Harvest A Novel (10 page)

Master Kent’s home has no such finery and so no need of any mastiffs, or even any spaniels. If there is any luxury or opulence, it has been well concealed, or it has been untended. The manor was busier and more cared for when Lucy Kent was alive. Its rooms were used and always sweet with juniper smoke or strews of lavender. Some of our wives attended her each day, to help her dress and keep it clean and be her kitchen maids. But with her passing, her widower has preferred to simplify his life. The ancient gallery has been closed
until this afternoon, as have all the sleeping rooms upstairs. Their fine wood paneling has begun to fade and scab for want of polishing. Mr. Quill is quartered comfortably enough, downstairs, in what was, in the elder Edmund Jordan’s day, the steward’s room and where more lately Lucy Kent would sit and close the day with her needle; and Master Kent makes do in the parlor, his retreat, with its open fire. He has a wainscot bed, set against the wall but uncurtained and without evidence of any flock or linen. He sleeps on a mattress stuffed with chaff like everybody else and his summer coverlets are hap-harlots, the coarsest cloth. He has a coffer full of documents and manuscripts, an oaken trestle table where he sits to eat alone and rest his candle, a high-backed settle to protect him from the draughts and two reminders of his wife: her smallest loom, her hairbrush. He has more space, more possibilities, than us, but who can say he has more comfort? I would not swap accommodations with him, to tell the truth. Nor would I want to swap my life with his. Not now.

It is the first time for many years—since I had quarters in the attic and in the turret room, in fact—that I’ve had reason to pause and study the grander, second story of the house. I have forgotten how melancholy these great rooms can be, especially when there are no dogs or children to misuse them. I am almost blinded by the dark as I draw close to the quartet of voices. It is still a bright afternoon outside. I have had to squint for much of the day. But even when my eyes grow used to it, the manor’s lack of light is burdensome. The building is too old for the great wide-latticed windows and oriels of newer dwellings. It does not have a square of window glass but only recessed openings and loopholes. What light it has is blanketed by the red-black canopy of beeches planted closely to the house, as was the custom, to protect against lightning strikes. But at least the darkness affords me some disguise. I am able to ascend the stairs, skirting round what few narrow shafts of light there are, until I reach the
landing at the upper gallery and what remains of the master’s better furniture and brass-braced storage chests. And I can stay in shadow behind the curtain at the door to watch and hear the conversations at the far end of the room.

Only Master Jordan is standing. He is a tall, big-boned, round-shouldered man, dressed in a long doublet so hard-quilted that it stiffens him. He swings a casting bottle of rosewater in his hand, protection I suppose against the stench of this untended gallery. The once white-tempered mortar on the upper walls has dappled. The room is damp and smells of hair and moldy laths. The other three are sitting neatly on a bench like courtiers, hands on knees, their heads lifted, listening. Edmund Jordan says, “Of course, that’s natural for you, I see,” to some remark that Mr. Quill has made. It is clear he considers the Chart-Maker a fool, a grinning and beribboned fool, with barley straw still in his beard. Even the word “natural” is delivered with a sting. It is as if he’s labeled Mr. Quill the Village Natural—the local idiot who might be less annoying if he could stop airing his own opinions and only listen.

I am not a local idiot. I listen for a good part of the afternoon.

6

SLEEP TONIGHT IN WIDOW GOSSE’S BED
. Once in a while of late I creep up like a midnight cat to brush my face against her door and call her name through the ajar as quietly as I can, so as not to be heard by anyone. Excepting her. Sometimes I’m not even heard by her and, in the silence of her no reply, there is a chance for me to come back to my senses and creep away again, unsatisfied and angry with myself. At other times—though less commonly, because her cottage sits back from the lane and so is less overheard and, thereby, better suited than mine to, well, our cries—she turns up at my door on a similar errand. I am touched and reassured by that. It is a sign that we are equal parties in our sin. This is not a case of fox and hare. Her pretense, her subterfuge, to use a stylish word I’ve heard this afternoon, is that she’s come to borrow a length of candle or a little grease, but I’m not sure if she intends to make a pun.

Once or twice, I have affected not to hear her tapping on the door or, indeed, not to be in my bed at all, but on a nighttime mission somewhere else. Down at Turd and Turf, quite possibly, and achieving a release of quite a different kind. At such moments I am reluctant
to call out “Kitty, Kitty, come inside,” because this is the bed where Cecily, my little thrush of a wife, has slept with me. The marriage bed. Though I’m not fool enough to think she’s still watching over me, there’s no denying that a woman leaves her mark, especially a woman who has shared your life for over eleven years and one for whom your feelings are not merely physical. Indeed, sometimes when I am in a melancholy mood, deep in the trenches of the night, perhaps, I slide my hand across the rough mattressing and find comfort in the hollows where my Cecily has slept (and died), where her shoulders and her hips have left their body ghosts.

My feelings for the widow Gosse are only physical, I have to say. I’m not even sure if she and I are friends. I think we hold each other in a low contempt. She finds me inexplicable—my self-absorption, my neglect of the small garden at the cottage back, my great abundance of uncommon words—and counts me as a town owl that’s all hoot and no talons. She blames me for my cautiousness. I’ve been too schooled, she says dismissively. I find her limited and, except in matters of the field, dull-witted. But in bed when we are making love she’s certainly no fool. Unlike my Cecily she has a lusty appetite. At night, her hand with her fingers spreading downward is always on my abdomen, rather than lying more tenderly across my chest, as was my wife’s. She has been a startling discovery. Possibly it is the intensity of our coupling that causes me so much shame to be her bedtime partner. We are, I think, like beasts, no better than a pair of forest beasts, unable to resist the physical and barbarous. It is not that she is beautiful or ever was. She must be very nearly fifty years of age. And since her husband died she has not taken much care of herself. Her clothes would benefit from mending—and from scrubbing, possibly. She has the usual warts and lumps of living hard and long. Her hair has grayed, despite the local patch of asphodels which other women use to keep their tresses stubbornly blond. And it’s difficult to tell, even when she’s
naked at my side, if Kitty Gosse is fat or thin. She’s narrow-faced and narrow-hipped but large and softly comfortable about her waist and stomach. She calls it widow’s spread and is not the least concerned—the opposite—when, lying on her back with me on top, her creamy stomach sways and frowns like a shaken posset.

But then I have to ask myself, What does the widow see in me? As I imagine it, I am still a scrawny fellow, thin-armed and pale but with a bouncy head of hair, unfashionably brown for hereabouts. I’m handsome even, I would say. Indeed, I have been told that I look pleasing, especially in a hat or cap. Certainly, that is how I last appeared in a looking glass. But I have not had ready access to a looking glass for some years now. Once in a while, when Mistress Kent was still alive and I had reason to be in the manor house alone, I risked the two steps to her dressing room and stood in front of her tall glass to take stock of myself. I stared upon the one face in the village that I seldom saw but was available to everybody else. Her mirror darkened me and frayed my edges where the reflecting magic crystals in the glass had made a dry black mold, a kind of glittered lichen which seemed determined to encroach the clarity. But still, the body there was mine. I raised my hand and so did it. It replied to every smile. And when on more than one occasion I reached across to Mistress Kent’s day couch, where she threw her clothes, lifted free one of her heavy, decorated gowns and—wondering, just wondering; doing nothing worse than wondering—held it up against myself, that ashened, haunted woman in the looking glass was no one else but me.

For a year at least I have not even glimpsed my face. The duckweed in the ponds will not allow me to. The manor house has shuttered windows and no glass. The silver spoon the master gave us on our wedding day is tarnished and no longer repays any light. The worked copper on the brewing kettle picks up my shadow when I
go close to it but the reflection is so tooled and beaten that my face is too pockmarked to be recognizable. In fact, I cannot think there is a looking glass in the parish, though no doubt there are some wives who have a secret sliver with which to horrify themselves and which they wisely do not seek to share. No, as far as I’m aware, our nearest likeness is two days’ distant. The master, as is the husband’s custom hereabouts among the gentlemen, sharded his wife’s long looking glass and buried the pieces with her, for fear of being haunted by her trace. So, unlike the town from where I came, where everyone who stepped out in the street would first have turned themselves this way and that in front of mirrors and could not have stepped twenty paces more before reflecting on themselves in window glass, we in this village walk around in blinded ignorance. We close an eye and see no more than a side of the nose, or possibly some facial hair, the outer regions of a beard. We know our hands and knees but not our eyes and teeth. So truly I can only guess what widow Gosse can see in me. And I suppose it is the same for her. Perhaps, without a husband to be her informant, she doesn’t even know how lined she is. That is the state of widowhood. We’ve no idea; we must hope for the best.

When I first started calling at her cottage, Kitty Gosse and I would hardly look each other in the eye. I was thinking of my Cecily—though Cecily was never this unbridled in my arms—and she, I must suppose, imagined herself unwidowed and back beneath the gouty, puffing Fowler Gosse, who died it’s said between these very legs. Hugged to death, with hair in his teeth, some wag has claimed. But over time I’ve ventured to study every part of her and have found great pleasure in her enthusiastic limbs. Tonight, though, I leave neither of us satisfied. I am too anxious and too hurried. My purpose in coming here, in tapping on her cottage door, is not so much to spend myself in her and have her disburse herself with me, so that we
might deserve a full night’s sleep in company, but more to make myself forget or at least to banish from my mind for tonight the prospects I have overheard in Master Kent’s dark gallery.

I cannot say that Master Jordan has proved himself—not yet—to be a rough or thoughtless man, though he shows a stony disregard for proper burial. He is efficient, that is all. And unceremonial. He talks good sense, though sometimes sense is colder than an icicle. And sharper too. He listened patiently while Master Kent recounted the history of the newcomers: the doves, the fires, the bows, the pillory. And his replies displayed the mildest exasperation: “It is my judgment, cousin Charles, that you make problems for yourself by being kind.” The two men in the pillory had only got their just deserts, in his view. If one had died, that was still within the bounds of what the law allows. “A sturdy vagabond and fire setter” should expect to have his ears cut off and then be hoisted to the gibbet. That was not unusual. The younger man? Well, he should still serve out his week-long sentence: “What is the case for being lenient? He has given community offense and so should suffer justice in the full gaze of the community. Besides, cousin, you say he has already threatened you and holds you guilty of his kinsman’s death. Would you have him walking free, in such a vengeful frame of mind? No, we will take him with us, far from harm, when we depart. We’ll lash him to the saddle of a horse and set him free only when it is safe. Perhaps, we will equip him with a limp, as a reminder to be good, and wise. No doubt the woman you describe, the sister or the daughter or the wife, whoever she might be … well, no doubt she will follow her one surviving man away from here. In the meantime, let her be, let her peck about the forest like a goose. Do not concern yourself with her. A woman cannot do you any harm.”

What of the corpse? Again, Master Jordan could not see that this issue was problematic in the least. He snapped his fingers in dismissal.
If Master Kent himself was too squeamish in such matters, he’d have his sidemen dispose of the corpse in the same place that any animal carcasses were abandoned. “He has not earned a place on hallowed ground, I think. So let the pigs complete what they’ve begun.” He clapped his hands. “You see, you see?” he asked, as delighted with himself as any boy. “Nothing is as complicated as you fear. Now, gentlemen …” His voice was lowered at this point. He did not want to waste more time on such frivolities. There were graver, grander things to talk about.