A Traveller in Time (22 page)

I put my hand up to my neck and there hung the jewel. It was true; I could not take it to that other world. It had been found in the future and there it must remain. I carried it upstairs thoughtfully and hung it on the wall.

The Irishmen went away that night, and we all said good-bye to them, and clasped their great hard hands.

“God be with you till we meet again, Malachi and Patrick, Michael, and Andrew,” said Aunt Tissie.

“God be with you too, Mistress Taberner,” they replied, and away they went with their bundles on their backs and sticks in their hands, down the drive and away, into the moonlit night.

I sat with Uncle Barnabas on the seat under the oak-tree, and we counted the shooting stars which whirled down the sky in streaks of fire. Every one was a soul going to heaven, Uncle Barnabas told me, and we both thought of those winged beings rushing through space. Behind us were the four new haystacks, standing like great scented houses, and from them came little rustles and murmurs as the hay settled and shifted itself, breathing and sighing to the fields. The church too seemed full of tiny sounds, rumbles and whispers as if it were uneasy. Then a screech-owl swept silently from the belfry, startling me as it swooped across the lawn. Shadows and ghosts seemed to flit around us as we sat silently there. I thought of the Babington children, Anthony and his brothers and sisters. Five little children once lived at Thackers, and played around the haystacks, and hid themselves in the great barn by the wall, five little Elizabethan children, the two girls in long full skirts which they lifted as they ran, the boys in country smocks. In and out of the shadows they ran, calling “Cuckoo, Cherry-tree” to one another. Once I heard the click of a pickaxe and the rumble of a barrow, and I glanced up at Uncle Barnabas.

“Rats,” said he. “Rats in churchyard. Digging holes. We mun have the rat-catcher soon, or they'll get in church and frighten folk.”

He lifted himself slowly and stiffly from his seat and together we walked indoors. There was the table spread with harvest dainties; junkets with nutmeg sprinkled on the top, raspberries and cream, and enormous curd pasties, quite three feet long, all golden-brown and flecked with spice.

“They won't last long,” said Aunt Tissie, when we exclaimed at their size. “There's some wanted for the mole-catcher, and a piece for the hedger and some for the gamekeeper.”

I didn't sleep well that night. Perhaps it was the fault of the full moon looking in at the window, or the mare cropping noisily in the field. The heavy scent of sweetbriar filled the bedroom, and I could remember Francis saying: “This hedge is eglantine. Why do you call it sweetbriar, Penelope?”

I lay thinking of Francis's gay companionship, of Anthony's bravery, of Mistress Babington's sorrow, and as I tossed I could hear the thud of picks and shovels and the sound of feet moving softly over the grass. I got out of bed and looked through the curtains. The haystacks were silver under the moon, and the land seemed to be alert, listening. I thought I saw figures move across the yard; people walked from the dark door of the barn to the churchyard, where a lantern gleamed. Was it lantern-light or only the moonrays? Were the people only shadows? I lost sight of them as they dropped to earth, and I crept back to bed, my teeth chattering; and after a while I fell asleep.

I sat at the end of the kitchen-garden one day, shelling peas for dinner. The great market-basket heaped with new peas stood on the ground near me. It was very hot and the sun drew out the strong odours of rue and wormwood from the bushes at my feet. The heavy pungent smell made me think of the other household, and even as I thought of them I saw Francis standing near, sharpening a dagger on the grindstone. The whir of the stone and the hiss of the blade were familiar sounds to me, for often in the same place I had watched Uncle Barnabas grind the axe and put an edge to his tools on the same old stone. Francis did not see me at first and I sat watching him as he stooped in his green riding suit, with leather belt round his waist, and long boots.

“Francis,” I whispered, and he spun round and came to me, sticking the dagger in his belt.

“Penelope! I wanted you but I never thought you would come.” He sat down by my side, and I saw that the mossy, oak seat with ferns growing in its crevices was fresh and new. “I wanted to warn you, Penelope,” said Francis. “Do you know Arabella made a waxen image of you to do you harm?”

I laughed. “How can it do me any hurt?” I asked, and I felt gay and light-hearted sitting there with Francis in the herb-garden at Thackers, with the pigeons flying overhead and the little fountain playing on the lawn.

“She has it at Bramble Hall and I believe she is up to some devilry, sticking pins into it, or some tricks of sorcery. Have you any pains, Penelope? Have you had headaches or vomiting, or anguish in your belly?” he asked anxiously.

“Nothing at all. I am perfectly well,” I assured him.

“Then she will be sure you are no human girl and she will make other plans for your destruction. You must be on your guard. But there is great news. Do you know what is happening to-day?”

I shook my head and looked round vaguely trying to remember why I was there.

“The Queen of Scots is coming to Wingfield Manor to-day; we are going to see her arrive, for although her removal has been kept secret, the Galway harpist brought the news from Sheffield. She will ride with her retinue, the ladies who attend her, and her servants. We shall see her ride through the gateway. Will you come with me?”

“Oh yes! Thank you, Francis! The Queen of Scotland to come riding along our lanes!”

Then it wasn't true, that strange foreboding. I wanted to run indoors and tell them all. I sprang to my feet, and Francis arose too, and picked up his hat. There was a click of the wicket-gate and Tabitha came down the path bearing a large, lidded basket, similar to the one I had been using.

“There you are, Penelope Taberner! And we all in a ferment, with friends of Master Anthony's a-coming, and the Queen of Scots moving to Wingfield, and many a person walking the roads who may call and eat with us. Gather sweet bay and rosemary for the guests' chambers, to strew the floors, and feverfew for the grooms, for the stench of their feet in hot weather is more nor I can abide. Then cover the floors evenly.”

She then turned to Francis, who had picked up the basket. “You are wanted, Master Francis. Master Anthony is ready, all decked in his white satin, and he wants a word with you. Ah, there is such a to-do, and here you be, as if nothing was.”

She flounced away and then turned back. “And get some cresses from the brook and watermint for sallets, Penelope, and look sharp.”

“Be ready soon, Penelope. Have a morsel of food and change to the riding dress of my sister Alice,” Francis said, and he ran, whistling, down the garden path.

I gathered branches of rosemary and stripped the leaves from the boughs of bay. Then I found the cresses and mints growing in the shallow pool of the brook's edge, and returned through the garden for a purpose of my own. I found Old Adam Dedick working near and I talked to him about the flowers that bloomed in the square box-edged borders, and as he talked I helped myself to my favourites.

“Mistress Babington likes a-plenty of flowers,” said Adam, “and so does Mistress Foljambe. Here's a bed of sops-in-wine I've raised myself from cuttings from the Duke's place, and here's heart's-ease, although the young mistress calls'em by a newfanciful name. ‘Pauncies', she says, just like that, ‘Pauncies.' I likesheart's-ease bettermeself, it's more comfortable.”

“I call them pansies,” I interrupted, and he gave me a contemptuous glance. “Pansies! Pipkins!” he said scornfully. “Here's Holy-hocks, and these is pinks, but what I likes is Sweet Williams and Sweet Johns and Sweet Nancies, those three, nice homely names. I shall name my grand-babbies after 'em when they're born.”

I gathered a good-sized bunch, but Adam shook his head at me when he saw it.

“Mistress Babington don't like the blossoms picked by nubbody but herself. Nay wench, you shouldna do that! You can pick the wild 'uns, the foxgloves and poppies, but you mun leave these alone!”

“Dame Cicely would let me pick them,” I protested.

“Dame Cicely isn't mistress here,” replied Adam, stoutly, “although she rules the roost in the house. She would rather have the yarbs from the yarbgarden, same as you've got in thy basket. You'd best be off, and don't be so meddlesome picking and poking. Get you gone to Dame Cicely, for I hear her calling you.”

I hid my bouquet of carnations, lilies, and damask roses under the hedge, and went indoors to my aunt. The kitchen was a turmoil of cooking and preparation, and Margery took my herbs and ran off to strew the chambers for me, for I was late.

Francis came impatiently to ask me why I was not ready. I must change my dress and ride with him to see the queen's passage. Mistress Babington would not go, it made her heart ache to think of the tragic queen so near. The country was so fair, life might be very beautiful, but underneath were cruelties, she said. She herself wished that Her Grace had remained at Sheffield, for Wingfield was too near Thackers. She would stay at home and prepare the rooms for Anthony's guests, and make her simples and ointments which would be needed for the coming winter. Wild days and much illness had been prophesied, and she must prepare, for the people turned to her in their distress.

I dressed in the little panelled room with the bare floor, next to Mistress Foljambe's painted chamber, and I hid my frock in the folds of the bed lest any one should find it and take it away, for I felt I could not return without it. Down in the courtyard was a clatter of horses slipping on the stones, and the cries of a farrier who fastened a loose shoe. Anthony, in his beautiful white satin doublet trimmed with gold, rode off with a groom. As the squire of the estate next to Wingfield he must be there to welcome the queen when she rode up with Sir Ralph Sadleir. The earl, his guardian, had stayed at Sheffield, thankful to be rid of his important capricious captive, and Sir Ralph took his place.

It was the second time I had worn the green riding-habit, and I dressed myself with pride, glancing out of the window to see Master Anthony's tossing feather as he rode down the lane. Francis was waiting with his bay horse and the little mare he had lent me, but first I ran to the hedge, stumbling over my skirts in my haste. I came back with the bunch of flowers.

“They are for Queen Mary of Scotland,” said I, and Francis was glad I had thought of it, although he doubted the wisdom of the gift.

“They will be examined by Sir Ralph, lest you have hidden a letter inside,” he warned me.

Arabella came galloping on her brown mare from Bramble Hall to join us, and rode with us, for she had no escort. She seemed quieter, more friendly, but I caught a sidelong glance at me, cruel and swift, and then she turned her head with a queer smile.

We clattered down the valley and joined a bevy of villagers on foot going to see the queen. The news had leaked out, and allwere hot-foot to see the royal captive. But some stayed at home, women sat at their doors in the sunlight with their spinning-wheels. What was a queen to them? They had their work to do. Children ran playing leap-frog, and marbles almost under the horses' hooves as we rode by. The little girls curtsied, but the boys stood bold with legs apart, or they mounted their wooden hobby-horses, and pranced along the grassy ways, imitating Francis, doffing their hats, so that he frowned at them and then began to laugh and throw them coins.

At the door of the inn, under a hanging bush, was a wooden bench where old men sat drinking their barley ale. They touched their hats and Francis stopped to pass the time of day with them. I saw some young men playing skittles with wooden ninepins down an alley, and Francis watched them, careless of the time, till Arabella angrily reminded him where we were going.

“I play with those fellows each week,” he turned to me. “We have our score marked up on yonder sycamore, and I wanted to see how the game ran. Sometimes we play against other villages, but we always win, for we have a champion among us, Peter Dobbin, the smith. He can throw the ball at the kails and knock down every one, never missing.”

“Surely you can leave your childish games now,” scolded Arabella, but he only smiled lazily at her.

We rode up the long, winding lane and over the crest by the headland, where a stack of wood lay ready for firing, tree trunks piled in a mass against the pale sky.

“It's to send a warning of danger if a foreign foe should invade us. There are wood-stacks on every peak of this country, and all the way through the length and breadth of England,” Francis said, pointing with his whip. “Wouldn't it be glorious to see them all alight?”

“That would be war,” I said doubtfully. “Who would invade England, Francis?”

“Nobody would dare,” cried the boy proudly. “But the Spaniards would like to try. We've pulled their tail too often. Anthony doesn't hate them, and there I disagree with him.”