I answer. “Yes, there was.”
John takes hold of my hand and kisses the palm. “So, can you just tell me it isn’t impossible?”
I touch his hair. It is wet from the rain, and still uncombed. I answer, “No, I can’t tell you that. It is impossible. Verity will be leaving Barrowbeck to farm with James at Low Back. Who will run the farm if I go too? I have to marry Hugh and stay.”
For what seems a long time we stare at one another. When we do speak, it is simultaneously, and reduced to politeness. “I should get back, John.”
“Have you started your lessons with Cedric yet?” He releases my hand and steadies the horse so that I can remount.
“Not yet. I’m still busy with the winter planting, and stocking the root cellar. There’s time enough.” Cedric, also known as the Cockleshell Man, is our local healer, a close friend of my mother, and soon to be my teacher in the arts of healing and herbalism.
John and I ride together in silence down through the woods, across a stream, up a steep bank where ferns and tree roots coil out of the earth. I wish we had not had this conversation. Before, I could imagine all sorts of unspoken impossibilities. Now I have been forced to face reality.
Where the trees thin out, Barrowbeck Tower comes into view in its clearing. I glance back at John. “Now I really do want to go on alone, John. It would be better if you were to see Father about Verity and James when the paying-off is over. Let him calm down a bit after handing out all that money. You must be careful of his temper. It’s getting more violent than ever.”
“I know.” John halts the horse and dismounts, and helps me down. He remains with his hands on my waist. Around us, the woods are quiet. Damp spiderwebs show up on the bushes. A flurry of rainwater splatters down on to our faces. He says, “I’ll come over this afternoon to speak to your father about Verity.”
“It won’t be easy.”
“I know. He doesn’t like me.”
“You’re always reprimanding him.”
“He deserves it.”
I kiss him on the cheek. “Goodbye John.”
“Goodbye Beatrice.” He kisses me on the mouth. Caught unawares, I put my arms round him and kiss him back.
A twig snaps nearby. We both jump. Universe is pricking his ears and glaring into the undergrowth. The bushes rustle and a voice says, “Good morrow, parson. Greetings, mistress.” It is Leo, our cowman.
I step back, speechless. John replies, “Good morrow, Leo. How pleasant to see you.” Leo is giving us an astounded look. I can see through his eyes my untidied hair and flushed face. I wonder how much he has seen. I try to imagine the repercussions if it reaches my father that his daughter has been seen kissing the parson.
“I must get back.” I pull my cloak round me.
John says calmly, as if we had merely been on a nature walk, “Go carefully, Beatrice. I’ll watch you as far as the tower,” but I hurry away, taking another path which leads me out of their line of vision.
“I’ll walk along with you if you’re heading back to the rockface, parson,” I can hear Leo saying behind me. “There’s a sight too many strangers in t’valley today for my liking. I’m just checking a few little snares I’ve set…” Their voices fade as I rush as far away from them as possible.
I am almost out into the lea now, thinking wildly about what I can say to Leo to ask for his silence. I dawdle at the edge of the trees, and decide to wait for him to come back this way from emptying his snares. The rain is heavier again now, and the wind is rising. Grey planks of rain come skimming over the Pike from the sea. I can see the watchman on the battlements of the tower pulling his hood up. I decide to shelter here and rehearse what I shall say. Leo will surely understand. Everyone employed at Barrowbeck Tower knows the necessity of avoiding my father’s temper. I clutch my own hood under my chin to keep the rain out, and this is how I do not see them coming.
“Ha!”
The voice, hands, body all come at once. A massive lout in dark, dirty clothing leaps from the bushes and knocks me to the ground. Another, shorter man follows him. I see a flash of brown jerkin and blue breeches. As I draw in my breath to scream, a stone is rammed into my mouth, crashing against my teeth. Grit and soil choke my voice. A knife flashes before my eyes.
“Back from seeing your fancy man, eh? Let’s have your money, lady.” The first man pinions my arms whilst the second grapples at my waist to see if I have a purse. I writhe and try to scream, but my throat is full of gravel, and all I can do is cough. I struggle to reach my knife, but the first man finds it before I can and rips it from my belt in triumph. “She’s no gold or silver, but I’ll have this pretty bit of ironmongery instead.” He hooks it into his own greasy green belt, then mutters, “Now what else can we tek off her, eh?”
I lash out, sick with terror. Then suddenly it is as if the first man has flown away. He is lifted off me bodily by a pair of strong, brown hands. “Get away, lady,” snaps Leo. “Run for it.”
I run.
I stand behind Father on the battlements. Below us, assembled in the meadow, are the scores of men who walked to Barrowbeck from all over this corner of England. Whatever one might fear or mislike about my father, one can’t help admiring his reputation as a warlord. He is certainly better at this than he is at farming.
He raises his hands for silence, and shouts, in a voice for once unslurred, that they should all return home and thank the Lord for sparing them. There will be purses for all of them at the barmkin gate, he tells them. Then he wishes them Godspeed on their journeys home.
The rain has stopped, but a cold wind is blowing across the battlements. The clouds shift. There is a flash of blue sky, brown trees, memories of blue breeches and brown jerkin. I feel unsteady, and support myself against the beacon turret. The pain in my mouth is making me feel sick. I touch the cuts and swellings, now liberally plastered with Mother’s marigold balm.
Mother is standing next to Father, her arms folded in her sleeves, smiling serenely. Strange how we keep up appearances in the face of strangers. She turns to me. “Are you all right, Beatrice? You really did come a cropper in the woods, didn’t you.”
I attempt a smile. “I’m well enough, thank you Mother.”
Germaine, music tutor and wardrobe mistress to the household, is standing next to me. She gives me a critical look. “Was it really a fall?” she enquires disbelievingly. Far below, amongst the shuffling crowd, I catch a glimpse of Leo. His gaze is fixed on me.
“Yes,” I mutter, averting my eyes from her, from him, from everyone.
If I had not turned back, after I ran from the men, I should not know what I do know now. After Leo rescued me, I fled along the edge of the woods for quite a little way, unwilling to go into the open in the state I was in, my mouth bleeding and my clothes torn. Then I stopped. There were two of those men against Leo. They both had knives. I seized a hefty branch from the ground, and turned back.
Leo met me. He was striding along in his usual way, his hands full of snared songbirds. His mouth was thirled in a horrifying, animal snarl, though. I stood and gaped at him. He said, “Mistress Beatrice, what are you doing still out here? You should be home, getting Kate to tend to your hurts.” When I did not reply, he asked, “Do you want to come back with me and let Sanctity see to you?” I glanced beyond him, back along the path and into the undergrowth, and my knees buckled.
Leo supported me through the woods, clutched against his jerkin full of the smells of the cowshed. I could scarcely bear to be touched, but the alternative would have been to fall down. We tottered our way right round the edge of the clearing and down the tiny, briar-tangled