A Chorus of Innocents (3 page)

She looked out the window and saw Jane running at a good clip out of the gate and into the village with her skirts bundled up into her belt and her boots occasionally striking sparks from the cobbles. Elizabeth's hat was still on her head and she had her velvet gown on, but Poppy needed to get warm as quickly as possible, so she turned back to her and started washing her gently with the hot water and cloths. Poppy let her do it, passively, only tears leaked out from under her shut eyelids. When that was done Elizabeth put her own smock over the woman's head, chafed her freezing hands and feet, and went and got some socks from the linen cupboard. She had to pause again as she did it: What kind of man did that to a pregnant woman? And what had happened to James? It was clear he was dead, probably killed. Had there been a raid?

Poppy was still sitting on the side of the bed and so Elizabeth gently lifted up her legs, put the socks on her feet, and got her under the coverlets at last. She got the brandywine into her, which was the best thing to stop a miscarriage and seemed to relax Poppy a little.

Just as the last of the wine went down, Fiona came back with a bowl of Dandelion's best creamy milk, still hot from the cow. Elizabeth left her with Poppy, went to her stillroom, and found the precious bottle of laudanum and put a few drops in the milk, then spooned it into Poppy while Fiona stared unselfconsciously at her. Elizabeth sent Fiona to finish up in the dairy, and in particular, wash and salt the butter. It was aggravating that the time of year when cows gave the most milk was in summer when it was too warm to keep butter very long, whereas in autumn and winter, the milk was much less in quantity and creaminess. The butter made now was paler than summer butter, but if the weather didn't get warm it might keep to be used for Christmas.

The pig wouldn't wait forever, either, but it could wait a while. Elizabeth went and got her work from her bedroom and took off her hat and gown while she was at it, put on an apron at last, and went back to Poppy.

Poppy was sitting bolt upright again, twisting her hands together and making little moaning sounds. It would take awhile for the laudanum to work.

“Well, I think this gown is wet through,” Elizabeth burbled at random as she picked up the heavy weight. “I'll hang it up and brush it once it's dry. The colour's good, though, it didn't…er…get on your clothes so we'll see if we can rescue it.”

She put a broomhandle through the arms and hung the gown up on the wall to dry, bundled Poppy's shift and petticoats for the laundrywoman to have when they next did a wash, and put them in the bag. Then she sat down and started stitching a new shirt for Young Henry, who got through them faster than anyone she had ever heard of. She continued burbling about the cows and how she would keep Dandelion's calf even though it was male because Dandelion's milk was so good, and the old bull was getting on a bit, and Dandelion's son might make a good replacement.

By that time, the sound of boots on the stairs told her that Jane had found and brought Mrs Stirling. There was a knock on the door and Elizabeth answered it to find a flushed and triumphant Jane and the small grey-haired midwife.

“I woke her up, missus,” said Jane, not breathing too hard.

“I'm very sorry, Mrs Stirling,” said Elizabeth politely, “but I think this is an emergency.”

“Ay,” said the midwife. “Ah heard fra Jane.”

“Jane, will you wait in the house? Fiona's finishing up for you. And thank you for running so fast.”

“I like running,” Jane said. “Is Mrs Burn better?”

“I hope she will be.”

Jane nodded and plumped herself down on a bench in the corridor.

The midwife had already gone to Poppy and held her hand to feel the pulses. “Now, hinny, ye're to be a brave big girl. Is there pains?” Poppy shook her head. “Did ye feel a great movement or turn at any time?” Poppy started leaking tears again.

‘'When he…when he…”

“Ay, when he was on ye, the filthy bastard. Were there pains after, coming in waves, like this? Like ghost-pains but stronger?” Mrs Stirling held up a fist and clenched and unclenched it. Poppy shook her head. “Now my dear, I need to have a feel of ye, inside, ye follow? Will ye let me?”

Poppy nodded. “I thought…the babe was killed for sure.” She was whispering but at least making sense.

“Well, mebbe not.”

Mrs Stirling was gentle as she slipped her strong wiry hands under the covers and felt Poppy. She smiled. “Well, ye're still closed up tight there and the babe isna head down yet, so that's a mercy. How did ye get here?”

“I…I rode. I got on Prince and rode to the Great North Road and rode south and…”

“Did you find lodgings in Berwick?”

Poppy shook her head. “I just rode round the walls because it was night and kept on because…because…I wanted to find you.”

Mrs Stirling and Elizabeth exchanged looks. “Wis there naebody nearer ye could ha' gone to?” asked the midwife.

“I wanted Lady Widdrington,” said Poppy, as if this was obvious. “They killed Jamie and they…and they…”

Mrs Stirling held her hands for her.

“…and I want them hanged for it.”

“Them?”

“Two men, not from round here, strangers. They came when I was at the river with the laundry and I came back because I thought they were the men from the Edinburgh printers about James' book of sermons, and they were talking awhile. I went to get some wafers and wine and while I was away…they killed Jamie. They stabbed him and he tried to fight so they cut half his head off.”

“God above,” said Mrs Stirling, shaking her head. “God a'mighty.”

“Then they…did this. Then they went. And then I thought, if I can find Lady Widdrington right away, she'll help me find them again and hang them. So I tacked up Jamie's hobby, Prince, and I rode.”

“When was this?”

“Yesterday. I don't know when.”

Mrs Stirling had brought out her ear trumpet and put the large end on Poppy's belly, moving it around with her ear pressed to the other end. She paused and a large smile briefly lit her face.

“Well now, that's a lovely heartbeat,” she said. “Would ye like to listen?”

Elizabeth would, very much but hadn't liked to ask. She put her ear to the narrow part of the ear trumpet and heard Poppy's own heartbeat and then the lighter quicker beat from the babe. Her face lit up too. “Oh yes,” she said, “That's a good strong beat.”

“It didn't get killed by the…by them?” asked Poppy.

Mrs Stirling took her hands and sat down next to her on the bed. “Listen, child,” she said, “it's a terrible thing that happened and ye'll want yer vengeance, I understand that. But you must try not to mither over it nor yer man's death. Ye must be calm as ye can until the babe is born and then while it's a little babby too. Take your vengeance late and cold.”

Poppy nodded. “The Good Book says, ‘Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, I will repay.'”

“It does,” allowed Mrs Stirling, “though sometimes the Lord needs a little bit o' prodding. Now go to sleep and think of the babby.”

Poppy lay down obediently and closed her eyes. Elizabeth led Mrs Stirling out of the room and took her downstairs to the parlour for wafers and wine and advice.

“She should be no worse for it than bruises and a sore quim for a few days, if she hasnae bin poxed,” said Mrs Stirling consideringly. “As to her body, with luck. As to her mind, who can say? There was a girl raped in a raid that never spoke again nor made any sense. Another girl who was treated the same in another raid by the same man, as it happens, was well enough in a month, though a mite jumpy and couldna abide the tolling of a bell.”

“Does it happen often?”

“Not often. But it happens. Especially when the raiders are far out of their ain country and they've caught a girl who's not from a riding surname and think they willna be known.”

“I've never heard of it.…”

“Ay, well, they dinna tell anyone but the midwife when they come to me for tansy tea and if they're a married woman, especially, for they'll be afeared their husbands will think they were willing, especially if they kindle.”

Mrs Stirling polished off her wine and Elizabeth paid her.

“Don't leave her alone,” advised the midwife as Elizabeth saw her out the door. “She was alone when it happened, keep her company. I'll call back in a day or two.”

Elizabeth nodded at this and went into the dairy first to see that the place was clean and tidy to keep the faeries happy. It was, so she told Fiona and Jane they could go home. She found young Mary sitting eating hazelnuts in the hall and told her to come with her and went back upstairs to Poppy who was lying rigid with her eyes open. She relaxed as they came in.

Mary she sent to get her crewelwork and sat down by Poppy.

“Will you be able to sleep with Mary here?” she asked. “I must make a start on salting the pig for winter.”

Poppy was weeping again and her poor eyes were already red and swollen.

“Read to me,” she whispered. “Please.”

“What shall I read?”

“Anything.”

Elizabeth went back to the bedroom and looked at her precious store of books, kept in a box under the bed where Sir Henry couldn't see them. He didn't see the point of women reading and had burned some of her books once. She chose a couple—one a book of sermons of staggering dullness that she used to get herself to sleep sometimes and the other a Tyndale Bible.

She read the Gospel of Matthew about the Nativity and a couple of Psalms and then decided that beautiful though the language was, what Poppy needed was dullness. She chose the dullest sermon in a very dull book and started reading about how one should never wear velvet or any colour other than black, brown, grey, or white because of worldliness and the sins of the flesh.

Poppy shut her eyes and seemed to doze off at last and Elizabeth left Mary to sit in the same chair and read the same book if necessary.

She went downstairs, ready to make a start on the pig and found Young Henry and four other Widdringtons tramping their boots into the hall.

“What's happened?” asked Young Henry, looming over her as he always did now. When first she had known him, he was a boy and much shorter than her. She hardly noticed his spots anymore but there was a particularly fine one on the end of his nose—a beacon of red and white. She found it mesmerising.

She told him to come with her into the wet larder where she took her sleeves off and put on her wet larder apron to make a start on the pig—opening it up and taking out the innards. She called the boys in from the stables and set them to fetching buckets of water from the well and then to the really unpleasant job of cleaning the intestines, to ready them to make sausages, while she dealt with the pluck and got it ready to make a haggis. It was a nice pig, quite fat and had come from the post inn where they got a lot of leftovers. She believed the pig had been called Bucket, like its predecessors, for obvious reasons.

Young Henry stood in her wet larder in his third best suit and his buff jerkin, which he was wearing because it was a bit proof against water and didn't get as heavy as a jack when it was wet. His boots were in a terrible state because inspecting drainage ditches often meant you had to get muddy. The four Widdrington cousins were no better and had wisely decided to come in no further than the kitchen where they were getting some ale from the cook.

“Just like that?” asked Henry. “They just rode in, found out his name and killed him?”

“And raped his wife.”

Young Henry shook his head. “Have you told Father?”

“I've told you,” she said. “You can decide whether to tell him or not when you go through Berwick, though I don't think he'll care because it's Scotch East March business, not his.”

Young Henry nodded at that and Elizabeth finished putting bits of pig in various bowls and cleaned her knives carefully before giving them to the smallest boy for further cleaning and sharpening. The first stage was over and the carcass clean inside, with a bit of washing by the middle-sized boy, and the next stage of cutting up and salting could wait several days, unlike the innards. The liver was nice and big; she thought she might make a liversausage out of it. The other two were gasping and complaining in the kitchenyard at the disgusting job she had put them to.

What she really wanted to do was go north to Wendron and take a look at the house where it had happened and see the corpse if it was still there. Had anyone found it yet, done anything about it? What had happened afterwards, after Poppy left? She particularly wanted to know if Tully's two found horses had anything to do with it.

The problem was Sir Henry. He thought women should stay at home and do as they were told, not ride about the countryside. Ever since she had been to Carlisle and back in the summer and with what had happened there and in Dumfries, he was even worse than before.

On the other hand, he was in Berwick at the moment, concerned with governing the East March with Robert Carey's pompous elder brother, John. He'd find out about it, of course, but if she could find a good enough excuse…

She shrugged as she washed her hands in the bucket of cold water and took off her wet canvas larder apron, hung it up on its hook, and put on another clean linen one. He would probably beat her again, and if she didn't go to Wendron, he would find another reason to beat her. There was no point trying to please him because he could not be pleased with her.

Young Henry was still there, looking shrewdly at her. “It's only about forty miles across country,” he said, “but I don't think you should go.”

She said nothing to this. He was right, of course, but she had a terrible itch to see for herself.

She went upstairs to check on Poppy and found her awake again but not crying. The rest of the milk with laudanum in it was cold now and Poppy wouldn't take it.