Salvation (11 page)

‘They’ll kill us,’ Bess wailed, her face contorted with terror.

‘We won’t let them.’ Meg gritted her teeth and looked around the yard. Roused by the commotion, the grey cob tossed his head and whinnied.

‘Good fellow,’ Meg stroked his soft muzzle. ‘You’ll save us, won’t you?’

She ran back to Bess and pulled her to her feet. ‘You must help me, we need to find a saddle and bridle. Come on, let’s search the sheds.’

As they rummaged in piles of rubbish that must have taken years to accumulate, she prayed the cob’s tack was not in the cottage. If it was, they would have to ride bareback and it would not be easy. Her head throbbed then just as she had almost given up hope, she saw the edge of an old saddle poking out from under a piece of sacking. Triumphantly, she hauled it out and found the bridle. ‘Bring the sacking too,’ she said to Bess, ‘we might need it.’

Back in the yard, another blow shook the splintering door. Soon it would be off its hinges.
Together they heaved the saddle onto the cob’s back, Meg fumbled to buckle the girth and stuff the sack in the saddle bag. She lifted the bridle over the cob’s ears and slid the bit into his mouth. ‘It’s a mercy you are so placid,’ she murmured.

With a shriek, Bess grabbed her arm. ‘The door! It’s breaking!’

Meg swung round and saw that the lower hinge was already loose. She scrambled up the side of the water trough and launched herself onto the cob’s back then reached down for Bess. ‘Climb up as I did and I’ll help you on.’

Bess did not need to be told twice. Once she was perched behind Meg, she flung her arms around her waist.

With a final crash, the door gave way. As it did so, Meg dug her heels into the cob’s flanks. She felt a hand grasp her ankle and she kicked out with all her strength. There was a string of curses and the cob threw up his head and bolted.

‘Hold on, Bess,’ Meg shouted.
She wound her fingers into the cob’s coarse mane and clung on as they galloped out of the yard.

*

The cob’s hooves squelched as he picked his way across the boggy ground. A low mist made both girls shiver and left a taste of wet earth in Meg’s mouth. Behind her, she felt Bess’s chest heave as she coughed.

‘Must we go this way?’ she asked.

‘Yes, it will be safer than going on the road, we agreed that.’

‘I’m freezing,’ Bess said plaintively.

Meg sighed. It was probably as much the terror they had felt as the weather. Her own hands were so numb she could hardly hold the reins. ‘We’ll stop when we get to dry ground and you can walk around to warm yourself.’

Bess fell silent and after a while, feeling the girl’s weight slumped against her back, Meg realised she was dozing. She was afraid to wake her in case a sudden movement made her fall off but she
was a heavy burden; Meg’s shoulders soon ached unbearably. When she could endure it no more, she pulled the cob up and prodded Bess. The girl woke with a start.

‘Stay there,’ Meg ordered, sliding off the cob. She winced as pins and needles pricked her legs then reached up for Bess and helped her off the cob’s back. ‘We shall have to walk for a while. I’m so stiff, I can hardly move.’

Neither of them spoke much as they stumbled along. Emerging fitfully from ragged clouds, only the moon lit their way. The hours seemed endless to Meg and constant doubts assailed her. She was even more afraid than before that she had been wrong to bring Bess on this dangerous journey. She should have come alone. Beside her, Bess started at every crack of a twig. Once when they disturbed some night creature that scuttled noisily away into the bushes, she seized Meg’s arm with such violence Meg nearly lost her balance.

‘It might be a witch,’ Bess’s voice trembled. ‘Mother used to say we must never go out at night or the witches’d snatch us and we’d never be seen again.’

Meg felt a chill creep up the back of her neck, but she fought her fear. ‘Don’t be foolish,’ she said sharply. ‘It’s probably just a badger or a fox.’ But Bess’s continuing whimpers told her Bess was not reassured.

Meg’s relief when a faint light appeared on the eastern horizon was unbounded. Slowly, it warmed to streaks of crimson and she saw they had left the low ground behind and stood on a grassy plateau strewn with huge boulders. Before them, an undulating plain stretched away into the distance. Pulsing like a ball of fire, the sun struggled above the horizon, its rays turning the boulders from dull grey to rose and gold. Meg held her breath and smelt the sweet scent of dewy grass. She felt as if she
witnessed the secret ritual of some alien religion whose origins were buried deep in the folds of time. Even Bess was silent.

Then a bird sang
. Others answered and soon the bushes were alive with birdsong and the beat of wings. The enchantment was over. Meg’s eyes filled with tears: if only Tom had been there to share it with her.

She felt Bess’s hand on her arm. ‘Madam? There’s no need to cry. We’re safe, aren’t we? Shouldn’t we go on?’

Meg sniffed and wiped her cheek. ‘You’re quite right, Bess, we should.’ Her back to the sun, she pointed ahead. ‘I think west is that way. Come on.’

*

A week later, Meg gazed sadly at the peacefully grazing cob. In the short time they had been together, she had grown fond of him and christened him Samson for his strength and his gentle ways, but they could not keep him.

‘He’s all we have to sell,’ she said, ‘and we must have money.’

‘Where could we sell him?’ Bess looked alarmed. ‘What if someone recognises him?’

‘I think we should be far enough from the farm to take the chance that no one will.’

The next day, they saw a town in the distance. Meg left Bess in a small wood and rode Samson through the town gate and found the market place. It bustled with merchants and buyers and it felt strange to her to be among crowds of people again. As she wandered around the stalls, the smell of hot bread and pies made her mouth water but she had no money to buy anything yet. On her way past a stall selling nuts and apples, however, she noticed an apple that had fallen on the ground. She ducked to retrieve it and saw it was already bruised, but the first bite tasted like nectar. She promised herself she would buy a whole basketful when she sold Samson.

She licked the last of the juice from her lips and went to the front of the stall to ask if anyone was buying horses.

‘Horse fair’s a sennight and forty miles away.’

Meg’s heart sank.

‘You could try Ned Skelly, his mare dropped dead in the shafts last week. He might make you an offer.’ With a jerk of his head, the stallholder indicated a thick-set man inspecting the goods on an ironmonger’s stall nearby.

‘Ned?’ he shouted out. ‘Lad here’s got a nag to sell.’

The man’s puffy cheeks and sagging upper eyelids almost obscured his watery blue eyes and a large boil erupted from one side of his sharp, pointed nose. He grabbed Samson’s bridle, peeled back the cob’s lips and looked askance at his teeth before spitting on the ground. ‘Not worth much. Give you a shilling and that’s only ’cause I’m a charitable man.’ The words came out of the side of his mouth as if he begrudged every one of them.

The stallholder guffawed. ‘That you are, Ned, that you are.’

Meg hesitated. It didn’t sound nearly enough and Skelly didn’t look a kind man either. The thought of Samson being overworked and cruelly treated made her heart lurch.

‘No thank you,’ she answered and, snatching back Samson’s bridle, hurried past.

‘Please yourself,’ Skelly shouted after her.

An hour went by and she grew tired of walking round the market. She was even hungrier than ever with the sight of so much food and no one was interested in Samson.

Disconsolate, she led him back through the market towards the high road. I’ve let Bess down, she thought miserably. We shall starve and it will be my fault.

Samson jibbed and she glanced up to see the puffy-cheeked man blocking their way. She smelt beer on his breath.

‘No takers, eh?’ he sneered. ‘Want to change your mind? Like I said, not worth much, but I’ve had a good afternoon, the offer’s still open.’

Anger bubbled in Meg chest. ‘Don’t waste your breath,’ she snapped. ‘I wouldn’t sell him to you at any price.’
She barged him aside and strode off, Samson trotting at her side. A stream of abuse followed them but no footsteps.

By the wall of a noisy tavern, she paused and leant against the rough-cast wall to wait until her cheeks cooled and her heart stopped thumping. It was then an idea came to her. Through an open window, she saw that the smoky interior was packed with impatient customers roaring for their beer and food as harassed serving girls flew around the tables trying to keep up. Perhaps the landlord would welcome another pair of hands on such a busy market day.

At the back of the building, she found the door to the kitchens and knocked. After a long wait, a stout woman with a clean white apron over her green wool dress bustled out. Her face was ruddy under her muslin cap.

‘Work, you say?’ she grumbled after Meg had said her piece. ‘I should think I’ve got work when my husband’s a lazy good-for-nothing who spends all his time drinking and playing dice.’ Her eyes narrowed. ‘Your hands are very soft for a kitchen lad. What can you do?’

Taken aback, Meg cast about for an answer. No one had asked her that question before. She doubted the woman had embroidery or madrigals in mind.

‘Perhaps I could clear tables,’ she faltered.

‘You can wash pots.’ The woman glanced at the toes poking out of Meg’s left shoe. ‘I’ve some old boots I’ll give you in return. Tie your nag up by the pump and you can keep an eye on him while you work.’

‘I’d like some food as well,’ Meg replied.

The landlady put her hands on her hips. ‘I’ll see if you’re a good worker first.’

It was as much as Meg could do to carry the huge iron pots to the pump. There she scrubbed them with handfuls of coarse sand as the landlady showed her until her hands were raw, then she sluiced away the loosened lumps of charred gruel and stew with water from the pump. Puddles of greasy water spread over the cobbles. Inside her broken shoes, her feet were so wet and cold she might as well be barefoot.

‘They’ll do,’ the landlady said briskly when she came to inspect Meg’s work. ‘There’s sacks of swedes and onions in the store. You can peel them and cut them up for me. Keep the peel thin, mind. I can’t afford to waste good food.’

By the time Meg had finished, her eyes smarted from the fumes of the onions and she had cut her finger more than once. If this was cooking, she hoped she never had to do any more of it, but at least the landlady gave a grudging nod of approval when she came out.

‘Here, put the peelings in this,’ she said, holding out a tin bucket. ‘You can take them up to the pigs.’

The pigs lumbered from their wallow and raced squealing to the fence when they saw her. She tipped the scraps over into the mud and watched them squabble and jostle for them. They couldn’t be hungrier than she was, she thought ruefully. The empty bucket clanking at her side, she hurried back to the tavern, her stomach aching for food.

When she went to untie Samson from the pump later that day, Meg glimpsed her reflection on the dark surface of the water in the trough and grimaced. What a scarecrow she looked with her spiky hair and grimy face. Still, the visit to town had been worthwhile. The landlady had given her the boots and parted grudgingly with half a loaf of bread. When the market traders packed up for the night, she had also managed to beat the local urchins to a fair amount of the fruit and vegetables discarded in the square. She and Bess would have a veritable feast tonight.

Cresting the hill, she reached the place where she had left Bess and groaned. Where had the silly girl gone to? She had been looking forward to showing off her trophies. Then her irritation turned to fear. Bess had sworn not to wander off. Suppose someone had taken her?
She shaded her eyes against the low sun. It would be dark soon and she would have no hope of finding her.

A twig cracked and she tensed. Fearfully, she looked round then breathed again. ‘Bess! You scared me, where have you been?’

‘It’s you.’ Bess seemed close to tears.

‘Who else would it be?’

‘There were voices,’ Bess stammered, ‘they might have been goblins or giants.’

Meg laughed. ‘Oh Bess, I’m sure other people walk through these woods too. It was probably just some travellers. Anyway you’re safe and that’s what matters. Now come and see what I’ve brought back. There’s enough food to last us for days, and look
,’ – she stuck out one foot – ‘I have new boots.’

At a place where lichen-covered boulders strewed the ground, they found a dry, shallow cave almost hidden by the branches of a large beech tree. ‘We’ll spend the night here,’ Meg decided. ‘Tomorrow we can pick up the road again.’

Free from hunger for the first time in days, it was not long before they were both asleep. When Meg woke, it was dark as pitch outside. She lay still for a moment, wondering what it was that had disturbed her. A light breeze stirred the beech tree and somewhere a hunting owl hooted but the sound had been different: an insistent rustling noise, close at hand. Very carefully, she edged to the opening of the cave and peered out. She was sure she heard something breathe – or was it someone?