The prophet, p.11
The Prophet, page 11
A while later the faint glow of lamplight emerged out of the darkness. He turned the mare towards a stand of trees and dismounted before hitching her reins to a branch. Very quietly, he crept towards the building which looked to be no more than a wooden hovel. A lantern shone on a leafy bunch of boughs fixed by the doorway, forming the proverbial sign of a bush tavern of the lowest type. The night-hunters had not yet arrived. He pulled down his hat and went around the corner to lean against the hovel’s outer wall and wait. Choosing not to carry a valuable timepiece, he studied the night sky and calculated from the Pleiades that the time was still an hour to midnight.
He had good notice of the men’s approach and used that time to retreat behind a tree and wait unseen. The darkness hid them, save for the few final seconds when they drew level with the tavern’s lantern. For a moment faces sprang out in the golden light, revealing a mixture of strangers alongside Netherlea men. There was black-bearded Cam the blacksmith, and Williams the insolent landlord of the Netherlea Inn. He was glad he had come alone; if he had raised the constable’s men they might have wanted to arrest a good many of his tenants. The matter of poaching, Nat was beginning to understand, might not be a simple one.
Once they had all passed inside, he crept back to the building and perched beside a wooden bench beneath the unglazed window. At first the poachers took care to speak in low voices, but as the ale flowed the men’s passions rose. One booming voice complained of his gaoled brother’s troubles.
‘Still a six-month left in gaol and ’is young ’uns is near to starving. A brace of hares or birds would fill their bellies.’
Such modest desire for game was soon overridden. A chorus of grumbles arose. ‘Come on, lads. What d’you say to bigger sport? I seen a herd of young harts over by The Pale. The wind’s to the east. We could chance a few shots before they scent us.’
Nat recognized this voice as belonging to Cam, the fearless but slow-witted husband of his old admirer, Zusanna. Uncertainty broke out in a flurry of questions and doubts. ‘Stow that! Under’t Black Act shooting deer be a swinging offence,’ argued a weedy-sounding fellow. His companions agreed. ‘Remember old Dick Feather? Transported across the ocean to work like a slave in Virginia for seven years. All for selling a haunch of venison to a waggoner.’
‘Aye, and ’e were reckoned lucky. Them others danced on a rope at the Broughton gallows.’
‘Damn that whoreson Langley,’ thundered Cam. ‘Raise your cups, lads. God save the poor! And God damn the rich with their hearts as cold as Old Nick himself.’
Nat was straining hard to listen at the loose shutter, unnerved by the seething discontent between those who upheld the Black Act and these common men who risked the gallows for a pot full of meat. He was so intent he almost missed the sound of running footsteps approaching from the track. Casting around to hide he was forced to crouch in an unmanly fashion beneath the bench. Devil curse him, if these fellows found him – Sir John’s son, hiding like a craven – they would never let him forget it. You numbskull, he silently berated himself.
The new arrival was almost upon him from the sound of his gasping breath. To Nat’s vast relief the newcomer opened the door in a blaze of light and disappeared inside to a volley of loud greetings. Though a stranger to Nat he was welcomed as a friend named Billy. It was hard to catch every word as Billy delivered his news in breathless gasps. ‘… First of the Twelve Apostles,’ he panted. ‘Found him swinging by the neck. Cut ’im down and loosed the rope. P’raps still lingering in this world. The best friend I ever knowed.’
Crouching in the darkness, Nat held his breath.
‘I know who done it,’ growled Cam. ‘’Tis that raggoty bezzler Mullock’s work. If I come across him or any other damned gentry folk out in the dark tonight, I swear he’ll never see another sunrise.’
TWENTY-THREE
Nat retraced his way to his horse and slid back into the saddle. By continuing along the Old Coach Road he could circle back to the Apostles. As he moved through the darkness, he did his damnedest to make sense of Billy’s announcement. Why hadn’t the man sent for the constable? For sure the men were poachers, but nevertheless … Slowly, as the mare trotted along, he guessed the rather different story. If keepers like Mullock had any sense they knew to stay within the law and not string up poachers however often they threatened to; their job was to deliver them to the sheriff. But they did have the right to kill any dog who was trained for, or engaged in, poaching. That was if they were not first ‘lawed’ and the dog’s three foreclaws lopped off, leaving the creature too lame to ever again give chase. It was a damnable business, Nat decided, feeling rather more natural sympathy for hungry cottagers than Langley and his ilk.
After a long spell he approached a row of pale trees he hoped were the silver birches of the Apostles. Nat dug his heels into the mare’s flanks and hurried alongside the row of trees. He slowed at the final giant. It was as tall as a tower, pale and silent, and tonight seemed peculiarly alien to mortal man. He dismounted and searched around its mottled trunk.
The dog lay in a pool of darkness on the ground, its long body stretched in a grotesque parody of a malefactor cut down from the gallows. Nat touched a silky paw and it was as cold as stone. Exploring the furry body, his fingertips hesitated over a patch of heat. Yes, there was the slow rise and fall of the creature’s laboured ribcage. A cut length of hemp still lay around its neck.
‘Come on, boy. D’you still live?’ Crouching, Nat murmured softly. He still had a lonely child’s love of man’s best companion, a bond as old as the forests and the stars themselves. Dammit, he had no choice; he would carry the dog in his arms all the way to Netherlea.
Before he could make an attempt, a shout of challenge reached him from the road. ‘You there! What you doing with that there dog?’
Nat could see nothing, but recognized the voice as Cam’s. The poachers must have taken a faster shortcut along a forest path. Cam’s threat still rang in his ears that he would kill any solitary gentleman he found wandering in the dark. Well, he would not hide or try to run. There was nothing for it but to show himself.
‘I am Nat De Vallory of Netherlea. Is that you, Cam? I was riding past and saw this poor creature close to death. I was about to carry him to the animal leech.’
This at least enticed the poachers into view and Nat saw they had darkened their faces and pulled on black clothes and hats to prevent being recognized at their night’s sport. Surrounding him, they made a demonic sight as they noisily assessed the dog’s condition. Agreement was reached to fetch a handcart to carry the dog home.
Attention returned to Nat himself. ‘So what you doing here at dead of night, De Vallory?’ Cam demanded. The blacksmith opened the little door of a dark lantern and held it aloft to study Nat’s costume. ‘And all rigged out in working men’s clothes? I hope you in’t spying upon our business?’
Nat scrabbled in his mind for some credible excuse. ‘Can’t you guess? I’m making enquiries into that young woman’s death. Her killer is still running free. I’m hardly going to chase the killer through the forest in a gold-laced coat.’
Behind the lantern, Cam’s bear-like face watched him narrowly.
‘You watching that camp where that mock-preacher is gatherin’ folk?’ asked Billy.
‘I may be.’
‘Only I reckon I seen that dead girl walking in the woods with that faith-monger calls hisself Baptist or summat.’
‘Aye, that one who all them young lasses lift their smocks for,’ chortled another.
Nat turned to Billy. ‘You are sure of this? When did you see them together?’
Billy could add little to what he’d said, only that he’d glimpsed a young woman with long brown hair walking at Gunn’s side some weeks past, in the spring.
‘We’ve got work to do, lads,’ Cam interrupted. ‘So, Mister De Vallory, you going to snitch on us to the sheriff, or what?’
‘It isn’t that long since I enjoyed a night’s coursing with my own dog, lads. So long as you don’t go after my father’s stock, I have not seen a soul all this night,’ Nat said coolly. ‘But I’ll tell you now, Lord Langley wants to enclose all this Netherlea land and I intend to fight him at law. Sir John has always been content that you hunt small game here but if Langley gets his way, he’ll clear all the woodland to improve his prospect from Langley Hall.’
He was pleased to hear grumbling amongst the men and felt the antipathy lifting from himself on to a common enemy. ‘But tell me,’ he added, ‘have any of you seen my father’s wolfhound, Hector? He vanished here three weeks ago. It’s broken my father’s heart near enough.’
Cam snorted. ‘A wolfhound? Sir John can always go buy another dog for a few gold guineas. Why should we care for Sir John?’
Nat stood his ground. ‘Because any decent man would wish to spare such loyal creatures from suffering.’ Reaching for his horse, he wondered if Cam might try to waylay him. He set his foot in the stirrup and, still unhindered, set Dormouse back on the road to Bold Hall.
TWENTY-FOUR
Though His Mother will be mocked as a sinner & whore
She is modest yet blessed, and rich while poor.
The New Prophet of the Forest
2 June 1753
Tabitha had waited up for Nat’s return until nearly two in the morning before sinking into a fractured sleep. At daylight, she padded straight to his chamber and thanked Christ to find him unconscious to the world inside his rumpled bed. She stood awhile watching him breathe, tracing the contours of his pale face in the tangle of dark hair. What was wrong with them both that she loved him most fiercely when he was insensible? She leaned over and kissed his warm brow without waking him. God bless him. He was safely home from his night adventure in the forest and she was happy.
Fortified, she felt able to begin her preparations to move into the solar, the room where from time immemorial the De Vallory heirs had been born. When she had at first protested, Nat sheepishly confirmed the custom. ‘Sir John will expect it, sweetheart. It is not the most modern room in the house, but you must endure it for only a month before you are churched.’ Now she stood at the centre of the high-beamed chamber with Grisell, Sukey and Jennet, drawing up an account of what was needed. The bed was a high carved tester bed with thick curtains embroidered with faded crewel-work of bizarre creatures – were they griffons or spiders? Disapproving, she surveyed the heavy black furniture carved with ugly mermaids and monsters. The rough plastered walls and creaking wooden floor made the place feel as chill as the depths of a well.
A crude birthing chair leered at her from the room’s centre. It was made of worn ebonized wood, nothing but four sturdy legs, a curved back and a horseshoe shaped seat through which the baby might drop. ‘Grisell, would you put that horror away until it’s needed. It looks like a ducking stool from the days of the Witchfinder General. Pray do not torture me on that.’
Sukey made a soft tutting sound that her mistress was learning meant she had something to say. ‘The groaning stool can prove of great benefit, my lady. It will keep your bed free of all the blood and waters voided at the birth.’
‘Thank you, Sukey. A delightful reminder. So, we’ll need a new-filled featherbed, bolsters, my lace bedlinen – oh, and hangings. That tapestry looks as if it depicts the harrowing of Hell. Find an arras that shows a happy scene please, Grisell. And a good thick carpet underfoot. And a great deal of firewood to warm the air. Don’t forget your sleeping place, Sukey. You will need a truckle bed, too, in the anteroom.’
Finally she returned to the window and peered through glass so ancient it bulged and shrunk the view like a pair of warped spectacles. This was the older, less-inhabited wing of the house and there was nothing to see but a row of tall trees. A garden would have been welcome, or a view of meadows.
‘What else is needed?’ she asked the others, stifling a yawn. Truly, the room must not have been aired since the last heir was born.
Sukey tut-tutted. ‘Mister Higgott has got the cleaning of the De Vallory cradle in hand but it must not be carried here yet to prevent bad luck.’
‘You see to that and I shall choose some books and pictures,’ said Tabitha. ‘And as I’m to receive visitors here, we will need good glass and china for tea and cake. Well, ladies, I hope it is no omen of misfortune, but I cannot bear to stay within these cold walls for another moment. Let us take our sewing outside to the gazebo and breathe fresh air.’
Nat’s first improvement to the garden had been to build a fashionable summerhouse in which Tabitha might rest while gazing out upon the parterres of the garden. It was a charming circular summerhouse built around eight ancient oak pillars with three wide bays open to the air and a fine prospect across the paths and flowerbeds. The back walls were filled with woven hazel coppice set with two windows glazed with red and green glass.
‘It is like a house built by a pixie,’ Tabitha had said, laughing when she first gazed up at the newly thatched roof that rose to a point.
Soon the women were busy with their needles, sheltered from the sun by the patterned chintz curtains Tabitha had hung across the open bays. Jennet had expressed a keenness to learn some of Sukey’s more esoteric stitches, especially the pinprick designs she called holy work. The two of them were bent over meticulous sketches representing the Annunciation Lily, the Crown of Glory, and the Tree of Life. Meanwhile, Grisell was rapidly hemming the inevitable pile of clouts to wrap around the baby’s backside. Little Bess had climbed inside the large rush basket of plain cloths and pretended it was a boat until she fell suddenly asleep. Soon tiring of her needle, Tabitha began leafing through a magazine containing fashion plates fresh from Paris. This Madame Pompadour, the King of France’s mistress, truly set the fashions for the whole of Europe. Tabitha marvelled at her confections of lace, flowers, and silk. What to wear to the ball at Langley Hall filled her mind with pleasant visions. Though her grass-green gown was with the seamstress, being altered to the latest style, it was the embellishments that would confer that essential Parisian modishness.
Tabitha stretched her back, glad of the cushioned chair she had installed for her comfort. ‘Let the child only come soon and rid me of this heaviness. Ladies, do you have any notions of how to hurry the child along?’
‘How soon does the doctor say it will come?’ Grisell asked.
‘He cannot say. I could have conceived almost any day after the seventh of October last year.’ Saying this, she smiled to herself. ‘For sure, I was with child in the first month I was ever with Nat, so much did we love each other. By Christmas I knew the signs and we married as soon as we could in January.’
Sukey picked up an almanack and proved to be an excellent mathematician. ‘Let me see. As all good Christians know, two hundred and eighty days was the length of the Virgin Mary’s pregnancy, from Ascension till Christmas Day. So the babe could arrive as early as the end of this month or the first few weeks of July. But a first child is generally late. So he could be as late as the fourteenth of July.’
‘Lord, that is more than a month, perhaps six long weeks. Look, it’s the full moon on the fifteenth of July,’ Tabitha protested, peering over her elbow into the almanack’s pages. ‘You know what they say of Midsummer madness: when the moon is full, wits are in the wane.’
‘It depends on the day,’ Sukey said. ‘Sunday is a lucky day so that may counter the bad moon.’
Jennet looked up from her work. ‘So, Sukey, what is the most auspicious day to be born on?’
The nursemaid did not even hesitate in her precise stitching. ‘Christmas Day, of course.’
‘So when will your baby be born?’ Jennet asked.
Sukey smiled down into her elaborate holy point patterns. ‘Like Mrs De Vallory, I kept no record. Yet I feel sure the mistress is but a few weeks ahead of me.’
‘So your husband was still with you in October?’ Tabitha asked.
Sukey serenely completed a few more stitches before answering. ‘He was, my lady. I confess I miss him like my very heart was cut away.’
‘I am sorry, Sukey. I pray he may soon return.’ She mused for a moment. ‘Strange. The girl who died in the forest was with child, too, but due to give birth a little later I believe.’
‘It’s said she was a common whore killed by her keeper,’ Grisell cut in harshly.
Tabitha protested. ‘We do not know who killed her. And all of you who are so enamoured of Mister Gunn, do not forget his camp is right by where she was found.’
Jennet was quick to defend him. ‘There is no proof he was involved. Besides, he has such a noble, godly look to him.’
Tabitha laughed. ‘You mean he has a handsome face.’
Jennet flung down her needle. ‘Mister Gunn is the finest preacher in the country. I for one could listen to him preach night and day.’
‘As could I,’ added Grisell.
‘You cannot blame Mister Gunn for that trull’s death,’ Sukey added. ‘The matron at the charity school said she was the wickedest of girls.’
‘Now, Sukey,’ Tabitha scolded. ‘That is not to be made common gossip.’
Sukey looked up, her cheeks flushed. ‘Beg pardon, my lady. I could scarce believe such devilry in one so young.’
Then considering, Tabitha asked, ‘What do the people say hereabouts? Who killed Maria?’
Jennet shrugged. ‘You know Netherlea folk. Always contrary. There’s stories of a man leading her into the forest and killing her, all to have no debt to the parish for the baby.’
‘And what have you heard, Sukey?’
‘No good Christian could deny it, mistress. She took the road to sin and reaped as she deserved.’
Tabitha shook her head mournfully. ‘And you, Grisell?’
‘It were not Mister Gunn,’ she said sourly. ‘He is striving to make a better world, for ordinary folk. It makes a change from being ordered about by those who are no better than you are.’
