North Side of the Tree

John smiles. “The problem is that Mother Bain has failing eyesight and hearing, and is also seen as somewhat unorthodox, with all her soothsaying and predictions. I think we need a woman of narrow views and a reputation for utmost propriety. The widow of one of the strangers who was killed in the woods has journeyed to Wraithwaite, looking for work. She is destitute now that her husband is dead. I spoke to her. She seems exactly the sort of person we need. Her name is Widow Brissenden.”

I stare at him. “You spoke to her without consulting me, John? I have heard of this woman. They say she is truly dreadful. They say she is carping and narrow-minded and criticises everyone in her path.”

“Oh for heaven’s sake, you know what people here are like, particularly about strangers. They’ll get used to her. She has relatives in Hagditch who speak very highly of her. She’s staying with them but does not wish to be dependent on them, which is admirable. One of her nephews rode over here to recommend her to me. It seems only sensible to take her on, since she needs a position and we have one to offer. Also, I almost feel we owe it to her, since her husband was murdered whilst here at the command of your father.”

I pace round the kitchen, feeling angry, yet not in a position to vent my anger. I am John’s guest, and also I feel partly responsible for this woman having become a widow. The thought of having her as a constant reminder of the attack appals me though. I stop in front of John. “Please do not employ her, John. I shall not be here for long. It does not generally bother you to flout convention.”

He pours ale into a battered silver jug and tosses in some cloves, a cinnamon stick and a nutmeg. “It only bothers me because it concerns you,” he says mildly. He takes a moleskin mitten, pulls the red-hot poker from the fire and plunges it into the jug. A hissing billow of steam pours out, searing our cheeks.

“The bishop is coming on Friday,” he adds, stirring the mixture with the poker then pouring the ale into our two earthenware mugs. “I want to take him to visit your father – he can hardly refuse the bishop entry – so that we can arrange Verity’s betrothal and marriage as quickly as possible. Time’s going on. She can’t continue like this. The bishop can impose fines on your father, or exclusion from Communion, if he continues to attack Low Back Farm. It has become ridiculous. He can’t go on refusing to accept the situation. I’d intended that the bishop should also effect your release, if you hadn’t already done so yourself.”

I take the warm mug from his hands. “I’ll come with you to Barrowbeck, John, when you go there with the bishop.”

“Is that wise? Your father could have you seized again, and then you would have to… er… climb out of the window a second time.”

“You doubt that I climbed out of the window?”

“Sweet Beatrice, I know you. You do not lie well. I think some brave soul succeeded where I failed, and let you out.”

I gaze through the smoky firelight. “You were a brave soul, John. I watched you standing there with arrows flying all about you.” I pause, made suddenly miserable by the recollection.

He takes hold of my hand. “Who let you out? Tell me. I shall say nothing to anyone. Was it the gallant Hugh?”

I stand up and pull my hand free, finally giving up the battle to be gracious and conciliatory. “Oh please, not another of you making gibes about Hugh. I had enough of that from Robert.” I hurl the name at him deliberately, wishing to hurt him because he has engaged Widow Brissenden without asking me, and because the recollection of him being shot at makes me sick to my stomach, and because I do not wish to feel this way about anyone just now. It is too inconvenient. It is too demanding. I have had enough of it, and I know suddenly that with John it will be worse, because he lays claim to my mind, as well as to other parts of me. He is too clever. He could know me too well. If I let John into my head, how will I ever have secrets again?

He makes no response.

“How controlled you are, John,” I remark.

“It doesn’t come naturally, Beatie. Unfortunately it is part of my job. I would vastly prefer to go round shouting and hitting people.”

I am forced to smile. “Well, I have known you to do that quite well too. I apologise for my rudeness. Please forgive me.”

He stands up. “The fault was mine. I should not have questioned you.”

“No.” I shake my head. “No, of course you have the right, with my father hammering at your door, and an endless stream of the residents of Barrowbeck begging refuge of you.”

“Truly, say no more, Beatrice.”

We are silent for a while, sipping the ale, which is too hot. Eventually I say, “The reason I wish to come to Barrowbeck with you is to visit Verity, John. I haven’t seen her since she moved to Low Back Farm, and I’m worried about her, particularly with my father’s temper as it is.”

John is watching me, sprawled in his chair, flushed from the fire. “I think your presence here is keeping your father occupied and saving Verity and James a deal of trouble. Yes. Come. We’ll keep you out of his way. I’ll be delighted to have your company, and I’d like the bishop to get to know you better too.”

On Friday the bishop arrives. He is a man of charm and humour. “So, I am to brave your father,” he says to me as we sit in the kitchen finishing the bottle of claret he brought.

“I hope it will not be too alarming an experience, my lord. I fear he is intolerant of the clergy.” I am deeply anxious about tomorrow’s expedition to Barrowbeck, and have already lost a night’s sleep over it. I excuse myself to go to my room to catch up on some rest. As I am leaving, the bishop says quietly to John in Latin, “So is the lady Beatrice to make an honest man of you, John?” I pause on the threshold. John is looking at me with an expression halfway between laughter and despair.

“Master John was my schoolmaster, my lord of Carlisle,” I answer the bishop, also in Latin. The bishop clasps his hand over his eyes.

“My child, please forgive me.”

“I fear it is I who will be begging forgiveness after you encounter my father, my lord, so please disregard it entirely.”

He stands up, so that from deference I must remain. “And the answer, Beatrice? What is the answer to my question?”

John is shaking his head, trying to silence him. I wish above all else that I were lying down in my room, and not having this conversation. I drop a curtsey and reply that on the contrary, his lordship has made a mistake, and that I am to marry my Cousin Hugh. It is whilst I am saying this, that I realise it is no longer true.

The bishop arrived in a red and gold coach most unsuitable for our country roads, and which was mired several times on his journey here, so we travel to Barrowbeck on horseback the following day. We go first to Low Back Farm, and find that James has begun building a fortified pele tower on to his farmhouse. His henchmen, led by George and Martinus, are moving blocks of limestone with pulleys, ready for the Irish builders to lay the foundations.

I stand in this familiar place, and breathe in the smell of first frost, and let the distress of the past two weeks seep away. The ground is getting colder. I can feel it like a great stone under my feet. Overhead, seagulls scream and head inland, a sign of fierce weather coming.

It is wonderful to see Verity again. John, the bishop and I stay for an hour, eating hot buttered wheaten cakes and drinking more wine. Verity has begun keeping bees, and shows us her trussed straw bee-skeps, and the workroom she will use for producing honey and beeswax candles and furniture polish. She is noticeably increased in size.

“Now madam, you must marry,” says the bishop sternly as we are leaving.

“Gladly sir, if you can obtain my father’s permission,” Verity replies irritably. “It is not of my choosing to live thus.”

“If necessary we will dispense with your father’s permission.” The bishop stares along the valley to where Barrowbeck Tower dominates the horizon. “Nevertheless, we will reason with him first.”

“God bless your efforts.” Verity’s expression does not indicate a great measure of confidence in them, with or without God’s blessing.

As we are leaving, James arrives back from chopping trees for winter fuel. He is riding bareback on one of the two carthorses which are dragging the huge pallet of tree trunks. He jumps down when he sees us, and I am struck by the change in him, as he smiles and asks if we cannot stay a little longer. He is clearly overawed by the bishop, yet he makes an effort, and converses with us, instead of retreating into silence as he would have done until recently.

John explains our mission, and we bid them an affectionate farewell and set off up the valley. I have told John that I shall visit my aunt whilst he and the bishop call upon my father. I have not told him the purpose of my visit. Behind us, from all along the valley, comes the dull beat of axes on wood, as logs are chopped for winter, and I find I am worrying about our own farms winter supplies. Has anyone thought of cutting trees for Barrowbeck’s winter fuel yet? My father will not have, since he spends his time roaming the countryside causing grief of one sort or another. Wood needs at least two months to season, before being burnt. Last year we were late with it, and the burning of green wood all but smoked us out of the tower. Then there is the root cellar. When I left, it was already piled high with parsnips and carrots, safely covered with black woollen cloths to keep out the damp, but has anyone thought to lift the first of the turnips yet and bring them in? Anxiety and homesickness overwhelm me. I think with a pang of all my summer’s herbs so lovingly cut, dried and hung on their S-shaped metal hooks, filling the root cellar with pungency. This winter I shall be a guest in another house, and it will not be the same.

We part company at the edge of the clearing. “Go carefully,” says John. “We’ll meet you back at James’s farm at sundown.”

I guide my horse on to a less-used path towards Mere Point, which will keep me out of sight of Father’s watchman on the tower. The path is strewn with bright leaves. Berries like jewels glow on the stripped autumn trees. This is my first time alone in the woods since I was attacked. I duck under the low-hanging branches and ride deep into the forest, and everywhere I go two dead men with their throats cut march behind me.

Chapter 7

At Mere Point they are also chopping wood. Hugh and Gerald, red-faced and sweating, are swinging their axes at a pile of tree trunks near the edge of the clearing.

“I’ll be along in a minute,” calls Hugh, as I head for the tower.

The sea is far out, distant and innocent-looking under a wide blue sky. Sea birds drop and swoop in the great space below the cliff, turning deftly and rising again on the breeze.

I find Aunt Juniper in the smokehouse at the side of the tower. She is standing on an old stool, hanging black sausages perilously over the glowing embers in the smoke-pit, where several sides of pork already hang. The atmosphere in the smokehouse is thick and greasy. Aunt Juniper looks round as she hooks the last looped sausage on to the chain, and turns the handle to trundle them along.

“I should be asking you to do this for me, Niece,” she comments, “since heights appear not to trouble you.” She climbs down and embraces me. Her face is blotched from the heat. “Are you well? Safe and well and in one piece? Welcome, my dear. I’faith, young women today, not willing to be locked in towers any more. I don’t know what the world is coming to.” She laughs. “Have you come to visit Hugh?”

I avoid replying, and instead wave to Hugh across the clearing as we walk towards the tower. Hugh wipes his face on his sleeve and waves back. Suddenly I feel very fond of him.

“I’m smoking the pork with applewood this year,” my aunt continues. “Your mother’s was so good last year. What is she using this year? Do you know? I have forgotten to ask her with all this business of Verity going on.”

“Rosewood and elder, I think.” I am glad to avoid more contentious topics as long as possible, but eventually the moment arrives when I am sitting opposite Aunt Juniper at the kitchen table, waiting for Hugh to come in, and there is no longer any getting away from it.

“Auntie, I am here to tell you something. I must say this to you first. I cannot marry Hugh.” I say it as fast as I can, then wait.

Aunt Juniper looks at me, then purses her lips and spreads her hands flat on the table. “Is it because of Parson Becker, Beatrice? They are saying you have a fondness for the parson… that you and he have a fondness for one another. Can this be true?”

Hugh comes in. I can see from his face that he has been listening. His hands hang tired and red from hewing the wood. He is unsmiling.

I turn in my seat. “I’m sorry, Hugh. You’re like a dear brother to me, and always will be. We’re too close to think of marrying. Please forgive me.”

Hugh looks hurt and puzzled. He looks as if his pride is wounded, but I wonder if I am imagining that he also looks a little relieved. Aunt Juniper appears distressed and bewildered. “Is this attachment of yours to the priest something of a religious or spiritual nature, Beatrice?” she demands.

I opt for the truth. “I’m not sure.”

She shakes her head. “First Verity, now you, going your own ways. What’s happening to the world, Beatrice? I warrant the queen started all this, setting her face against good husbands, God bless her. I’m sure I don’t know where it will all end.”

Uncle Juniper comes in, hurls a log on the kitchen fire and claps me on the shoulder. “They’re real killers, my new dogs, Beatrice,” he booms. “Canst hear ’em, out in t’barn?” I smile and nod, and he goes to sit in a corner and scratch himself in private places.

Aunt Juniper leans her elbows on the table. “Beatrice, I would like to think you will not make any hasty decisions about this.”

Hugh turns away, flushing with anger. “Mother, she has decided. Your plans cannot always go to order.” He marches out.

Aunt Juniper watches him in astonishment, then continues as if she had not been interrupted. “You see how much you have upset him, Beatrice? I hope now that you will reconsider. ’Tis no wonder you have been shut up in your room, with such wilfulness on display. Have you and your sister no thought at all for the work and distress your behaviour causes? Marriage is a serious business, not a matter for idle preferences. In heaven’s name, what sort of income do you imagine a village priest will have? A lot of thought and planning goes into securing your futures and your fortunes, to give you the best security you can have. I don’t mind doing it. It’s no more than my duty. But Gerald already has to be found someone else, with Verity gone. I’m considering Mistress Fairweather of Hagditch. She’s badly pocked, but has fortune enough to make up for that, and is very young to have been left a widow. Gerald would make her – or anyone – a splendid husband.” She pauses, as if struck by an idea. “You wouldn’t consider…?”

I bite my lip. “I think I’m unfitted for marriage, Aunt. To anyone. Truly, I am not ready even to think about it.”

We sit in silence for a while. Hugh returns and pours elderflower wine and hands it round. He gives me a brief, rueful look, a glimpse of the old Hugh, which fills me with a strange pang of relief and regret. Aunt Juniper intercepts it. She asks quickly, “Would you care to come and stay here, Niece, rather than at the parsonage? Your uncle and cousins would protect you from your father. You need have no fear of that. You would be closer to Verity and to your mother. It would be a blessing for me to have another woman in the house. You could read Holy Writ to me of an evening, whilst I sew.”

There are voices in the gatehouse. We all look round. I have been half aware of someone arriving on horseback. Now Gerald enters, glancing behind him, holding out his hand to an unseen figure. A woman’s voice answers him, whispering uncertainly. Gerald steps back, vanishes, then returns with his arm round Germaine, forcing her forward. Aunt Juniper stands up, staring at Gerald’s arm. “What in heaven’s name are you doing, Gerald?” she exclaims. “What are you doing with that serving woman?”

He moves forward into the kitchen, and Germaine has no choice but to move with him. “I’m glad you welcome the presence of another woman in the house, Mother,” Gerald says. He kisses the top of his mother’s head. “Germaine is coming to live here. She is coming to stay with us.”

One look at Aunt Juniper’s face seems to indicate that this is a good moment to leave. I move round the table kissing each of them on the cheek, though hardly noticed by them in their shock-eyed immobility. I stroll out into the bright autumn afternoon, full of relief that my own mission is completed, overwhelmed by startled admiration for Gerald and Germaine, that they have dared to do this.

It is whilst I am mounting my horse outside the stables that I first hear the sound. I hear it, then it is lost again amongst the faint beat of axes that resounds all round the bay. I stop and listen, one foot in the stirrup. The sound comes again. It is different from the woodcutting. It has rhythm and resonance. It grows louder then fades, carried on gusts of wind across the water, two slow beats and three fast, the sound of a drum. I mount up. I cannot imagine what a drum is doing on a clear autumn day with winter coming on and no conflicts threatened, but it seems unimportant, and as my mind returns to the confrontation probably going on behind me in Mere Point Tower, I soon forget about it.

John and the bishop have already returned to Low Back Farm, when I arrive there. They meet me, with Verity and James, at the gate.

“How did you…?” I scarcely need ask how they fared. Their expressions tell me.

“We gained entry,” the bishop tells me as he helps me down from my horse. “That much we did achieve, but only to be harangued at great length and ejected again. Your father did not wish to listen to reason.”

I see to my horror that he has a red swelling on the side of his face. “And this, sir?”

“The doorpost. In his haste to see us on our way, your father deemed some assistance was necessary.”

I stand with my hand to my mouth. This is worse, far worse, than I had anticipated. “Oh, I am so sorry. I am so sorry. Please excuse him. He is unused to suggestions from others as to how he should behave.”

“I have forgiven him,” the bishop declares graciously. “I think it probably does me good to experience life amongst the farther reaches of my wild and scattered flock. It has a most humbling effect.”

Verity widens her eyes at me, and I know that despite everything, she feels inclined to side with my father. She leads the bishop indoors, to soothe him with wine and cakes. James hesitates, preferring to stay with us, whom he knows, but when John catches hold of my arm and holds me back, James follows them indoors.

“What?” I respond to John’s anxious expression.

“There’s something else, Beatie. Your father – I think he is unwell.”

I stare at him in alarm. “In what way, John?”

“His colour is bad. It is most unwholesome looking, a very choleric purple in his cheeks and nose, and he seemed short of breath. I suggested to him that he needed a doctor, but the idea seemed to drive him into a further rage. I do think it would be wise for him to consult either a doctor or the Cockleshell Man, before the day is out.”

“Was my mother there?”

“No. Was she not at your aunt’s?”

“No.”

“Then she will be with Cedric.”

I glance at him. “Do you disapprove?” When he does not reply, I save him the embarrassment of having to, by adding, “I think I should go and take a look at my father. I will ask James if George and Martinus may accompany me.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“I think not, thank you John.”

When I explain my intention to Verity, she also insists on accompanying me. James, John and the bishop escort us up the valley to the edge of the clearing, and watch as Verity, the two henchmen and I go on alone. As we draw near to the barmkin I can see that Michael, the new henchman, is keeping watch on the battlements. We see him calling down to someone. A moment later the door of the pele tower flies open and my father rushes out.

Although there are four of us, we instinctively draw back. I see at once what John referred to. My father’s face is dark purple, and as he comes nearer, I hear his breath gurgling in his chest like water from a bottle.

“Daughters!” he shouts, and teeters to a halt. “Oh Daughters, have you come home to me?”

“Is he drunk?” Verity whispers.

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.” I take a step towards him. He staggers where he stands. “Father, let me help you back into the tower.”

Verity takes his other arm. She has not touched him since the day he tried to kill James. He bursts into tears. I feel close to tears myself. Between us we coax him up the slope and through the gatehouse, into the kitchen, closely followed by George and Martinus.

The kitchen is empty, but I can hear Kate singing somewhere in the cellars below. Father is struggling for coherence. The effort is plain on his face. “Daughters,” he attempts again, “dear, dear Daughters…”

We help him sit down on the settle. Martinus brings some water.

“Should’st be on watch, lad?” Father asks, peering at him with difficulty.

“You’re confused, Father,” I tell him. “Martinus doesn’t work here any more. Drink the water. Will you let the Cockleshell Man come to see you?”

Father drinks the water quickly. “Nay lass, whatever for?” He wipes a trickle from his chin. His colour is cooling a little. He sounds calmer and more articulate as he enquires, “Beatrice, what are they saying about you, lass? I cannot credit it. You cannot want yon poxy parson! You cannot. You cannot, lass. Come home. There’ll be no more locking in. I give you my oath. And we’ll forget about the window. I’ll not beat you for that.” He holds out his cup for more water, and Martinus hurries forward. I reflect how quickly he has fallen back into his old role of serving this familiar master. My father lays his hand on my arm and looks into my face, and I reflect how quickly I, too, have fallen back. He says quietly, “Beatrice, I’ve cared for you, have I not? It has been my pleasure to provide for you. Many girls in your position would have been married off at twelve. Yet I allowed you to learn. Did I not? Did you not have this privilege which most young women do not?”

I lower my eyes. “Yes, Father.”

“Yes. Well then.” He sits back. “Now I ask for you to return a little of what I have done for you. Come home. Resume your duties on the farm. All will be forgotten. I shall hold nothing against you.” He turns to Verity without giving me a chance to reply. “And you, Verity, naught shall be held against you, neither. Nor against your child. Your babe shall be the apple of my eye. I shall permit no one to call it bastard, and it shall, with your sister’s children, inherit all that I have. There’ll be no disgrace to you. The yokel violated you. I know that. All who know you know that. There’s no disgrace. Come home. Stay with me, Verity.”

Verity leans forward and takes his hand. “Father, dearest Father, you know how I love you. Never doubt it.”

He nods, and there are tears in his eyes. “Never doubt it,” he repeats under his breath.

Verity kisses his brow, which is slick with sweat, and adds, “But I also love James, Father, and you must accept that, and accept James. Please, Father.”

She is cut off as he jumps to his feet. The settle crashes over. George and Martinus rush to stand in front of Verity. Father’s face is undergoing a horrific change, becoming even more livid at the high points of his cheeks and nose. He pushes George aside. “Must?” he shouts in Verity’s face. “Must? You dare say must to your father? You traitorous harlot! I shall never accept that witless fool. Never! You spout what those vile clerics have taught you to say. Well, you shall see, and they shall see.” He crosses to the door, leaving us all gaping. “They shall see indeed. Yon fair coach I spied on Wraithwaite Green would be a hard job to miss, out on the highway.” He goes staggering out of the kitchen, and out of the tower.