Eppie Read online

  ‘Why would he do such a nasty thing to a sweet little cutty?’

  ‘The wren is the king of the birds. It is sacred and may only be killed on Saint Stephen’s Day. Through the act of butchering it, Thurstan became the lord of the year, prevailing over all men. It gave him an excuse to be as callous as he liked towards others.’

  ‘Is that why you was crying? Had your cousin been bullying ya?’

  ‘You must think me feeble-minded to allow myself to become so distraught.’

  ‘Not a bit.’

  ‘Mother says Thurstan is mean to me because he’s jealous of me. This morning I took a basting from father after he checked my arithmetic answers and found they were wrong. When I returned to my chamber I looked at my work and realised that my original work had been torn out. On a fresh sheet Thurstan had written the answers incorrectly. He had even made blots with his quill like I do.’

  ‘You ought to tell your pa.’

  ‘He would say I was making it up to be horrid to Thurstan. He knows that I do not like him.’

  ‘It must be awful being schooled.’

  ‘Not everything’s bad. Doctor Burndread is a natural philosopher. I like him teaching me about the ways of animals.’

  Deep in the woodland a man yelled, ‘Gabriel, where are you?’

  ‘Thurstan!’ Gabriel was horrified to think how late he must be for his studies.

  Pelting off, the children soon reached Shivering Falls. A gang of men and boys hung around the plunge pool, circles of water springing from their onslaught of stones. They wore striped blue and yellow jackets, waistcoats and caps. Most were barefoot, trousers rolled over their knees. Some knelt beside the pool, ducking their heads.

  Aiming to get a closer look, the children dived for cover behind a willow. Her hand resting upon Gabriel’s elbow, Eppie peered, cautiously. Sunlight gleamed on metal around the men’s ankles. ‘Shackles! It’s the prisoners!’

  Clutching a musket, the guard stood upon the boulder where Gabriel had played the flute.

  A stocky, bald prisoner, a scar down his cheek, glared at the guard. ‘Go on, Boyle, it’s sweltering. I could do with a dip.’

  The guard was a tall, stooping man, with a gaunt, ascetic face. ‘What do you take me for, Jag? A dullin? You’d run the moment I took your shackles off. Not that you’d get far with that limp.’

  ‘Mam told me to keep away from them.’

  ‘Let’s run through the woodland. We’ll come out near your cottage.’

  They were creeping away when a dog raced up.

  ‘It’s Twiss! Pa must’ve sent him to fetch me. He’s going right up to them!’

  Twiss rolled onto his back at the feet of a freckle-faced boy.

  Jaggery approached the dog. ‘Poor ol’ dog, yer brain must be jellied-meat in this heat. Tell ya what’ll cool ya!’ A muscular man, he easily scooped Twiss off his paws, and hurled him.

  The dog hit the water with a tremendous splash. Frantically, he paddled back to land.

  Spray flew over the amused prisoners as he shook himself.

  Picking up a familiar scent, the dog padded towards Eppie. Before he had got far, Jaggery grabbed him, ‘Like this, don’t ya, ya miserable doggy.’ Twiss wriggled and whined, trying to shake the man off, to no avail.

  Once more, churning waters boiled over Twiss’s body.

  Afraid to go forward, to where the prisoners stood laughing at him, he attempted to clamber up the steep side of the pool. The rocks were slippery, his plight hopeless.

  Eppie was desperate. ‘I must help him!’

  Tiring fast, Twiss slid back, his head submerging time and again.

  Gabriel stared into her stricken face. ‘The guard will do something.’

  ‘He ain’t!’ She shook off his hand and dashed forward.

  ‘Eppie, come back, it’s dangerous!’

  At the moment she ran, a slim, brown-haired man, who had sat alone, clambered along the rocks to where the dog floundered.

  Jaggery laughed loud and ugly. ‘That’s right, Scattergood, heave him out so I can give him another dip in this midge-infested puddle.’

  Skidding to a stop before Jaggery, Eppie stamped her foot. ‘Oy, just you stop it! Twiss is my brother’s dog.’

  Jaggery was startled by Eppie’s sudden appearance. ‘What’ve we got here, a wood goblin?’

  Sam Scattergood set Twiss onto his paws, and the dog shook himself. ‘Do as the girl says, Jag.’

  Jaggery was not one to willingly take orders. Twiss whimpered as he grabbed him by the scruff again.

  ‘Come on, Jag, the dog’s had enough,’ Boyle said.

  ‘Has he? Then what about the girl?’

  Before she knew what was happening, Eppie felt herself whisked into the air. Pressed against the prisoner’s chest she tasted his sour sweat.

  Sam made to wrest her away from the hateful man. Twiss bounded about, afraid to attack.

  Gabriel picked up courage and ran forward. Joining in the fray, he kicked Jaggery’s shins. ‘Let her go you, you pit-bull terrier!’

  Jaggery grabbed Gabriel by the back of his lace collar. ‘I’ll drown the both of ya.’

  Robert du Quesne crashed through the woodland on Ranger, his grey stallion. ‘Unhand my boy!’

  Jaggery took one startled look at this awesome man, his self-important, domineering presence, and released his grasp.

  Huddled around, the prisoners stared nervously at the butt of a pocket pistol projecting from du Quesne’s silver embroidered waistcoat.

  ‘Where have you been, boy?’ du Quesne demanded. ‘I do not pay Absolom Burndread to sit twiddling his fingers. After your lessons you can expect a severe beating from me.’

  Thurstan galloped up on his black horse. Checking that his uncle was not looking, he took his foot from a stirrup and, as his cousin trudged by, dealt him a kick on the shoulder.

  Wincing in pain, Gabriel stole a glance back at Eppie.

  She knew by his slight nod that, no matter what, they would soon be together again.

  CHAPTER TEN

  THE UNEXPECTED GUEST

  Prisoners toiled before The Fat Duck, sheathing the lane with graded stones.

  Eppie dropped a twig into the river. She was tired of the hammering and splintering of stones, the clank of spades and crash of buckets hurled into carts. ‘Mister Jonas told pa that he didn’t like Mister Lord making the guards and prisoners keep their covered wagons in the field behind the inn. They make a racket and pinch logs from his barns to make fires.’ A horse cantered towards the packhorse bridge. ‘Uh oh, Mister Lord’s a-coming!’

  Martha averted her eyes as du Quesne rode loftily towards them.

  Eppie was bolder and curtseyed. ‘Tis a mighty fine morning, sir.’ She watched him pass by without uttering a word of reply. ‘Why don’t his lordship ever bid us a good day?’

  ‘He reckons he’s too grand for the likes of us.’

  Later that morning, having fetched chairs from the parlour, Eppie settled at the streamside to practise carding, ready for Martha to spin the fibres into yarn. It was difficult balancing the boards of short metal teeth in her small hands.

  ‘Deary me, that’s getting twisted,’ Betsy said. She brushed the fibres in the same direction in a continuous skein. ‘What ya need’s a bit o’ elbow grease.’

  ‘I’m tired of it, anyhow.’

  Martha scrubbed Eppie’s pinafore and dunked it beneath the bubbling waters. ‘Judging from these stains, you must spend half your life climbing trees.’

  When Eppie had told Martha and Gillow about her visits to the Crusader Oak, they were pleased for Gabriel’s sake. ‘He seems such a lonely boy,’ Martha had said, ‘though there’d be trouble if Wakelin finds out you are friends with Thurstan’s cousin. And Lord du Quesne certainly ought not to learn about your meetings.’

  Already Gabriel had taught Eppie to recognise simple words and write her name on a slate.

  ‘O’t else needs doing, Mam?’

  ‘There’s Gillow�
�s Sunday shirt.’

  Returning, she found Eppie had placed her chair in the middle of the stream. Wading in, she handed her the horn-button. ‘Remember, the needle goes up and down in the holes, not over the edges.’

  Betsy lay her carding on her lap. ‘I think I’ll join you, Eppie, m’dear. Martha, stick my chair in that shallow spot. Make sure it’s steady, I don’t fancy a tip in.’

  Kicking her feet in the water, Betsy tugged her mobcap low over her wrinkled forehead. ‘This is doing my ankle a treat. Look at you, Eppie - you’re as brown as your mam’s gravy.’

  Riding across Miller’s Bridge, du Quesne scowled at them.

  Betsy tittered. ‘His lordship thinks us most unladylike, sitting here with our skirts rolled over our knees.’

  For the fourth time, Eppie attempted to thread the needle.

  Claire leant over the bridge. ‘You two look like decoy ducks. Mind that prison guard doesn’t fetch a shot at you.’

  In the lane, the pack draper rang his bell, heralding his arrival.

  Seeing Martha making off, Betsy said, ‘Afore ya go, dear, give me a heave out. Your

  pa left me coins to buy him cloth for a smock. I’ll be able to make a start on it.’

  Left alone, Eppie jumped at the sound of a man’s voice. ‘I see your cow’s off.’

  Sam Scattergood stood on the path, other prisoners gathered around him.

  Frightened by the lean, haggard faces, Eppie surged through the water, forgetful of Gillow’s shirt, which tumbled into the stream and caught on rocks.

  ‘I used to rent a farm,’ Sam said. ‘I could take a look at her?’

  Bellowing plaintively, the cow was a pathetic sight, ribs jutting through flesh.

  Slowly, dubiously, Eppie turned to face Sam. ‘If ya wan’.’

  Spotting the prisoner wading towards Eppie, Martha dashed back, shouting as though to one of her father’s stray sheep. ‘Shoo, shoo, get out of my garden!’

  Jaggery leered. ‘That’s right, missus. Don’t let him near ya. He’s doing time for attacking a woman.’

  Martha appealed to the guard. ‘Please, send him away.’

  ‘It’s all right, Mam. I asked Sam to take a look at Celandine.’

  Sam examined the cow’s teeth. Methodically, he ran his hands over her stomach and rear-end. ‘Looks to me like tail-shot, ma’am.’

  ‘What’s that?’ Martha drew near, eyeing Gillow’s pitchfork propped beside the cart shed, just in case.

  ‘D’ya want du Quesne on our backs again for dallying, Scattergood?’ Boyle asked.

  Gazing into the stranger’s brown eyes, Martha warmed to Sam’s open countenance. Despite his unkempt appearance, he was handsome.

  He brushed straggly locks from his broad forehead. ‘If you touch her tail, you’ll be able to feel where the joints have separated. Not there. Here.’ He put his hand over her fingers. Sensing her pull back, he flushed with embarrassment at his over-familiarity. ‘If you want, I can help.’

  ‘What do you need to do?’ she asked hesitantly.

  ‘I’ll need to slice the tail where the joints have slipped and strap on a boiled, salted onion. I once tried it with one of my cows. There’s something in the juice that helps it mend. If you have the things ready upon my return, I’ll remedy it.’

  The prisoners moved on, Jaggery ridiculing Sam’s considerate nature.

  Martha sat spinning. ‘I must admit to feeling guilty about my earlier attitude towards the prisoners, thinking they were all the same, not to be trusted.’

  Gillow was securing a bolt to the door. ‘You can’t go by one action alone. Always be wary. Don’t encourage them in any way, handing out food and the like.’

  Jam bubbled and popped in the pan over the fire. Eppie laid down her winding thread and went to check. ‘It’s sticky on the spoon.’

  Gillow tossed down a spare nail. ‘That’s another job well done.’

  ‘There’s still the gate to mend,’ Martha said.

  ‘Not now. I’m off to Litcombe. Whilst I’m out, stay indoors and keep the door bolted.’

  Martha lined up warmed green jars. ‘Hot jam scalds. I’ll pour. You cut the string.’ She was ladling the last of the jam, Eppie tying on mutton-skin seals, when Harvey Elmer, the cheapjack, bellowed his arrival.

  Martha joined other women at his wagon.

  Harvey had a nauseating quirk of clanking his loose jawbone by opening and closing his mouth like a gasping trout. ‘Here ya are, Mrs Dunham.’ He passed her the slipper muller she had asked him to get. The previous one had burnt through on the fire. ‘We can’t have Gillow going without his warmed ale of a winter’s night.’

  On the lane, the prisoners were shovelling large stones onto a prepared bed of small ones. The freckle-faced boy tugged a jiggle-pin, thus skelling a load of stones from a wagon.

  Sarah glanced furtively over her shoulder and spoke confidingly to Martha. ‘Since them prisoners have been around I’ve not slept a wink. Any one of them might murder me in me bed.’

  An argument broke out amongst the prisoners. Eppie wandered up the lane, curious. Twiss followed.

  Jaggery threw his arms wide, pleading. ‘Go on, Boyle, give us a breather. I’ve been at this for months, up at four, only two snivelling breaks a day.’

  ‘You know du Quesne’s orders,’ replied the guard.

  Jaggery kicked a bucket and sent it sailing into Jacob’s vegetable patch. ‘I’m working meself into an early grave. I’m already a foot shorter than I was when I started.’

  Boyle’s thin, blue-veined hands clasped tight around the musket. He aimed the gun at Jaggery’s legs. ‘Do that again and you’ll be two feet shorter. If you’re complaining about the long hours labouring, it’s your own fault.’

  ‘Mine?’ Jaggery lurched towards Eppie. ‘If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s hers. I was only having a bit of amusement at the pool.’ He glared into Twiss’s glistening eyes. ‘Nice bit o’ steak on that dog.’ He turned to the gang. ‘Anyone fancy stewed mongrel? Make a change from tripe.’

  ‘Stop stirring trouble,’ Sam said. ‘If it hadn’t been for you roughing up his son, du Quesne would have let us alone. We wouldn’t be working seventeen hours a day. We’re only down for thirteen.’

  ‘It’s all right for the likes of you,’ Jaggery answered scornfully. ‘You’ve gorra easy life in jail. The best ale, and bread without worms.’

  ‘Give it a rest,’ Sam persisted. ‘It’s tiring enough doing this work, without having to listen to you ranting on, day after day, in your small-minded way.’

  There was a murmuring of agreement.

  ‘Small-minded is I, Scattergood?’ Jaggery wielded his spade. ‘We’ll see how small your mind is when I’ve flattened it.’

  ‘Watch it, Jag!’ Boyle warned.

  Sam raised his hand to protect himself, too late. Jaggery brought the spade down on the side of Sam’s head. Groping the air, Sam staggered.

  Eppie held her breath as the prisoner made ready to inflict another blow.

  The freckled boy grabbed Jaggery’s arm. ‘No!’

  Jaggery shot a baleful glance at him. ‘You askin’ for a dent in the head an’ all, Dick?’

  ‘Raise that shovel to anyone again, I’ll blast out your brains,’ Boyle shouted. ‘Some of you lug Sam back to the wagons.’

  ‘Have a heart!’ Dick cried. ‘He’d like as not bleed to death if we left him alone.’

  Boyle’s gaze swept the cottages that straddled the lane. Fay had watched the quarrel from her doorway. ‘You there, missus.’ Startled, she ushered Wilbert and Sukey inside and slammed the door.

  Jacob scurried off with the bucket, heading for the solitude of his woodshed.

  Sam lay unconscious, sprawled in the dirt. Blood oozed from the wound, matting his hair.

  Boldly, Eppie stepped forward. ‘My mam will put him back together.’

  ‘Why’d she wanna do that when most folk around here treat the prisoners like the black plague?’ Boyle asked.

  �
��Mister Sam mended our cow.’

  ‘Shift him, you two.’

  Martha was storing a batch of jam on the dresser shelf when the prisoners burst in. ‘Oh, my!’ A jar fell from her hand and crashed to the floor.

  ‘Where d’ya wan’ us to stick him?’ asked a grim-faced intruder.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  IMPRISONED FOR LOVE

  ‘You can’t stick, I mean, bring him in here,’ Martha cried.

  Eppie crept in sheepishly.

  ‘Eppie, you know what your pa told us.’

  ‘But it’s Mister Sam.’

  For the first time, Martha glanced at the prisoner’s pained face. Long lashes swept his closed eyes.

  ‘Hurry up, missus. He’s dripping blood on yer rug.’

  Recovering her senses, Martha climbed to the loft and fetched down Wakelin’s sack bed.

  Hampered by their shackles, the prisoners tramped through the spilt jam, dumped Sam, and left.

  Taking a pot of hedge woundwort from the dresser, Martha dabbed Sam’s freshly-cleaned cut with salve. ‘Luckily, it’s not deep. There’s not much more we can do, just keep him comfortable. I should think that yeast’s warmed.’

  Eppie pounded with her fists, sending flour and dough flying over the rim of the bowl. The spinning wheel whirled. Martha twisted fibres, forming a caterpillar-like thread. Frequently, they stole furtive glances at one another, each knowing the other’s thoughts.

  ‘Will pa be real mad?’

  In Martha’s voice was a ring of doubt. ‘I can’t see why.’

  The kitten pounced on the weighted spindle which dangled by a thread.

  Eppie giggled and tried to prise the kitten’s claws from the yarn. ‘Tipsy thinks it’s a mousie.’