Alice in Love and War (11 page)

Alice hurried down, seized the broom and began banging it busily around the skirting boards.

Next morning, on waking, she felt a dragging ache in her hips and back. She got up and dressed quickly, hiding her stained shift under her skirt while the other two maids were still half asleep. She went about her work, cleaning, scouring pots, fetching and carrying. She bled again, and the ache was worse. Once, in the afternoon, she felt a cramp that took her breath away. She had to put down her kitchen knife and press with both hands on the table till it passed. Fortunately no one noticed, and when nothing more happened she relaxed a little, and continued her work. Later, she took out a pail of warm mash to the hens, flinching at the shock of cold air as she opened the kitchen door. The wind was from the north and had flecks of snow in it. She saw that the water in the horse trough was covered in a film of ice.

“You can take a walk to the glover’s for me before it gets dark,” Mistress Tyrrell said. She showed Alice a pair of well-worn leather gloves, split at the seams, the thumb coming away on the right-hand glove. “See what can be done. And call in at the butcher’s – Crockford’s, not Loosley’s – and tell Master Crockford I’d like a dozen more of those pies he sent last week, to be delivered on Saturday.”

Alice took the gloves, put on her red cloak and a hood, and went out. The King’s Arms was at the edge of the village, the glover’s and butcher’s a five-minute walk away along a road lined with cottages and shops. The cold wind stung her eyes as she set off.

She had not gone more than a few yards when a cramp made her double over. She looked around. People scurried by, heads down against the wind, unaware of her. She walked on, but almost at once the pain came again, and she felt a gush of blood.

Not here, she thought in panic. It can’t happen here, in the street. The shops ahead were busy with customers going in and out. She imagined collapsing there, on someone’s doorstep; the shame of it; the news reaching the inn.

She had to find somewhere private. A road went off to her left – a deserted road that led past a paddock into woodland. Those woods, she knew, belonged to Weston Hall, the place where the officers had expected to stay. Between the trees, which were now almost leafless, she could see its tall, decorated chimneys.

The house was some way off, and already dusk was gathering in the shady places under the trees. She turned aside onto the road and hurried, hunched over, afraid that at any moment events would overwhelm her.

When she reached the woods, she plunged in among the trees and bushes without waiting to look for a path. The cramps were coming regularly now, and the urge to hide was powerful.

Even here the wind bit like a blade. She dropped to her knees beside a tree in the shelter of a holly bush. A pain came like a band of iron tightening around her back and belly, and she cried out and squatted, bundling her clothes out of the way.

The pain gripped her again, and now she pushed and felt something pass, something substantial; and she knew this was the child, hers and Robin’s, and she had lost it. Warm blood flowed. Another pain came, followed by more loss. And then her body relaxed. It was over. She waited a few moments, then tried to stand, but at once black specks gathered in front of her eyes, and she sank down again. She felt weak and nauseous, and extraordinarily tired. I’ll rest a bit, she decided. When she tried to move away, to a cleaner place, the faintness came again, so she simply leaned back against the tree and closed her eyes.

Eleven

Sounds
roused her: barking, and then snuffling, breathing; wet muzzles pushing against her legs and face. Dogs! Three or four of them. They were all around her. Alice yelped in fright; and at the same moment, a female voice called out, “Keeper! Jewel! Here, here!” And she looked up and saw the dogs running towards a woman who had emerged on horseback from a woodland path, accompanied by a young groom.

“Thank the Lord!” said the woman. “I feared you were a corpse!”

Alice remained crouching and lowered her gaze, overcome with shame at being found in such a condition. She heard the woman draw nearer, and saw, on the snowy ground in front of her, a pair of feet in high-sided brown leather shoes and the hem of a dark skirt brushing them. The shoes and skirt – polished leather and soft heavy wool – told her that this was no servant, but a woman of quality, perhaps one of the gentry who owned the house. Was she trespassing, she wondered? Trembling, she raised her eyes.

The woman’s voice had sounded younger than she now appeared. This was an old woman of fifty, perhaps even sixty: tall and strongly built. She wore a black velvet hood that draped softly around her face. A wing of white hair showed beneath the hood, and her eyes were dark.

She looked at Alice, and frowned in concern. “You are not one of my people, I think? How came you here? Have you been ill-used by soldiers?”

Alice knew the woman must have seen the blood on her stockings as she scrambled away from the dogs. She flicked her skirt to cover them, and struggled to rise, holding on to the tree, and shaking her head at the question.

“No. No man has hurt me,” she whispered.

“Then what … ah, I see how it is…”

She turned to the boy, who stood some way off. “Tom, this is no sight for you. Go back to the house. Send two wenches with a pallet – and a spade.”

“No!” said Alice. “No, I can’t. I work at the King’s Arms. I must go back…”

“On foot? Child, if you could see yourself! You are as white as bone. You should thank God we found you in time. Much longer, and you might have frozen to death.”

“I do thank God,” said Alice. “And you, my lady. But I can walk.” She let go of the tree and took a few steps forward, determined to prove it. She could not bring herself to look at what had come out of her body.

But the woman looked. She said, “You have miscarried of a child. Three months, I’d say?”

Alice felt tears sliding down her cheeks. She nodded. The dark eyes appraised her, head to foot, and Alice knew she was thinking: this girl is young, and no doubt unwed.

“Not a village girl, are you? Is that a West Country accent?”

“Yes. It is. I … came with the army.”

“Ah. I see.”

Alice knew from the woman’s tone that she thought her a whore. She insisted, “I’m to be married soon! He’s gone home, my soldier, but he will come back. He promised me.”

The look she got in response was one of mingled pity and exasperation. “You girls! You always believe that! Well” – she turned away – “here are Joan and Bess. They will take you to the house, where you can rest awhile.”

Alice shrank from enduring more scrutiny, but the two servant girls were friendly, as different from Sib and Nell as could be imagined. They quickly took in the situation and helped her onto the pallet. They found Mistress Tyrrell’s gloves, which Alice had dropped, and reassured her that they could carry her easily between them. Before they left, Bess, the sturdier of the two, dug into the hard soil with the spade and spread a covering of earth and twigs over the dead child.

The lady had ridden ahead of them back to the house, and by the time they arrived she had disappeared, and the dogs with her. The maids set the pallet down in a courtyard where there was a well, a trough for horses, and a mounting block. There were several barns and outbuildings near by, and seeing them made Alice think of army quarters, and how she had heard that the army had avoided this place because of disease. It was clear that there were still no soldiers about.

“I heard there was sickness here,” she said to the girls.

“Oh, you’ve nothing to fear,” said Joan. “Lady Weston’s grandchildren came with their mother and a maid from Oxford. The maid was ill, and then the eldest boy sickened, and at first they feared it was plague. You know there was plague in Oxford all summer?”

“Dirty, overcrowded place,” said Bess, shaking her head.

“Oh, Bessy! Proper country girl, you are! I love to see the town. Well, it wasn’t the plague, thank the Lord, but it kept us free of the army. They went to Haden Hall instead, and it seems they’ll stay there.”

She went inside, while Bess supported Alice with an arm about her shoulders. “Come into the kitchen and sit on the settle by the fire. I’ll warm some ale for you. Joan’s gone to fetch water so that you can wash.”

There were other people in the kitchen, a cook working at the big table, helped by a little maid of no more than twelve years. The cook nodded to Alice as she sat down. No one asked questions, but Alice knew they must be curious. She saw Bess, on her way to fetch the ale, encounter Joan in the doorway; the two of them exchanged looks and whispers, and Alice heard “…one of the soldiers’ drabs, I suppose…”

I’m not a drab, she thought, tears of anger pricking her eyes. And yet the girls were kind, whatever they assumed she was.

It felt odd to be sitting idle while others worked, but she felt too weak to do otherwise. She glanced around the kitchen: at rows of great pans hanging on the walls; ladles, sieves and serving dishes; a shelf of jugs and another of painted china plates; strings of onions and herbs dangling from the ceiling. The cook, a strong-looking woman with huge arms, was making pastry, while the young girl chopped onions, with much sniffing.

Bess came back with a little pan of spiced ale that she warmed over the fire before pouring it into a tankard. “Here, this’ll bring you back to yourself.” She shook her head. “You do look wan!”

Alice sipped the ale and felt it warm her from within. The fire was hot, sleepy-making. She felt very tired. Two cats, one tabby, one black, lay on the hearthstones, asleep and purring. As she watched the gentle rise and fall of their bodies, her trembling gradually ceased.

She looked up when Joan approached, accompanied by a young gentlewoman.

“Here’s Mistress Christian to see you,” the girl said.

Alice made to rise, but the woman gestured to her to remain seated, and sat down beside her. From her dress Alice thought she must be an upper servant of some kind, or even a member of the family. She was perhaps in her late twenties, slender in a gown of green wool with a wide white collar edged with lace and a white linen apron, and with tawny-coloured hair drawn back under a neat cap. Her eyes were hazel brown, flecked with green. They studied Alice with concern.

“Lady Weston sent me to see you,” she said. “I’m no apothecary, but I have some knowledge of medicine.”

Alice drew in her legs and elbows defensively. “I’m not hurt.”

“But do you still have any pain?” The woman’s voice was gentle but authoritative. “If it did not all come away…”

“I believe it did,” said Alice.

“That’s good. But if you have more pain or loss you must tell someone. Don’t hide away again, if you value your life.” She smiled. “My name is Christian Aubrey. I am a kinswoman of Lady Weston’s. And your name?”

“Alice Newcombe.”

“There is water for you to wash, Alice, in the scullery. And you must stay here at Weston Hall until you are warm and rested.”

“I can’t stay! I have to go back. Mistress Tyrrell expects me—”

Christian Aubrey shook her head. “My lady’s orders. She won’t be gainsaid. She believes you were sent to her by God in this time of Advent, and she has instructed us to take care of you. Come. The water is warm.”

She led Alice to the scullery, where Joan had left a bowl of water, a jug to top it up, a wash-ball and clean cloths.

“I’ll leave you,” she said. “No one will come in.” And she closed the door.

Alone at last, Alice found a stool and sat down. She felt weak, overwhelmed with shock. She had lost her child – Robin’s child. All connection to him was now severed. If he did not come back for her, she would be quite alone in a world that seemed suddenly huge and threatening.

She moved, and felt her thighs sticky with blood. I must wash, she thought. Warm water and scented soap awaited her – a comfort she had not known for many weeks. She stood up, and took advantage of this rare moment of privacy to take off not only her skirt and stockings but also her bodice, stays and shift. The shift would need to be soaked in cold water to release the bloodstains. For now, she bundled it up and hid it under her other clothes.

She stood naked and took a cloth and washed down from neck to feet, sluicing away all trace of her ordeal. The wash-ball was scented with rosemary, a cleansing smell that Alice liked. Unable to lift the jug in her weakened condition, she tilted it to add fresh water to the bowl, rinsed away the soap, and picked up a soft drying cloth. Underneath it she saw that Joan had left a linen shift – old and patched, but clean – and a pair of brown woollen stockings. Such kindness, she thought; these are truly good people. She dried herself, and put on the stockings and shift.

Someone tapped at the door. “Are you seemly?”

It was Christian.

“You are kind, mistress,” Alice said, glancing down at the shift as the woman came in.

“Oh! We have plenty of linen stored.” She approached the bowl of water to remove it.

“It’s full of filth,” Alice said, ashamed.

“I’ve seen worse.”

She lifted it, and tipped the water into a runnel that led outside, then washed out the bowl with clean water. It was maids’ work, and Alice knew this woman should not be doing it; she was shielding Alice, as far as she could, from kitchen gossip.

Alice put on her stays over the shift.

“What’s this?” asked Christian, her voice sharp with surprise. She had found Alice’s book lying on the table.

“It was my father’s,” said Alice. “He was an apothecary.”

The woman turned to her with new interest. “May I look at it?”

“Yes, indeed. It is all remedies and observations and the properties of herbs.”

“So I see. It is most full, and detailed. Can you read this, Alice?”

“Yes. And write.”

“And did you work with your father? He taught you his skills?”

“Yes. I learned a little from him. But I was only a child. He died when I was eleven.”

Christian studied the book a few moments longer, then closed it and handed it back; and Alice, who was now dressed, took it and, without thinking, pushed it down between her bodice and stays.