Cloud and Ashes: Three Winter's Tales (19 page)

As she wavered, the revellers came down on them like rooks that mob a daystruck owl. Clawed creatures, raucous and hilarious, flown with ale. They clustered and they cawed. Margaret shrank against the wall, hands crossed before her face. Her fellow set hand to his hilts; yet spoke them fair enough, if sharp.

"Here's silver for your sport. Away and dance.” He cast a handful, scattering and shining.

But they cried, “In, summer! Let us in."

Like daws: and she a thing of glass.
Here's pretty.
If she fled them, they would hunt. Eyes fixed upon the stranger's back, she fought her panic down.
Here's patterning. A covert in his coat.
Green leaves brocaded in the deadleaf silk, half seen, and peering broideries of flowers, white and violet. A spring upwelling.

Some at back were elbowing and gawping; whispering behind their hands.
Thou ask. Nay, thou
.

A man doffed his broad hat, civil enough. “Morn t'ye, Master. Catched a hare?"

Wary; yet his fence was words. “I hunt not by the dark of moon."

"Then ye mun bring a candle,” said a woman. “And t'moths will fly to it."

And another wench called out to Margaret, “Singed thy petticoats?"

From the back of the rout, a taunting voice said: “Singed
his
petticoats, more like."

White hand on the sword hilt. “Go your ways. Here's naught of your concerning."

"Nay, by yer leave, sir,” said a woman, “our discerning's May. We bear it; ye mun bid us in."

"And if she bear it, then ‘tis luck,” said another with a rainwet garland on a staff, and shook it so the poppet danced. The water on the leaves rained down on Margaret. “Here's green to halse ye and this hall."

And half the revellers began confusedly to sing, a clash of carols.

But a high voice, hoarse with chanting, sang, “Me petticoat is lost, I left it at me granny's..."

A marrow-deep bass took it up, “But I'll fetch it back i't morning..."

"Peace, all on yer.” In the doorway stood a woman in a cap and pattens, tall, ungarlanded, a box of bonefire in her hands. Down the long dark hall behind her stood another door, wide open to the silvery green. Bobbing, they swung to her, silenced. Keys at her belt. Was her courtier and captor huntsman to this lady? Margaret sank into a deep obeisance. A girl tittered. “That'll do,” said Cap and Pattens, and quirked her chin upward. Margaret rose. Pattens turned to the men and maids. “Cold by t'door; come, speak thy piece.” And at her beckoning, the garlander stood forth, rosepink with audience, wind-wantoned, petal-patched. They spoke their verses, turn and turn.

"How far have ye wandered?"

"By moonwise til morn."

"What got ye by moonlight?"

"What's yet to be born."

"Out o frost, fire; and ashes to thorn."

"Halse ye and this hall!” the May girl said, and shook her garland, so the lady danced within its orb.

"In, summer!” cried the throng.

And the doorkeeper swung it wide. “Hey's down.” Another quick upward nod, and two or three blown girls went lingering to the byre and kitchen. “Nowt here nobbut rain to sup. Good ale within, and banketting. Come yer ways.” Giggling and straggling, turning to stare, they obeyed, the hoarse voice and her tipsy swain last of all.

When they'd all gone in, the woman with the keys turned to Margaret and the stranger. “Cold by th’ door, Master Grevil.” Still he stood, with a face like the morning, doubt and glory. “Clapping craws? Here's fire within. Sack posset.” He roused and they followed through the long cross-passage open to the kitchen garth, and into a high dim hall, arch-timbered. Rather gloomy, with a dank and doggish air. The fire was out, the hearth swept bare.

"Mistress Barbary,” said the man, and set his prize forward.

Unheeding both, the woman knelt at the hearth. From her pierced earthen pot, she took a heap of embers, and rekindled the fire. “Tind ashes, take light.” She sat back on her heels and watched it blaze, then rose, brushing her apron. A woman neither young nor old, close-grained and workworn as the haft of a rake. More tarnish than silver.

"Stockins,” she said to the man. He shifted, dripping. There were puddles at his feet. “Gan up and doff yersel, Master. Lass'll not melt."

"Mistress Barbary,” said master to maid. His voice shook with awe, with triumphant terror. “See.” He looked at Margaret as if he'd picked her like a flowering branch. As if she were made of snow. Of lightning. “Is she not? What think you?"

The woman looked her up and down: tawdry finery. Smutched face and draggled petticoats, clagged feet.

"I'd get her dry."

So many faces, and all strange.

Garlands askew and singed petticoats. Faces glowing and heavy-eyed, giddy with waking or sullen with ale. Twigs of heather caught in frazzled plaits; a flecked breast starting from a pair of stays, tucked in with absent hands. New-bladed beards. A pair of startling blue eyes gazing from a mask of ashes. A wreath turned round and round in work-rough hands, between great gawking knees. Her kind.

O brave new world.

She was dizzy with the scent of it. Ale and woodsmoke and wet sheep, sharp sweat and wilting flowers.

Windows open to the green and rain.

No Master Grevil in his deadleaf jacket, when she turned to look; no passage to the door. Past all the thronging bodies, thick as bees, there lay a hearth and fire.

Down one long wall stood a dresser, crowded with plate: pewter and blue china, a few fair days amid the grey and gleam. It was dressed with green boughs, flowering and sleeting down, from bud to bare twig.

Laid out on a board were ranks of round dishes, white and gold, pranked out with knots of violets. A year of moons laid out in bowls of curds and cream, a moon of suns in frumenties and tarts. Gallipots of sweet spicery, a dish of sorrel and salmon. Hare pasties. Honeycomb. Margaret swallowed, lightboned suddenly with want. A quiddany of quinces, apricock marmalade. Green cheeses. Cakes and ale.

All untouched. They were waiting; all but a child in a feathery flat bonnet, half under the table with a black dog, licking a bowl. His elders had a rarer dish to sup.

Two breathless maids bore in a kit of syllabub, afoam; they set it on the dresser, slopping over in their haste, swiping up. They kicked off their mucky pattens with a scuffle and clang, unkilted their skirts, all agog. “Is't ower?"

"Not until thou's come, Doll Kickpail,” called a man.

Mistress Barbary whist them with a glance. “Craw's hanged and world's ended,” she said dryly. “Would yer finish wi’ a jig?” She turned to Margaret. “Hey's down, this morning o't year. Come yer ways in."

That dance she knew: not these words, but their tune, the cadence of ritual. My lady had schooled her well. Margaret dropped a deep slow curtsey to the room.

When she rose, they were gaping. One or two horned their hands.

Barbary took a loaf with a green man's face baked into it, within a plaited wreath of bread. Clove eyes and sunburnt cheeks. Not a wood god, but the Sun in grain. She broke a piece, and held it out to Margaret. “Hallows with ye."

Margaret, hesitant, broke bread, and murmured, “And with you."

And at that, at last the household stirred. The Sun was torn to pieces, hand to hand, and devoured by a rabble of rantsmen. A gabble rose. Barbary stalked to the fire and set the kettle on.

The nine-day's wonder began.

Margaret sat dripping by the fire in a crowd of maids and men, her cup filled, her ruined finery appraised with rue and wonderment.

"Silk tiffany and cloth o silver. She mun be a princess o Lune."

"Prigged petticoats,” said a sharp-faced man. “I doubt she's nobbut a tinker's lig-by, feigning daft. She'll wait while we's abed, and slip t'latch til him."

"Take silver and gold."

"Burn hall about our ears."

A maid scoffed. “That ‘un? Couldn't catch moths wi’ a candle."

A hind in a garland of wilted ivy, a great tawny man, drank deep. “What I think, is she's some great lord's lightborn. She were put to nurse..."

"Wi’ a bear?” said the piper, bag and chanter by his knee.

"Wi’ a vixen,” said the taborer. “And braids of her nurse."

"...wrapped I’ yon petticoats. There'll be a mole on her."

A hind nudged his neighbor. “Eh, Jack, will we look for't?"

By the hearth sat a fair girl, untousled, brooding on a bowl of dainties like an ogress on a fondling child. She shook her head. “Sad ruin o velvet."

"Like a tinker out sleepwalking."

"Ashes?” said a wispy child, and blushed in confusion. “Not
Ashes
, but..."

"Ashes I’ May? Thou noddy. Imbers I’ January.” The scoffer drained her mug and held it out.

The ale went round again. The rain beat. The parliament of birds went on, owl and raven, wren and grouse.

"I knaw,” cried a sonsy lass, “'Tis that lady left her lord and featherbed to gang wi’ AEgyptians. In and out of a song."

"And wha'd tumble yon mawkin?” said a blackavised young man.

"Blind beggars,” said a dark girl dancing. Cat face and clustering curls. “See at me. I's getten red shoon."

"Should have yon silver mantle.” The young man glanced at Margaret, half mockery and half appraisal. All intent. A trig, dry, thirsty fellow, like a wasp on a damson. “As good hang it on a flaycraw as yon whey-face and ginger."

"Nay, a lady'd thee and thou us. See'd her bobbing at Wick Billy, same as a lord."

"Well, she didn't fall I’ last rain."

"She did. Out o't moon."

"D'ye not see her bare toes? Mad Maudlin, lating after Tom o Cloud."

"Clarty feet, aye, but not hyself. Soft as my hand."

"Soft as thine head."

A hale old blue-eyed shepherd quavered: “His naunt"—he quirked his chin at his master's hall—"were stolen at her handfast. Away wi’ t'fairies. They's gey fond o green fruit."

Barbary brought Margaret a dish of curds and cream and set it in her lap. Margaret tasted. Sharp-sweet and dowset, bronzed with nutmeg. And syllabub, ladled from the frothing bowl, and spangling on the tongue. O my. And buttered toasts. A banquet of rarities, and no enjoying it. As well eat honey in a hive.

All about her, they buzzed and pinched and pried and gazed.

"Happen she could be,” said the shepherd. “I's heared folk gan there and back, and no more changed than delf in a dunghill."

"Cracked delf,” another said.

"And painted."

"I thowt t'fair folk was
fair
."

"Thowt they was green. And lived on cresses."

Behind her, surreptitiously, a wench pinched salt on her.

"See'd her flicker,” said a gangling lad. “Try toasting-fork, it's iron."

"Hey, Crook Tom, thou minds t'awd Mistress Grevil?"

"Dead. Aye, dead and tellt.” The shepherd drank. “She'd not be walking."

"Nay, but her sister that were lost, young Mistress Annot. Were she russety?"

The shepherd pondered, deep in his mug. “Aye, she were an Outlune vixen, same as this. Airs and graces."

"What, this hedgebird?” sneered the sharp-faced man. “Beggar's velvet."

"A mooncalf."

"It's a changeling, I tell ‘ee."

"A by-blow."

"A drab."

"Set her on shovel, and awa’ up t'chimney."

Margaret cowered on her cutty stool. But Barbary was speaking, not over or behind, but to her. “How came you by Law?"

Darkness. She remembered nothing but abyss and roaring. Salt sting on her lips. Closing her eyes, she saw a storm-changed beach, a coffer, cracked and spilling cinnamon and mace. A shivered virginals. She saw an orange lying by a tarry hand. Bewildered, she said, “I was shipwrecked."

They howled.

"Drowned, by Dawcock!” cried the fiddler. “Here's a mermaid or a swan."

"Mind thy fingers, wench, he'll have ‘em for fiddlepegs."

"What I say, she's a selkie. So what yer do, see, is yer fold her fell up in a kist. So's she can't swim away."

"If she was a selkie, she'd be bare as a needle."

"If she's seawrack,” said a fattish fellow in drabbet, “then she's waif and stray. So finder keeps her, and he cracks her open."

The kitchen boy looked up. “My gammer see'd a ship once,” he said. He licked his thumb dreamily, a shine of honey on his sooted cheek.

Mistress Barbary spoke. “Aye, but what ship? And what sea?"

Margaret saw the Lantern at her mast, the milkwhite shining of the Skein, the river and the road of death. The room swung. She fixed on the grey eyes as on a horizon. “I know not."

"What do they call you?"

By no name.
Crows’ meat. Hole to fill.
“Thou."

Someone giggled. “Not sharpest knife I't drawer."

"Hold thy clap!” said Barbary. Turning back, “Are you honest?"

"Please you?"

"Do you lie with men?"

"Madam, I know none.” If Barbary saw else, she said nought. Held Margaret's gaze and nodded. Then turned. “Dolly Jack, Jack Handsaw, Nick—if any on yer game wi’ her, I s'll turn thee out ont road, bare arse and beggarstaff."

The sharp-faced man looked innocent. “By kit's catgut, her vixen is as safe wi’ me as wi’ t'master.” Two or three laughed maliciously. One whistled a snatch of song.

But now the maids were clinging and wittering and twisting their aprons. “She's not staying here, is she? In our bower?"

"She'll elf us locks by night."

"Pinch us in our beds. Black and blue."

"Thou can pinch hyself I’ bed well enough, Hob Ellender,” said Barbary. “And thou, Cat Malison, if thou'd comb thy hair, she might tangle it.” She turned to the company. “And hasn't she broke bread wi’ us? And eaten salt?” Back she turned to Margaret, shivering by the fire. She held out her bunch of keys. “Will you break nowt nor take nowt, nor call craws down upon this hearth? Swear it.” The old tune.

Margaret touched cold iron to her brow. “I swear."

"Then have thy keeping o this household, fire and fleet, until next hallows and a day."