It sounds like a church bell, but it cannot be, for Nance told me that the Hazelmere bell had been melted down for cannon. I stand, listening. The only sound is the swish of the long grasses at the edge of the wood.

  Stepping out from the shade of the trees into a meadow, I am bathed in sunshine. In one direction, the field slopes down towards Hazelmere village. In the other, the field climbs gently to a hilltop, where a solitary oak tree is dropping the last of its leaves in the wind. Just beyond the tree lies the hollow where I used to hide. It can only be seen from the branches of the oak tree. Of course I’ve come here. I always came here.

  As I set out for the tree, a volley of birds rises up from the grasses near me: the air becomes alive with their calls, their wings loud as flapping sheets. As they gain height, they soar and spin, their wings glistening silvery-ash flickers in the autumn sun. An ache carves through me as I recall my mother sitting in my father’s study, her face caught in disbelief as she realised what was about to happen. I push the scene away and force myself to keep walking until I reach the tree.

  Panting, I gaze up at the gnarled trunk. This is the place where Joseph and I would come when our father was angry. We would climb up and sit on the lowest branch of the oak tree and survey our kingdom. The squirrel hole in the trunk, where we used to hide treasure, is still there but much higher now. I stretch my arms as far as I can reach but I can only touch the underside of the branch.

  There’s a burned odour in the air. I scan the field and the distant chimneys of the village houses but can see no smoke. I wipe my mouth, trying to remove the bitter taste of charred earth that seems to surround me. I look around, feeling uneasy. I can almost see Joseph sitting there, his back against the tree, his sooty hands clasping the field flask, his breath rasping from running. He drank from the flask until it was dry. He held it upside down above his head, catching the last drops. ‘I saved it,’ he said, pointing to a book with a cover so singed and blackened that it made me cry all over again.

  My breastbone aches as I gaze at the tree, trying to remember what happened to that book. Nothing more comes to me.

  In the distance, the church tower is swathed in dark cloud. I recall the misery in my mother’s eyes when she asked me to leave today. I feel numb, empty. Even the babe inside me seems to have recoiled from me.

  I walk down the hill and back into the wood. I have done no good coming back here. I should have given my mother more time to consider the situation instead of blurting out my father’s wishes so. She trusted me and I let her down.

  Rain starts to spit as I leave the woods. I hold out my hands and watch the drops fall, dissolving the dirt on my hands into rivulets.

  I start as I look up and see Nance’s face looming before me.

  ‘Lord help us, what are you doing out here, Miss Frannie? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.’

  ‘I let her down, Nance.’

  Nance takes my arm and leads me through the rain into the kitchen. She pulls off my cloak and my sodden shawl. Tutting, she guides me into a chair by the fire, below the dried lavender tied with blue wool. Water boils in a pot and Nance stirs in crushed camomile stems. She mutters to herself, ‘All these years and nothin’s changed.’

  ‘Drink this,’ she says, spooning the herbal brew into a bowl.

  I cup the bowl with both hands and sip slowly.

  The kitchen is dim. Thunder rumbles in the distance. Rain lashes the glass. Nance sighs as she watches it. ‘That’s all we need.’

  I gaze into the fire, wondering what will become of my mother now.

  ‘She trusted me, Nance, and I let her down.’

  Nance places the back of her hand on my brow. She pats my arm and says soothingly, ‘You didn’t know what you were doing. You were just a girl, Frannie.’ She picks up my shawl and cloak. ‘I’ll hang these up to dry. You sit there and let that fire warm you through.’

  ‘A girl did you say, Nance? I was talking about today.’

  Water drips from the sodden cloak onto the stone flags as Nance stares at me with a puzzled look. It was the same way my mother had looked at me.

  ‘What do you mean, Nance?’

  She shakes her head briskly and looks down at the puddle around her feet. ‘Now look at the mess on this floor,’ she says.

  She twists and squeezes the wet cloak over a tub then drapes it over a wooden chair and dries her hands. ‘If you ask me, it’s best to leave the past in the past,’ she says.

  ‘But what about recently? You must know why she doesn’t go to church anymore.’

  ‘I’d best be closing the shutters against this storm.’ Nance hurries into the hallway.

  The kitchen cat looks up, uncurls from her corner next to the woodpile and fixes me with her wary amber eyes, as if I have caused trouble. My head aches. I look for solace in the fire which crackles and spits under the cookpot, but all I can see in the flames is the hurt in my mother’s eyes.

  21

  I wake as Nance opens the shutters, letting the dappled sunlight into my old bedroom. She moves around the room, straightening my clothes. She picks up the jug of water that she has left by the door and places it on the washstand.

  ‘Thank you, Nance,’ I say, my voice gravelly.

  ‘That horseman of yours came back at first light. He must have been driving all night.’

  I push back the covers to get up, but Nance stops me. ‘Where are you going?’

  ‘I have to see him.’

  Nance tucks the covers back around me. ‘He’s asleep in the stable; you’d best leave him be awhile.’

  ‘Did he have any message from Mr Wolfreston?’

  ‘He didn’t say.’

  Nance doesn’t meet my eye and I know she doesn’t want me to ask her any more questions. The back of her hand rests on my forehead. Satisfied that there’s no fever, she says, ‘Stay in bed till the house heats up.’

  I nod my assent. My arms and legs feel weighty, and I would rather avoid any further conversations with my father.

  Sam doesn’t stir when I open the stable door. Still splattered with mud from the journey, he’s lying under a blanket near Merlin and Lady. I step quietly over to Lady and rest my head against her shoulder, breathing in her warm sweaty smell and listening to the comforting sound of her heartbeat.

  Sam’s hair is pushed back from his face. The last few weeks of Peg’s food has softened his features, but he still has a fierce look, even in sleep. One of his hands is draped protectively over his satchel. I recall the day he took the Du Bartas from it and presented it to me with a flourish, and find myself smiling. I wonder what books he has in there now. The only book I have with me is my old Licia, a book of poems from 1593, which I found lying in the bottom of my trunk. It must have been there for some time for I have not missed it.

  I take a soft step towards him.

  Sensing movement nearby, he lunges towards me.

  I reel back, gasping.

  He holds his hands out in apology. ‘Mrs Wolfreston. Sorry . . . I’ve been driving all night.’

  ‘I know, Sam. I didn’t mean to disturb you.’

  Sam’s hair has fallen over his face again. He rakes it back and takes a gulp of ale from a jar. I notice a curving scar on his neck below his left ear. A war injury, I assume.

  ‘Sam, did Mr Wolfreston give you a letter for me?’

  He sets down the jar. ‘No, but he gave me a message. He said he couldn’t leave the parish. Told me to tell you that you should come home.’

  ‘What’s happened?’

  His face looks tense. He draws in a breath as if he’s about to speak then exhales. ‘There . . .’ He falters. ‘Mr Wolfreston said to tell you that the boys are well.’

  I give him a sharp look. ‘You were about to say something else. Has something happened in the village?’

  His eyes flit about uncomfortably.

  I feel my face grow warm. ‘Mrs Edwards,’ I mutter in disgust.

  Sam smooths his hand over Lady’s shoulder and adjusts the blanket around her. ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘I just heard something that I won’t repeat. But people know about your mother.’

  My stomach heaves and I reach for the stable wall, brace myself against it. I’m breathing hard, panting as if I have run across the fields.

  Sam moves quickly, pulling out the milking stool and making me sit.

  So, the villagers know. I rest my hands on my swollen belly and try to calm myself.

  Sam is talking but I can barely hear him for the pounding in my ears.

  ‘Mrs Wolfreston?’

  Sam is staring at my hands, and I know he is taking in my condition.

  ‘Mr Wolfreston said we are to leave tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ I say.

  Merlin’s ears flicker.

  My voice shakes. ‘I need to see my mother one last time before we go.’

  ‘At the gaol?’

  I picture her hunched in that filthy cell. ‘Oh.’ The word comes out like the low painful moan of an animal. I need to see her, but she won’t see me. Lady’s tail flicks unhappily, and I am unable to stop my tears from falling.

  Sam sits on the stacked hay nearby, leaning against the stable wall, staring ahead rather than at me. I feel ashamed of myself for weeping in front of this man. What must he think of me? I inhale the humid stable fumes and remember how far the horses have travelled in the last few days, pulling the heavy carriage. And they must do it again tomorrow.

  I sniff back my tears.

  Sam reaches into his pocket. He removes something and silently hands it to me.

  It’s a piece of raw, smoky parchment from Mr Townsend’s printing press. It’s been folded over twice. I unfold it, examining the single word written in long loopy scrawls:

  Mama

  ‘Middy gave it to me for you,’ Sam says with a hint of a smile. ‘He’s a good lad.’

  Warmth surges through me as I study the beautiful, misspelled note my son has crafted. I wipe my eyes with my handkerchief and compose myself as well as I’m able.

  ‘Thank you,’ I say, smiling at him.

  I stand and walk outside to the stable yard. I can see in the slow way he moves as he follows me out that Sam’s exhausted.

  ‘When you’ve rested, Sam, I’d like your help with something.’

  His eyebrows arch in question.

  ‘When I was young, my brother and I used to hide things in a tree on the far side of those woods,’ I say, pointing. ‘There’s probably nothing there, but I would like to look anyway.’

  ‘Of course, Mrs Wolfreston.’

  While I wait for Sam to feed and water the horses, I busy myself in the kitchen, sorting through my mother’s boxes of dried herbs and roots. She has always kept a range of medicines and has a well-thumbed copy of The Profitable Arte of Gardening, which lists the healing properties of each herb. I caress the leather cover with fondness. Inside the back pages she has added some of her own recipes, which I have copies of at home. Here I find, written in my mother’s hand, which is more delicate than mine, a recipe for coughs. I recall my mother holding my hand and pushing the back of the spoon on the chopped herbs to show me how to crush them just the right amount. I crush some now, together with a piece of honeycomb, to make a thick paste for her to chew. It will put a coating on her throat and ease the cough. I wrap it in greased parchment. I also make up some more ointment for my father’s chapped skin.

  Nance’s face creases pleasantly as she watches me.

  ‘It’s a tonic to see you working there like your mother, Miss Frannie.’

  The rare compliment from Nance makes me smile, but she doesn’t notice. She glares out the window, rushes to the door and pulls it open.

  ‘You’ll wash before you step foot in this kitchen,’ she says, looking up at Sam.

  She points at the bucket on a bench near the water trough. Sam takes his time washing his face and hands, then dunks his head right into the water and throws it back. Nance passes him a drying cloth.

  She had earlier berated me for inviting him into the kitchen to eat. She is suspicious of Sam, as she is with most people. As he sits eating potage in the warmth of the kitchen, she watches him closely, as if she’s expecting him to steal the bowl.

  ‘Thank you kindly,’ he says, smiling at her when he’s finished.

  It’s his charming peddler’s smile again, and it disarms her. She nods at him.

  He turns to me and says, ‘I’ll wait for you outside, Mrs Wolfreston.’

  ‘Where are you going with him?’ Nance asks as I wrap my shawl around my shoulders.

  ‘Over to the old oak tree. I’m looking for something.’

  ‘Take the stable boy. He knows the land round here.’

  I had thought of that, but I if I find anything, I want no gossip about it to reach my father. ‘Sam’s all right, Nance—he saved Middy’s life.’

  Her eyes widen. She looks doubtful but says nothing more.

  I trek back through the woods and across the field, Sam following with a short ladder. When we reach the tree, he leans the ladder against the trunk, climbs it, and hoists himself onto the branch I indicate.

  ‘The squirrel hole is there,’ I say, pointing.

  Sam lowers himself to lie on the branch and peers into the hole. He looks dubious.

  ‘The hole is deep,’ I call. ‘Just put your hand right in and feel around.’

  He puts his hand just inside, grimacing as he then thrusts his hand in among the soggy leaves and animal droppings.

  ‘Well?’ I say.

  ‘Nothing,’ he replies.

  I look over the empty field and sigh. What a fool’s pursuit. I knew there was little chance of finding anything, but I am very disappointed.

  ‘Wait—I can feel something.’ Sam withdraws his hand and holds up a mud-coated object.

  He climbs down from the tree, kneels and wipes the mud from his find in the long grass.

  ‘That old thing!’ I say, recognising the grubby old flask Joseph carried everywhere.

  Sam wrestles the stopper off, sniffs it and then tips it over. Nothing comes out.

  ‘It might clean up,’ Sam says, holding it out to me.

 

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