The Witch’s Daughter (11 page)

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That winter was the bleakest Bess had ever endured. The chill of grief in her heart was matched by the icy winds and cruel frosts that assailed the farm. She and her mother battled to tend the land and the livestock, but it was an impossible task. The smallholding had been stocked and planted to require the labors of four adults, not two. It quickly became clear that they could not manage the acreage alone, and as there was no money to hire help, they were forced to part with some of their beasts. And fewer beasts meant less food. Together, they slaughtered the old sow, laying the meat down in salt. The remaining pig wandered the yard morosely for days and threatened to pine away to nothing before their eyes. The youngest cow they sold to a neighbor. The oldest proved to be barren, which meant there was only one left to give milk. Such a low yield meant an end to their cheese-making at least until the following autumn.

Christmas passed unmarked in the Hawksmith household. Neither Bess nor her mother could face the cheery traditions and customs that would mark the day out as special and remind them of their lost loved ones. Had they but had the time or energy to care, they might have realized that many in the village now ceased to celebrate the yuletide festival. The fashion of the land was for quiet observance of God’s will, not for showy rituals that gave an excuse for gaiety and often drunken excess in His name. None of this mattered to Bess or Anne. They rarely ventured into the village now, save to sell or buy something. Neither of them had set foot inside the church since the plague. It had crossed Bess’s mind that this would not go unnoticed. She remembered Reverend Burdock’s words to the church warden. What a long time ago that seemed—back to a sunny, light, hopeful time. All parishioners were required to attend Sunday worship, and their absence would be recorded. For now though the inclement weather and privations inflicted on the village by the plague gave people other things to concern themselves with. For now.

For two whole weeks in the darkest days of the season, snow covered the land almost to the sea itself. Bess had never seen the cliff tops white before. The warmth of the sea had always kept such weather at bay until now. Looking out at the beautiful, frigid land, Bess felt as if the earth itself had gone into mourning. Would spring ever come again? she wondered. It seemed to her things might stay this way forever. Before Christmas, she had helped her mother press the last of the apples and set the juice to ferment. Now the cider was ready, and Anne decided they should sell some of it.

‘I want you to take those flagons to the Three Feathers. Ask for James Crabtree. Agnes will want to bargain with you herself.’ As she spoke, Anne fastened her own heavy cloak about Bess’s shoulders. ‘Do not be drawn into dealing with that woman; she will have the lot off you for nothing. Insist on speaking with James, do you hear me?’

Bess nodded. She felt an unfamiliar sensation in the depths of her bowels and eventually recognized it as excitement. She had never been in an alehouse before, and the Feathers had a reputation as the wildest in the village. After being so long cooped up in the farmhouse, she felt a certain thrill to be going out in the world and to be charged with something so adult and important. At once Bess felt sick with guilt, as if it was wrong to feel anything akin to pleasure. Would it always be wrong? she wondered.

The snow had gone, but the ground was frozen to rock and a mean wind stung Bess’s face as she stepped outside. She pulled the hood of her cape up over her cap and tied it tightly. She fetched the old mare, who was surly and reluctant to be dragged out of her warm barn. Anne helped her sit the flasks of cider into the panniers on the horse.

‘Don’t dawdle,’ Anne said as she tightened the girth strap and handed Bess the reins of the bridle. ‘I know Whisper will go slowly on the outward journey, but you can ride her once you have delivered the cider and she will step quickly enough coming home.’

Bess took the reins. ‘Come on, old girl, I’ll find you a handful of hay when we return.’

‘And do not linger in the alehouse, Bess,’ her mother called after her. ‘Talk to no one but James Crabtree!’

The Three Feathers was a large building constructed of stout timbers and a scruffy thatch. The upper floor had small windows set into the roof. The rooms here were used for lodging, a place for passing travelers to endure a night of little comfort and much noise. Bess had heard of all manner of uses for these rooms other than sleep. She tied Whisper up to a hitching ring on the front wall of the alehouse and went inside. At once her senses were assailed. The smoke produced by the greenwood on the fire and the numerous clay pipes being puffed and pointed with fervor rendered the air thicker than a sea fog. Bess shut the door behind her, doing her best to ignore the lecherous looks thrown her way. The ground floor of the building consisted of one low-ceilinged room filled with an assortment of worn tables and benches. A large settle beside the fire was regularly occupied by elderly drinkers of indeterminate age and failing mental capacity. The seats by the windows were taken by loud women dressed in bright colors, who entertained glint-eyed men. The raucous laughter of these drunken pairings ceased only when they slipped away to one of the rooms upstairs. At the opposite end of the room from the fire, a bar was constructed roughly of salvaged wood. Barrels stood in the corner. Tankards, jars, and jugs sat waiting on grimy shelves. The barks and roars of the inebriated competed with the shouts for ale or cider directed at the increasingly bad-tempered landlady and the serving wench who spent more time batting away unwanted hands than filling beer mugs. Bess straightened her shoulders and stepped quickly toward the bar. She blushed as lewd observations regarding her long legs and full lips were lobbed at her as she made her hasty progress through the throng. More than once she felt a hand upon her, but she did not respond. On reaching the bar, she was dismayed to see no sign of the innkeeper, only his disagreeable wife. She felt a crowd of men begin to press in around her.

‘I am come to speak with Mr. Crabtree,’ she said to the ever-moving figure of Agnes Crabtree.

‘Well, now’—the woman spoke without bothering to look at Bess—‘Mr. Crabtree be engaged at present, so thee’ll ’ave to address thyse’n to me.’

The smell of hot and unclean bodies was beginning to permeate the smoke and reach Bess’s nose. She gave no outward sign of the revulsion she felt.

‘I would not trouble him more than a moment. I have cider to sell.’ She kept her voice level but pleasant.

Now Agnes turned to frown at the provokingly attractive young girl before her.

‘Dosn’t thee think I know about zider, then?’

There was a murmur of interest from the men standing close. Bess quelled panic as she felt one man stand so near behind her she was aware of his body against hers.

‘I see that you are yourself busily occupied, Mrs. Crabtree. I would not wish to bother you. My mother told me…’

‘Oh! Well, if thy mother told thee!’ Agnes cruelly mocked Bess, causing the drinkers to let rip a cacophony of laughter and coughing. Some joined in the taunt. ‘Mother told her! So she did, Mother told her!’

The man behind Bess pressed himself shamelessly to her. Bess blushed as she distinctly felt the hard length of him against her buttocks. At once, any fear she had felt was replaced by fury. What right had he to treat her that way? What right had any man? She spun on her heel, startling the man with her swift movement so that he staggered back a little.

‘Sir! I did not invite your attentions, and I do not welcome them!’

A chorus of surprise and delight rose from the assembled group.

‘Hard luck, Davy!’ mocked one, laughing. ‘The lass doesn’t welcome thy attentions!’

‘At least she called thee
sir
!’ put in another.

The man himself bridled under the ridicule. He stepped forward, pinning her against the bar.

‘Mibben thou favors a more direct approach,’ he said.

Bess felt physically sick at further such intimate and aggressive contact.

‘Step away from me, sir.’ She felt her own fury building and knew she must keep it in check, no matter what the provocation.

‘Think thyse’n too good for the likes of me, then? Fancy thyse’n to be mistress up at Batchcombe Hall one day?’ As he spoke, fine drops of foul-smelling spittle rained on Bess’s face. She resisted the urge to wipe them away.

‘I warn you…’

‘Warn me, girl?’ He laughed at her. ‘What must I fear? That simple brother of yours going to come for me, is ’e? Or will I be set about by old man Hawksmith himse’n?’

At the mention of her father’s name, many standing near fell silent. It was clear some of them knew of her family’s fate, even if her tormentor did not. Bess opened her mouth to speak, but such a rage boiled up inside her she could find no words to express it. She had never felt such fury, and now the loathsome man was moving his hand toward her breast. She wanted to unleash her anger, but there was a small part of her that was afraid to do so, unsure of what the consequences might be. Instead, she snatched up a stoneware jug from the bar and swung it through the air. When it connected with Davy’s face, there was a fearsome crash as the pottery smashed, quickly followed by a thud as the man toppled sideways to the floor. Shouts and peals of laughter filled the space. Agnes elbowed her way through the crowd.

‘Get ’im out of here, somebody, afore there be more trouble, and you’—she scowled at Bess—‘if thou has such a desire to see my husband get through that door, and quick about it.’ She jerked her head in the direction of the far corner of the room.

Bess did not wait for further bidding but hurried through the door, her heart racing at what she had just done, at the power of her own anger.

On the other side of the door was a narrow passageway. In the gloom Bess could make out steps to the cellar on one side, and another door at the far end. She felt her way along the wall and pushed open the second door. A scene of wild excitement greeted her. The space, which might once have housed beasts or been stabling for horses, had been altered to accommodate a circular pit. Around this arena was assembled an agitated crowd intent on the action within the circle. Bess edged forward through the shouting, gesticulating men so that she could see what it was that whipped them into such a frenzy of yelling and swearing. In the center of the pit, two cocks hurled themselves at each other. Both were bloodied, and both wore viscous false spurs of bone strapped over their own. The birds seemed evenly matched in weight, but one had far more vigor than the other. The stronger cockerel had feathers of copper and purple that stood out in a great ruff about his neck. He leaped into the air and launched himself, talons and spurs foremost, at his weakening opponent. As the failing bird fell beneath the attack, blood poured from a fresh wound in its side, eliciting a cheer from the audience. Bess looked from the hapless creatures to the men around her. She saw money clutched in fists and eyes gleaming. Was it the gambling that excited them so or the sight of blood so cruelly spilled? Her nerves already greatly affected by her experience inside the inn, Bess now found herself near overwhelmed by the lust for violence all around her. Her anger returned. She looked at the glistening faces of the men and the pitiful state of the birds and could stand it no longer. She closed her eyes. Uncertain of what precisely she was trying to do, Bess followed her instincts and summoned her will, her strength, her rage. She gathered it up and then released it, her eyes snapping open as she did so. The doors on either side of the room flew open. A frenzied wind blew through the enclosure, stirring up a storm of dust and straw, blinding the shouting mob, swirling in a vortex of chaotic noise and choking detritus thrown up from the floor. It lasted no more than half a minute and then stopped as suddenly as it had started. Amid much coughing and swearing, the air cleared, revealing the pit to be empty. The birds were gone. After a collective intake of astonished breath, the crowd began hurling abuse and accusations at one another, whilst a fruitless search was mounted for the missing cockerels. Bess stood calmly amid it all, scanning the throng for Mr. Crabtree.

As she let her gaze rove the room, she caught her breath at the sight of a tall figure in a wide-brimmed black felt hat at the back of the room. Gideon Masters. What drew such a solitary man to an event of this nature? He met her eye and a small smile played on his face. Bess looked away again quickly, certain that he and he alone was aware of what she had done. She was jostled by the men as the atmosphere grew more and more violent. Fights broke out, and very soon the scene was that of a riot. Bess spotted James Crabtree standing next to Gideon, shaking his head in disbelief at the madness around him. She took her courage in both hands and made her way to him.

‘Mr. Crabtree.’ She had trouble making herself heard. ‘Mr. Crabtree!’

He looked at her now.

‘Lord’s truth, what ’ave we here?’

‘Bess Hawksmith. I have some cider to sell, if you are interested.’

‘Has thee now? And where might that zider be?’ He glanced about her as if expecting her to produce it from beneath her cape.

‘Why, on our mare, to the front of your … inn.’

Crabtree laughed. ‘I dare say mibben that be where thou left it, Bess Hawksmith, but I’d wager my night’s winnings it be there no more!’

‘What?’ Bess was appalled. ‘What do you say? Surely no one would take it?’

The landlord began to walk away, still laughing to himself. ‘Count thyse’n lucky if they left you the nag, lass! ’pon my word!’

Bess stared after him, then at Gideon. She was certain he was enjoying her distress, even though his face remained unmoved. She turned and fled through the back door. Outside, the wind had strengthened. She ran round to the front of the building. Whisper stood asleep, resting a hind leg. The panniers were empty.

‘No! Oh no!’ At that moment Bess could not decide who she hated most, the thieves who had robbed her or herself for her own stupidity.

She sensed she was not alone and then heard soft humming, a familiar tune sung in a low voice. Even without the words, she knew the song to be “Greensleeves.” Her father had often bade her sing it herself. Bess stiffened as Gideon came to stand next to her. He stopped singing and watched her. Bess fought back tears, determined she would not humiliate herself further in front of him.