Cunning Women Page 3

  ‘If we could beg a kindness from you …’ The word ‘good’ has stuck on her lip.

  There is laughter in his eyes now, cruel and powerful. ‘Kindness, is it? That’s all you ask for?’

  ‘Not from you.’

  He takes a step towards me. I do not move. A mistake.

  ‘Now why’s that?’ he says, his voice quiet. ‘I might give a kindness.’ He dips his head close to mine so that I can see flecks of green in his eyes, feel his breath on my skin. The smell of him reminds me of the boiling lamb’s head. ‘But what would come to me in return?’

  He wipes his hand across my cheek, rubs his thumb over my mouth and, without giving myself the chance to think of what will result, I look him in the eye and growl, as I’ve heard the wild dogs at night, snap at his thumb. Sink my teeth in, taste blood. He leaps back, yelling, then slams his fist into my face. A blast of pain sends me spinning to the ground, the taste of my own blood mingling with his.

  I hear screams and Annie launches herself at him, battering his leg with her fists. He kicks her off, swearing and sucking on his bleeding thumb. She crawls over to me and I sit up, wiping my face clean and holding her tight.

  He crouches over me, breathing heavy and fast. ‘You’ll pay for this, you little whore.’

  Lifting his cap and smoothing his hair down, he straightens up and walks to church, no quicker than before. I watch him, stroking Annie’s head and trying to steady my breathing.

  Anger feeds my lust for his suffering. I feel again the thud of stone against my shoulder, see Annie’s wide, uncomprehending eyes and the jeering faces of children, smell the sickly-meat odour of the farmhand. Fury beats through me, scorching under my skin, filling my mouth, driving me to my feet so that Annie falls to the ground.

  ‘A curse upon you.’

  The words break through my lips, grainy and tainted with the farmhand’s blood. Voice low and jagged. Not my own. Not loud. He turns anyway.

  ‘I curse you break into sores that weep and burn, that torment you with pain and repulse any that lay eye on you.’

  He stands, stricken, then laughs and continues on his way. But his laughter struck false and I feel his fear. I remain standing, as the power burning through me rises to meet the terror that bloats within him.

  At last I become aware, as my heartbeat steadies, that Annie cowers at my feet, whimpering and covering her face. I scoop her into my arms, once more her sister. Once more nothing but a ragged, empty-bellied girl, smarting where hand and stone have struck me. We turn back towards the cursed hill.

  Spires and Beams

  Daniel joined Father in the kitchen just as Bett was chopping some of last autumn’s parsnips and adding them to the pottage that would cook until they were ready for it that evening. A fire glowed in the grate, throwing a sheen on to the gleaming surface of the table that stood next to it, and the room smelled of baking bread and the bubbling grain and beans.

  ‘Are you ill? Looks like there’s a fever on you.’

  She laid her hand on his forehead. A touch that was efficient if not loving.

  ‘No,’ she said, shrugging and turning back to the pot. His good health rendered him unworthy of attention.

  Father grunted. ‘’Tis idleness not illness that delays him. Come, lie-a-bed, Bett needs to away and we must go to church.’ His mood was unusually sour, and blood seeped from his nostril. Daniel feared he could guess the cause.

  ‘Y-you, ah – you have a …’ He tapped under his own nose.

  Father scowled and wiped the blood away as they stepped through the door. ‘There’s a damned lamb missing,’ he said. Daniel shuddered. ‘Keep an eye out. It’s escaped through the hedge, no doubt, and must be found. I cannot abide to lose a thing of value.’

  Daniel trudged behind him, grateful that he’d had the presence of mind to wash the blood from the path by the field the day the lamb was taken. All the while, the Devil-boy’s voice seethed through his mind, as it shadowed his dreams and left him afraid of darkness. Glad he had again been spared to see dawn, Daniel did not allow himself to feel guilt at burning through so many lights and waking to a pile of ash on the floor. He made them himself, pulling and stripping the rushes, dipping them in mutton fat. A job that left him retching from the stink. A job for a woman, in any other house.

  He jumped at a rustle in the hedgerow; at the sound of a whisper, surely, from that direction – ‘Bring hell on you.’

  Blonde tendrils of hair escaped Molly Matthews’s hat, grazing the back of her neck. Daniel tried to concentrate on the image of Christ and the words of the parson. Kept his eyes open until they burned, for when he blinked the boy’s face taunted him.

  If he leaned forward in his pew he would be able to smell Molly’s skin, newly scrubbed for church.

  Daniel was weighed down by the sleepless night. Church was surely the safest place to be, yet he could not be rid of the fear that the Haworth boy would appear, reaching a filthy hand from under the pew to grab him, or transforming the serene features of Christ into his own rotting smile. The faint but constant smell of fish, always present when the village gathered together, churned his guts.

  At the back of the church the door creaked and swung. Daniel gripped the pew in front – the boy had come for him, even the house of God could not keep such wickedness at bay, and Daniel would be cursed or killed right here as he worshipped.

  Every head turned, filling the building with the sound of rustling, though Parson Walsh did not pause in his descriptions of damnation. He thumped his hands together and glared round at the congregation, raising his voice to demand attention.

  Daniel looked to see Gabriel enter, head bent towards the floor, frowning. Watched by all, he simply found a space and sat. A collective sigh of disappointment washed through the crowd; the interruption had not met expectations. Gabriel lived with his young sister and frail mother, tending to their every need, and he was often late for church. The only task he never complained about, carrying out with a care that left Daniel bewildered as to how one man could be both so gentle and so brutish.

  Daniel closed his eyes, swayed. Breathed again, and turned back to the parson and his spittle-flecked warnings of the fires of hell, but found himself looking straight into Molly’s smiling face.

  He blinked. Her eyes were too light, the colour of pale green apples; her lips too laden with mischief, curved into a smile that should not be worn to church. His eyes narrowed as if dazzled.

  She leaned towards him. An aroma of smoke and iron, somehow out of place against the delicately coloured cloth of her petticoat.

  ‘What’s kept him from church?’ she whispered.

  Daniel suppressed the urge to hush her. Opened his mouth, waited for the words to come. No easier at the sight of a pretty face than that of the demon-boy.

  ‘A fight?’ he managed at last. Also a cause that often delayed Gabriel, though usually after the tavern.

  She leaned closer, resting her hand on the back of her pew. ‘Or a lover.’

  The smile spread over her face at the same speed as the blush over Daniel’s, until she turned away at last.

  He looked to the parson, but her face was all he saw. If God gazed down into Daniel’s mind through the spires and beams, the coifs and hats and freshly combed hair, He would not find what He should. All Daniel could think of was the flavour of Molly’s lips.

  After the service people gathered in small groups. Boys picked and offered bunches of wild flowers: girls blushed, pretending coyness. Sunday was the most entertaining day of the week.

  Daniel followed Father to join Mr Matthews and some fishermen, Bett’s husband Nathaniel amongst them, as they stood talking under the oak, its branches beginning to bear a cover of light green leaves. They all nodded at Father and fell silent, waiting for him to speak.

  ‘Good service,’ Father said. ‘Bit of gumption this week.’

  The men murmured agreement.

  ‘Though your farmhand near set the parson to forgetting his thoughts
,’ Mr Matthews said.

  A rustling of leaves, surely. Daniel willed himself not to glance around. The Haworth boy’s demons could change form at will, it was said, and might be creeping between gravestones, stalking Daniel even as he stood. He forced himself to focus on the conversation.

  ‘He is not under my bidding at church.’ A reprimand, for Mr Matthews rarely showed the deference Father was used to receiving from village men.

  Nathaniel looked past Daniel’s shoulder, and frowned. ‘See those two huddled together?’ He indicated Sam Finch and a man named Turner. ‘Doesn’t sit right.’

  They all glanced over. ‘That money changing hands too?’ Daniel asked.

  ‘Don’t look too close, son, or speak too loud,’ Father said. ‘Wherever you turn there’ll be someone buying another’s silence. You keep your innocence and look away.’

  ‘Just as the magistrate does, though ’tis not innocence that blinds him,’ Nathaniel said.

  ‘And let’s be thankful for that,’ Mr Matthews said, shading his face against the sun. ‘Sharp eyes can bring profit. I shan’t say who supplies my fish, but all I pay for it is a half what others do and a promise not to tell whose wife it is that he beds. Besides his own.’

  Father frowned and Daniel knew that Mr Matthews had once again misjudged. His parents’ marriage had been brief but happy, and Father did not look kindly on such betrayals.

  ‘Put your sharp eyes to better use, and keep them looking out for my lamb,’ Father said. ‘One’s been lost, and I cannot track it down.’

  ‘You thinking it’s been stolen?’ Nathaniel asked.

  Daniel breathed deep to calm the quickened beat of his blood, dipped his head to hide the guilt that was surely written there. ‘It’s perhaps just escaped through the hedge,’ he said.

  ‘More likely stolen,’ Father said. ‘Keep an ear to the ground, lads?’

  Daniel remained still, waiting for someone to say they had seen the Devil-boy carrying the lamb, but no one spoke. He sensed a shifting behind him, a breath at his neck, that set him lunging a little to the side and almost into Nathaniel. The demon was upon him. When he glanced back there was nothing to be seen.

  He barely felt the humiliation of Father’s frown and Mr Matthews’s smirk. All were aware of the role he played on the farm. He was no man, and all knew it. This day it was a dread of worse than ridicule that drove him away. Daniel pretended a need to speak to Gabriel and left Father to seek out the family grave, as always. As he trudged towards the gate, glancing side to side in fear of some malevolent presence, a pair of polished brown shoes stood in his path and he almost walked into the owner of them.

  ‘You look so serious.’ Molly’s voice sang with laughter.

  ‘Do I?’ He did not have the temperament to entertain silly girls. Even one with such ripe lips.

  ‘And why do you find it so hard to look at me? Is my face disagreeable to you?’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Then why must you look at your feet?’

  She reached out a hand and tipped his chin so that his eyes met hers. He was determined enough to hold her gaze, but powerless to stop the blush spreading over his face.

  ‘Perhaps you’ll be less serious on May Day,’ she said, releasing him. ‘I have new clothes to wear and I hope you’ll be able to look at me then. Will you ask me to dance?’

  He would rather dress the sow in a petticoat and gambol with her down the village street. ‘I’d be delighted,’ he lied.

  His mistake, this day, was clumsiness. Often after church he made some error and Father, having given all his goodness to God and his affection to a headstone, combusted into rage.

  Coming in, skittish with dread, he swung the door too hard and knocked over that day’s milk.

  ‘Oaf,’ Father yelled, as Daniel knelt by the puddle and mopped it up. ‘You know what you’ve just lost me? Know what that’s worth?’

  Daniel kept his head to the ground.

  ‘Never mind the stink it’ll leave.’

  Daniel stood to take the soaked rag outside.

  ‘You listening to me?’

  He raised his eyes in time to see a fist, feel the blow slam into his face and send him spinning, door handle cracking into his forehead.

  Daniel folded to his knees, milk soaking through his breeches. No blood this time. Through his fingers he saw Father’s legs step in front of him, his chest then face as he knelt.

  ‘Son,’ he said. ‘Why must you always goad me so? You know I anger swift.’ With gentle touch now he pulled Daniel’s hands free, peered at his face. ‘Not hurt, not too much. Here, let me help you.’

  He lifted Daniel to his feet, sat him at the table near the fire. Reached out a hand that hovered over Daniel’s head then withdrew.

  ‘Bite to eat, perhaps?’

  Daniel nodded and forced a smile. Father heated a pan to make sops and dripping, as Daniel knew he would, as he always did. He was sick to the stomach, a feeling worsened by the scent of the warming milk. One he would always associate with pain, and his father’s regret.

  Summer Sky

  The well, like all that once made up our hamlet, is tainted by death.

  It still stands, twined in ivy and clogged with mud. Even if we could draw the water, we dare not, feared that poison spreads from the flesh rotted underground. We can never be sure where the dead are buried. It’s said there were so many and they passed so swiftly, no time was left for the dignity of a church service. Whole families lie, one upon the other, in the tiny gardens where animals once grazed and food was grown, furrowing the land around our home.

  I walk down the hill to the well on the green, passing Matt Taylor’s farm on the way, almost tripping over one of his sheep out on the path. The empty pail knocks against my leg. She blarts as though she can tell I’m imagining the taste of her cooked flesh. No better than my brother.

  Beyond, I hear the cry of a horse, wild surely to be pounding and calling so. I place the bucket at my feet and push through a gap in the hedge, scratching against my skin and snatching at my hair. There’s a hushing noise too, a soothing murmur. The sounds come from the next field and I approach steadily. Through the clouds a shaft of sunlight falls thick as butter. I don’t know why I must see but I cannot turn back, though I hear clear in my mind Mam’s voice. Her warnings to keep away from the villagers, of what may befall us should they choose to take trade elsewhere.

  The horse is night-black and gleaming, ears back, eyes rolling. Shrieking and kicking, galloping round and round the field. Bad to the core, anyone can see, a disposition that can only be cured by Mam’s skill at freeing her from the curse that she clearly bears. No right-minded body would go near her.

  Matt Taylor’s son stands not two paces away from where she’s stopped. Hand reaching out, eyes fixed on her. Bigger than I remember him, standing tall and straight. Neither of them sees me.

  I know of the farmer’s son. A timid thing, I would not have thought he’d the courage to face this creature.

  He stares her down without a flinch. There’s a stillness about him that is entrancing. The beat of my heart slows as I watch.

  The mare skips, ready to run off or kick out, as he edges forward. She’s held in his gaze, unable to look away. As am I. The fine hairs on his outstretched arm are driftwood-white.

  She bares her teeth, chewing and licking, drops her head. The farmer’s lad turns his back, walks off. Just as I think she’ll surely attack, she follows, head dipped, calm now.

  He runs his hand over her forehead, whispers to her, rests his cheek against her muzzle. She stands as though she were a pet kitten.

  Under his spell just as the mare is, I forget myself. Forget that I’m the girl from the family up the hill who is mocked or feared but never spoken to. Let myself imagine I’m released from the burden and promise of the power I carry within.

  I step forward. ‘How did you do that? She should’ve killed you.’

  He starts and turns towards me, a deep flush spread
ing over his face. The horse whinnies and he reaches a hand to comfort her, eyes still on me. He focuses briefly on the skin on my cheek, broken by the farmhand’s knuckles, then drops his gaze.

  ‘Oh, I …’ He looks behind, confused.

  ‘’Tis a gift.’

  ‘Oh no, it’s just … It’s nothing.’

  ‘I’ve never seen owt like it.’ There’s a rare gentleness about him, a self-doubt. ‘Can I stroke her?’

  He hesitates, nods. ‘Carefully.’

  The mare darts back, showing the whites of her eyes and snorting as I walk towards her.

  ‘Don’t look at her,’ he says. ‘Just – keep your head down. That’s right.’

  I move towards them, looking down. Slowly. Slowly. The mare shifts a little. He keeps a hand on her neck. She will not hurt me, I know. He won’t let her.

  ‘Good,’ he says.

  I reach out a hand and he guides my fingers to the mare’s forehead.

  ‘Here,’ he says. ‘Like this.’ Together we stroke her with round movements. She blows softly.

  ‘See,’ he says. ‘She likes you.’

  His words are like summer sky, I could lie underneath them and be warmed. The sun, breaking through weighty cloud, catches his every freckle and blond eyelash. A bruise shadows his eye, swollen and fresh.

  ‘How did you learn it?’ I ask.

  ‘I just – I don’t know. I’m no good at anything.’ He laughs, uncertain. Shrugs. ‘I like animals, I watch them. It’s easy.’

  ‘You’re good at this.’ I stroke the mare and she nuzzles my hand. ‘It’s like you bewitched her.’

  As I speak the words, he recognises me. I see it in his eyes, a flash of fear. He is suddenly still and clutches the horse’s back. She cries in response. I don’t realise I’m smiling until I stop. The unfamiliar sensation leaves me and I am once more just a thin crust of person with nothing inside. The sweet solid warmth of being another was brief, but its absence burns like the sores I cursed upon the farmhand.