Magpie, page 21
She’d awoken to an empty, still house, even the fire had burned low. With no time to stoke it, she’d rushed out to find Prudie. Disaster was coming; she sensed it.
Searching along the lane, holding her nose against the stench of the tannery and the alehouses and nearly being knocked senseless by a rooting sow got loose, she came to the crossroads and the ancient cross that stood there. Her heart thumped in her throat. Further on was Market Street and the square, surely a woman as frail as Prudie could not have got so far? As she neared the stone, yelling and jeering filled the sky. As she turned into Cross Street, she saw a crowd gathered outside the Flowers’ cottage. Susanna picked up her skirts and ran, splashing through a great pile of steaming dung. She saw, to her horror, young Ned Flowers and his mother Katherine baying over Prudie who crouched low.
‘You took plague into that house.’ A gobbet of spit accompanied Katherine Flowers’s venom. It sailed through the air, thankfully landing short. She scoured her mouth and rubbed her hand on her apron. ‘And if the plague didn’t kill that babe, your hexing did!’
‘You’ve made my cows dry, you whore!’
‘Devil’s harlot.’
‘I seen a mock a pie fly into Tenpenny Cottage. I seen it with my own eyes. Tis the devil in bird form summoned by the witch!’ Anne, their neighbour, cried.
‘Witch!’
‘My grass has died,’ Samuel Thatcher, Hal’s father, yelled. ‘It’s been cursed. What has I to feed my animals come winter?’
‘She put a curse upon Elias Light,’ Ned shouted. ‘I saw him weaken and he is still abed.’
‘Aye,’ screamed his mother. ‘The boy’s full of sores and fever. She did that. I heard theys had a blackamoor visit an all. That’s the devil come a calling. Reckon he sucked her bubbies!’
A rock flew and Prudie staggered. Falling back against the cob wall, she hit her head.
‘Let me through,’ Susanna cried, fear making her voice shrill. ‘Let me pass. In the Lord’s name, let me get to her. Have you no shame, Anne? Prudie is your neighbour, she has been a good and true friend. What nonsense about a magpie do you talk?’ She shoved at Samuel Thatcher. ‘Let me get through, I tell you.’
‘I saw the devil’s imp fly in the window,’ Anne, puce-faced and furious spat out. The mob behind jeered their agreement. ‘That was the devil himself in magpie form!’
‘And to add to this lie are you to say Cat is also a devil’s imp?’ Susanna gasped as Samuel took hold of her. Gripping her in his strong farmer’s hands, he pinned her arms to her side and grabbed her breasts painfully. ‘Hal’s apple didn’t fall far from the tree, did it, Samuel Thatcher?’ she yelled, kicking him in the shins and feeling him wince as she made contact.
‘Did ye hear that?’ Katherine Flowers cried. ‘She’s admitted Cat is the devil’s imp! Keep hold of her, Samuel. We’ll hang them both.’
Samuel lisped into her ear from his mappy mouth, his breath foul and reeking of The Cock’s sour cider. ‘Aye, for where a witch lives, there lives another, Mistress Susanna. We’ve been watching you. Reckon Prudie did for her husband, aye and her son before him. My son arrested Prudie on suspicion of using witchery against the Lacey babe and she should have hung for it then. Trust me, won’t be long before she dangles from a tree. Along with you, you little beauty, but not afore I’ve made good use of you.’
Susanna struggled desperately but his grip, fuelled by alcohol and vengeance, tightened. ‘You always were a king’s man, weren’t you, Samuel,’ she spat. ‘And now you’re arse-licking the Laceys.’ From the corner of her eye, Susanna could see Prudie slumped against the wall, being kicked in the ribs by Ned Flowers. She aimed another kick at Samuel Thatcher’s legs but her foot caught in her skirts and she missed.
‘Aye. And I’d like to show you what a king’s man does to a bitch who was against him.’ His vile mouth closed in on her neck and he shoved a filthy hand down the front of her bodice.
‘Let the wench go!’ From nowhere a deep and authoritarian voice sounded.
‘Ned, lay off and come here. He has a sword!’ Susanna heard Katherine cry. ‘And there’s two more of them acoming.’ Her voice held the sharp note of panic.
All at once the sword’s point was at Samuel’s chin, forcing his head high and exposing his throat. ‘I said, sir, to let the Mistress Susanna go.’
Susanna flailed as Samuel let go. She fell to her knees in the street’s mire, gasping for breath. She still felt Samuel’s greasy nails digging into her breasts, pulling at her nipple, and didn’t think she’d ever feel clean again. Into her ringing and befuddled ears she heard distant hooves galloping closer.
‘Be off with you, man, before you feel the kiss of my broadsword,’ her rescuer menaced.
Susanna lifted her head in time to see Samuel Thatcher run. In his wake, the crowd dispersed. A woman bent over Prudie, tending her. Thank the good Lord it was Mercy. The man who had saved her held out a hand. As she rose to her feet she had wits enough to see he wore a simple leather jerkin, a metal chest plate, and a wide sash around his waist. His head bore a broad-brimmed black hat. It was the old uniform. The uniform of the old war. Above his kerchief-covered mouth were wise and concerned eyes.
Two soldiers flanked him, bearing pikestaffs, and a third sat astride a fine bay horse, leading another horse, a grey.
The rider slid from his mount and led the grey over. ‘Colonel, your horse.’
Susanna took her chance and ran to Prudie’s side. ‘Does she live?’ she demanded. ‘Mercy, is she dead?’
‘No, she lives,’ Mercy replied, tears streaming down her rounded cheeks. ‘The old body has taken yet another beating, but she lives still.’
‘Lift her up onto the horse,’ the colonel ordered. ‘We must get them home. Hurry! The constable’s men may be near.’
The foot soldiers lifted Mercy astride the bay and then slung Prudie, non too gently, behind the pommel.
The colonel mounted his own horse, put a hand down to Susanna and pulled her up to sit behind him. They cantered down Clappers Lane, hooves ringing resoundingly out on the cobbles, with the foot soldiers running behind.
Susanna held on to the colonel for dear life, bumping and sliding on the horse’s glossy saddle. Once at the cottage, the soldiers carried Prudie in, gave harsh instructions to lock and bolt the door and jam furniture against it, and then melted away as quickly as they had appeared.
Mercy and Susanna carried Prudie to John’s chair and then half lifted, half slid the heavy oak settle against the front door.
‘It’s all we can do.’ Susanna wiped her hands down her apron and collapsed onto a stool, weak now the fight was over. Brushing away her dishevelled hair in a weary gesture, her fingers encountered her linen partlet, worn around her neck, and now ripped beyond repair. A result of Samuel Thatcher’s rough dealings. A great shudder tore through her at what might have been. At what might come. Through clenched teeth she whispered, ‘If the mob want to gain entry, they will. Fetch water from the scullery and we can bathe Prudie’s wounds. I have some devil’s-bit spare for her bruises.’
‘Again.’ Mercy shook her head sorrowfully.
‘Again.’ Susanna raised hopeless eyes to the woman. ‘Why did Prudie go out? Why did she court trouble? We have enough at our door.’ Letting go a breath, she added, ‘Did you see what she did?’
Mercy shook her head. ‘Only a little. I came upon it too late. She was shaking something at the Flowers family. Taunting them. Spitting out some words I could not hear.’
Susanna rose and went to Prudie. Eyes wild, she was muttering, her lips working. ‘Hush, my dear. Hush. You’re safe now,’ Susanna lied. ‘We’ll have wine and the last morsel of the salted gammon presently. Maybe I’ll make apple fritters. They’re your favourite.’ She bent closer to examine the swelling bruise on Prudie’s cheek and saw she had something clutched in her hand, her knuckles white and clenched around it.
A rag doll.
Veering back in horror, she knew what had been shaken at Katherine Flowers. Knew why the woman had been so furious and vindictive to Prudie. With difficulty, and ignoring the old woman’s pitiful shrieks, she prised it out of her hold and threw it on the fire. It burned slowly, the fire was too low on wood. Slowly the little white face blackened and the flames caught the edge of her skirt, curling and singeing the scrap of material. A rancid smell arose from the greasy uncleaned wool used to stuff the body. It sickened Susanna and she clasped a hand over her mouth.
‘Would I for Barnabas and the Americas, for there’s no escape for us here now. We are doomed,’ she whispered, tears prickling, her throat hollow with fear, the familiar tightening clutching at her neck. ‘We are for the gallows.’
CHAPTER 25
JULY 2018
‘So, Nathan is going to America,’ Beth repeated to a staring Frank as she washed up the tea things with unnecessary force.
He’d left after a brief and stilted conversation. She hadn’t taken in much detail.
‘Mum and Dad are going over to visit family,’ he’d said, ‘and I’ve got the opportunity to do some research and work there. I could tag it onto a holiday.’
He’d gone on to explain it was funded by a medical exchange charity. Beth hadn’t been able to focus properly, it had been a jumble of blurred words after the phrase “Leaving for the States”. But “temporary” and “three years” jumped out.
She tipped the mugs upside down to drain, hardly believing the hollow disappointment that washed through her. She’d known him a matter of weeks and yet, from the first, had felt a vital connection. She recollected when she’d first seen him, across the waiting room at the doctor’s surgery when he’d been talking so kindly to the old woman, what was her name? Mrs Davies, that was it. She remembered the feeling of her insides liquifying with longing for him. The attraction had slammed into her, leaving her breathless. It had made no sense then. Made none now. Never before had she reacted to another person in such a way. The sense of visceral recognition had been acute. Intense. Maybe, she forced a laugh trying for humour and startling Frank, she should have jumped his bones and got him out of her system. Somehow, though, she knew the more she had of Nathan Smith, the more she’d need.
It all seemed so long ago now. That first meeting. An eternity. With a jolt she realised it was only last month. It was ridiculous, she felt she’d had him in her life always. Everything else had dropped away; she’d occupied a claustrophobic, obsessive little world dominated by witches, spell bottles and – him.
Going to the tiny table in the sitting room, she slumped at it, watching as a gull caught a thermal and lifted away, the sun catching its white underbelly and its legs neatly pinned beneath. For a second the movement was repeated in several of the small panes of the old window at once creating a kaleidoscope of images. ‘It’s stupid,’ she said to an oblivious cat. ‘I have no hold over him, nor do I want it. Oh but, Frank, I hoped that this weird friendship, connection, thing, between us might develop into a relationship. But am I ready for one?’ The cat answered by lifting his back leg and scratching his ear vigorously. Even if a relationship proper didn’t happen and she could ignore the hard impatient tug of sexual desire that was ever present when she was near Nathan, she’d hoped for a friendship. She liked being around him. And she sensed it was mutual.
When Nathan had finished speaking, he’d watched her closely, waiting for a response. ‘It sounds a really good opportunity,’ she’d said limply. And, not long afterwards, he’d gone.
Beth put her head in her hands, thinking of her mother’s wanderlust and feeling bereft all over again. The sense of abandonment was intense. Her mother had left her to travel the world. Hugh had left her for Jade. Now Nathan was repeating the pattern. What was it about her?
Her elbow nudged the recipe book. He’d forgotten to take it home. Sliding it closer, she picked it up and carefully turned the pages. They were familiar to her now, as were many of the concoctions. She admired the beautifully detailed plant drawings and the densely written words, the lettering with its loops and swirls. She laid it back on the table, smoothing her hand over the stained leather front cover. Then she picked it up again and weighed it in her hands. For the first time it struck her how heavy it was. It wasn’t a chunky book, barely the thickness of her thumb, so maybe the weight came from the leather binding. She placed it on the table, front cover down, and lazily leafed through from the back; an old habit of reading books from childhood. Lorna had hated her doing it, questioning why she spoiled the book by risking knowing its ending. Beth had laughed at her sister, explaining she was impatient to know what happened and when she did, she could relax and enjoy reading how the plot panned out. She smiled at the memory, at their squabbles. Different with nonfiction, of course. They were made to dip into from wherever. Examining the back cover and its dark stain that travelled from corner to corner, she wondered what story it could tell.
‘Where have you been, little book?’ she murmured. ‘What adventures have you had?’ Lifting it up and flicking through from the back again, she stiffened. There was something here. Something different. Frowning, she looked closer. Yes, she was right, the last page was much thicker. A few pages of parchment seemed stuck together. Holding it so it was the right way round, she turned the pages slowly, comparing the weight and thickness of each page. When she came to the last, she examined it. Yes, definitely thicker. It bore the recipe for the lavender and chamomile hand salve she’d tried out. Weird. It was a repeat. And the only recipe to be repeated. The one she’d followed was near the front. Excitement mounting, she peered more closely. Running her fingertip over the surface of the page, she was almost certain she could feel a rectangular ridged shape in the centre. Subtle but unmistakable.
‘It’s almost as if there’s something else in there,’ she whispered in excitement to an uninterested Frank. ‘Another page. Hidden.’ Eyes wide, she turned to stare at the cat. ‘What could it be? Another recipe? A spell?’
Two things were certain. The book belonged to Nathan and without his permission, she couldn’t investigate further.
Frustrated, she put it down. She couldn’t possibly mess with it. After all, weren’t there recommendations about how you handled old books? She’d been careful with it whilst it was in her care but, even so, a book expert would probably throw their hands up in horror at how it had been treated. History documentaries featuring white gloves and weird links of heavy beads to hold books open at the required page came back to her. Sliding it to one side, she stared at it in horror. Had she damaged it by simply looking through? How would she explain that to Nathan? She let out a growl of exasperation.
Their easy camaraderie would be in jeopardy now he’d revealed his plans for the States. She had no choice but to back away. She couldn’t risk her feelings when he was about to move halfway around the world. It had taken too long to heal after Hugh’s behaviour and, even now, the hurt lingered. She let out a snort. Another man who had disappeared off to the US. A wave of loneliness engulfed her. She wondered how Hugh and Jade were getting on. Guilt snatched at her. She’d resolutely gone non-contact ever since the awful email and ensuing telephone call. She hadn’t forgiven Jade her vitriol or her complacent excuses. Perhaps she should get in touch? Perhaps they should get in touch with her? They were supposed to be her oldest friends! Picking up her mobile, she tapped in a quick, noncommittal message asking how things were, then left texts with a couple of university friends in Exeter, suggesting drinks or a meet up for coffee. It would be good to get out of this seventeenth-century witchy, Nathan-dominated bubble.
Gazing round at her little sitting room, resolutely ignoring the quicksilver shadow that flitted at the corner of her eye, she glimpsed her laptop. There was one thing she could do to keep herself occupied and it would be useful too. Lifting the computer onto the table where it nudged up against the old book, she allowed herself a smile. Two types of technology four hundred years apart; they couldn’t be more different. Opening up her laptop, she clicked on her website and began deleting all the poisonous comments. It felt good.
CHAPTER 26
JULY 2018
Four days later, Beth phoned Nathan and suggested she return the book. Had it been an awkward, stilted conversation, or had it been her imagination? He’d given her his address and she walked round to his house, clutching the book incongruously housed in a Tesco bag for life.
Standing outside the nondescript thirties semi, with its pebble-dashed exterior, she thought it looked cosy, a world away from Tenpenny House, and an unlikely home for one of Flete’s most eligible bachelors. The front garden had been paved to provide a parking space. Nathan appeared to drive a new-plate black Golf. She was finding out more about him with this brief visit than ever before. There had been little ordinary about their previous meetings. Even the flirtiest conversation had taken place against the febrile background of history and witchcraft, not to mention the confessional about her childhood. She hadn’t asked much about him at all. Trouble was, he was all too easy to talk to and an unusually good listener. It was peculiarly exciting seeing how he lived but she stamped down on it. After all, there was little point finding out about him if he wasn’t going to be in her life. Her fiercely guarded and delicate heart needed protecting. The connection with Nathan had been instant and intense and, weirdly, she sensed her fate may have been entwined with him. But it was over. She’d drop the book back to him, explain what she’d found and go. It was all too depressing.
‘Beth! Hi.’
Nathan appeared at a side gate. He was wearing linen shorts and a loose T-shirt. Her insides pooled with lust.
‘Have you been standing there long. I’m so sorry, I was in the back garden.’
‘No.’ The reply was oppressive.
‘Okay. I’m really sorry.’ Stepping back, he added, ‘Look, come in. Have a cold drink. It’s warm today.’
