The Witch’s Daughter (7 page)

‘The girl was not so unwilling as you think,’ he said.

Bess swung back to face him.

‘She did not bind herself to that tree, I think.’

‘Mibben she asked me to do it.’

‘Mibben you forced her.’

‘What manner of force would that be? Did you see a single mark on her ripe young body? A single bruise or sign of brutal treatment?’

‘I know what I saw. I know what you did.’

Gideon smiled.

‘Have a care, Bess. That tongue of yours will talk you into trouble one day. Do you plan to run home and speak of what you have seen? Do you think you will be believed?’

‘I will speak for the gypsy lass if she asks me.’

‘Ah, then the matter is closed. For she will remember nothing of her … experience. I have seen to that.’

He placed his finger beneath Bess’s chin just as he had done to the girl. Bess wanted to look away but found her gaze locked to his. She set her jaw, resisting the curious swirling that had begun to stir her thoughts. Gideon’s voice reached her as if through a November fog.

‘Most yield without a struggle. Some minds are easily influenced, easily bent to a stronger will. Others, like your own, not so.’ He dropped his hand.

Bess pushed past him, head down.

‘Oh, Bess,’ he called after her softly, ‘do not leave without what is yours.’

Despite herself, she turned, then started. Gideon held out her basket, filled to overflowing with the greenest of mosses and the most delicate of lichens.

‘My basket! But how…?’ She could not bring herself to form the question, for she knew that there was no sensible answer. Instead, she snatched the wicker handle and strode for home, fleeing Gideon’s gentle singing of “Greensleeves,” the melody too lovely to bear from such a dark and disturbing soul.

*   *   *

The village of Batchcombe was, in truth, sufficiently large to be called a town, but the memories of the families who inhabited the place were long and slow to change, and so it was still referred to as the village. As such, it was well supplied with stores and facilities. There were more than enough ale houses to slake even a harvest thirst. There were two butchers, a well-patronized baker, a blacksmith’s forge, and a tailor’s shop. These emporia were arranged along both sides of the broad main street, which itself hosted the weekly market, where all and sundry came to sell their produce. In the center of the street stood the courthouse, an imposing stone building. The ground floor served as magistrates’ court and council meeting place, the top provided rooms for local records and government matters, and beneath the whole was a subterranean jail. The growth of Batchcombe had allowed for the inclusion of fads and fashions where buildings were concerned, so that a lack of continuity or conformity of style existed, giving a wide-ranging variety to the façades that lined the streets. There were stone cottages, some whitened, some bare brown sandstone. There were houses of warm brick, and others of timber with wattle and daub. Next to these stood a terrace constructed painfully out of flint. Thatch of straw or reeds covered some, while others sheltered from the wet winters beneath tiles of stone. Every taste had been accommodated, every innovation tried. Yet the overall impression was one of slight decay and disintegration. It was as if each building was a separate dwelling placed close to another merely by chance, rather than a matter of cohesion and community.

It was fair to say that Batchcombe stood as a portrait of the preceding century of flux. The winds of political change had buffeted it this way and that, and throughout it all, the village and its people had seen survival in acceptance and flexibility. And the monument to their malleable nature was the raw ruin of the monastery to the west of the village boundary. It was as though the centuries of existing side by side for the Church and the godly people of the area had never happened. As if they had never worked in the monastery gardens, or gained employment assisting the monks with the harvest, or apprenticed a clutch of boys every year as stone masons to work on the glorious home of God’s servants, or held out their hands for alms in times of poverty and disaster. When Henry VIII had broken from Rome, and the monasteries were sacked, Batchcombe turned its face away, and not a pitchfork was raised in protest. The monks’ place of worship and home for centuries was raped, plundered, and defiled, left a craggy heap of stone.

By contrast, the modest church at the southern end of the high street had flourished. It was simply built of stone, with most of its windows plain. Only one had the indulgence of stained glass, depicting Christ’s raising of Lazarus from his tomb. The church had become the focal point for most social gatherings and, of course, worship in the area. A succession of canny church wardens had spirited away any signs of popery or undisguised wealth, leaving a spare, understated interior, in keeping with the wishes of first one monarch, then the next, and portentously interpreting the spartan tastes of the years that were to come. The parishioners had slipped quietly into the cushionless pews and counted themselves lucky not to have been delivered into the dubious care of one of the more radical itinerant preachers who roamed Wessex in search of receptive ears for their puritanical beliefs. The parson, who had by this time established himself firmly at the heart of matters both religious and secular in Batchcombe, was the Reverend Edmund Burdock, a thin strip of a man whose flimsy frame and soft voice belied a steely will.

Bess enjoyed attending the Sunday service at the church. After tending the livestock and finishing their household chores, the Hawksmith women, in keeping with all other women in the area, put on their least-worn gown if they had one, or fresh collars, cuffs, and apron if they did not, fastened their bonnets, and set out for the church. If the weather was kind, they would walk; otherwise, John would persuade the mare between the shafts of the wagon and they would ride to the village.

On this occasion, the sun was arcing upward into a cloudless sky and the happy group trod the dry path to Batchcombe, enjoying the prospect of a little socializing. For Bess, this was the one opportunity the week afforded to watch the people of the village and to listen to their gossip. Her mother had spoken to her about the perils of eavesdropping, but there was something irresistible in those snatches of conversation, those glimpses into lives other than her own. Lives that seemed to offer so much more variety and excitement. Even loving her family as she did, Bess harbored a secret yearning for something more. Quite what that might be, she had no idea, but she was certain it was out there, if only she knew how to set about finding it. In the meantime she made do with learning what she could of her mother’s skills and nourished her desire for adventure with tidbits of other people’s lives. The act of worship itself did not interest her. She had a distant memory of a time when musicians had accompanied the hymns and dazzling hangings and tapestries had glowed from the walls of the church. Now, however, the whole event was a somber affair. The interior was unadorned, except for the color added by the congregation—though even the dresses of the women had subtly altered to keep in step with the trend for modesty and simplicity. Disappointingly so, to Bess’s mind. From the pulpit, the parson, the very embodiment of restraint and humility, called on his flock to live godly lives in an ungodly world. Bess was willing to accept God’s presence in her life and did her best to behave in a way she had been taught to understand would please Him. She envied those with a true faith. She saw their radiant faces when they prayed or sang in the pews. She watched them nod and smile as the preacher reminded them of God’s benevolence and His love. Although she would not dare voice such thoughts to a living soul, Bess herself could not see evidence of all this love. Where was it to be found? Not in the poverty and hunger that afflicted everyone if the crops failed and the harvest was bad. Not in the cruel stamp of disease as it strode through families, crushing the weak and the old beneath its feet. Not in the agonies suffered in childbirth nor the grief of losing children.

As she joined in with the closing hymn, Bess felt Margaret nudge her. She looked down to see her sister grinning and inclining her head toward the end of the pew opposite. Glancing up, Bess’s eyes met the pale gray gaze of William Gould. She saw him blush almost as deeply as she herself did in that moment. She cast her eyes down, then slowly looked up again. He was smiling at her now, all pretense at singing abandoned. Bess pointedly put her nose in the air and sang with much more conviction than she felt. She was aware that he continued to watch her, which was no less than she expected.

With the service over, the godly began to file out slowly. Margaret could not contain herself.

‘Mam, did you see? William is here. He must have come just to see our Bess.’

‘Hush, Margaret!’ Her mother took her hand.

‘Surely he has,’ the child persisted. ‘Why else would he choose our plain little church over his own pretty chapel?’

Bess caught her mother’s stern glance, but they both knew there was truth in what Margaret said. The Goulds had worshipped at the chapel at Batchcombe Hall for as long as the great house had stood.

Anne sought another explanation.

‘The Reverend Burdock is known for his fine sermons,’ she said. ‘It may be, as a young man of learning, he has an interest in what the reverend might say.’ She began to pull Margaret toward the door.

Behind her, John offered Bess his arm and smiled. ‘Mibben he does,’ he said with a mischievous lifting of his eyebrows, ‘or mibben Margaret speaks the truth of it. I’ll wager there be nothing so pretty to look at in that chapel of his than what he could gaze upon from the pew ’cross the aisle from where our Bess stood.’

Bess feigned indifference, but she enjoyed the idea of William’s affection for her. What young girl would not? True, he was quiet and did not have an exciting manner or clever way about him, but he was kind and gentle. And she was not immune to the fact that he was wealthy and high-born. Too high for the likes of Bess, her mother would frequently tell her. A statement that only served to make the boy more interesting than he otherwise might have been.

Once outside, Margaret skittered about, finding other children to play with while her parents were engaged in conversation with the Prossers. Thomas was quickly bored by the business of other people and took himself off to lean against a shady yew. Bess noticed Sarah showing off her new baby, now nearly one month old, and felt a wave of pride. She still marveled at what she had managed to do that night. It was good to see mother and child happy and well and know that she had played a part in their well-being. Bess wandered about the churchyard, ears pricked. The tail end of summer still held some heat and cheerful light, so that the scene was one of brightness and color, a pleasant contrast to the interior of the poor church. At the western boundary, a late-flowering honeysuckle trailed over the wall of the churchyard, its buttery blooms resting against the glossy leaves of the ivy beneath it. Out here, even the restrained fabrics of the women’s dresses were charming and colorful. A little girl hurried by in periwinkle blue, chased by a boy in doublet the color of crushed cherries. Bess passed Widow Digby and Widow Smith, both reliable mouthpieces for village gossip.

‘By all accounts, they found him running down the high street wearing nought but his hat and his silver-buckled shoes!’ declared Widow Smith in a stage whisper.

‘For shame! His poor wife, that she should endure such behavior. And him a vicar’s son.’

‘’Tis no more than is to be expected. There have been complaints aplenty to the magistrate over the strength of the ale at the Fiddler’s Rest, but nothing is done, Sister, nothing is done. Oh, good morning, Bess.’ Whatever Widow Smith had been about to say further on the matter, Bess would not now hear. She silently berated herself for stepping too close before learning the identity of the poor man with the silver-buckled shoes.

‘Good morning, Widow Smith, Widow Digby. What a pretty day it is, do you not agree?’

Widow Smith puffed herself up, inflating her already considerable bulk to menacing proportions.

‘Pretty? ’Tis the Sabbath, child. Have a care.’

‘Would the Lord take offense?’ Bess asked.

‘He may,’ Widow Digby warned, ‘if He believed that fair head of yours was full of nothing but frivolous thoughts.’

‘Instead of thoughts of Him, which is what thou shouldst be concerned with on this day,’ agreed Widow Smith.

‘Upon my oath, Ladies, I have only to look at such a blue as that sky be to think of our Lord,’ said Bess with a disarming smile, before turning on her heel and stepping quickly away. She walked quietly around the edge of the churchyard until she neared the lychgate. There stood the Reverend Burdock and the church warden, Amos Watts. Bess had thought to walk straight past them but paused when she discerned the subject of their conversation.

‘I will have to make a note,’ the church warden was saying. ‘I cannot refrain from doing so any longer.’

Reverend Burdock nodded sagely, ‘Of course, you must. It is incumbent upon us to be vigilant. I had hoped that after my brief conversation with him at last Tuesday’s market … but no, it seems Gideon Masters wishes to remain firmly outside of our flock. It saddens me. To see a man, a man of quiet intelligence I believe, to see him turn away from God.’

‘Gideon has always been a man apart. I’ve never known him attend a service in all the years I’ve lived in Batchcombe, which is a fair few, Reverend, as you know. Time was, a man’s conscience was his own concern.’

‘And God’s, of course.’

‘Well, now ’tis the business of government, and government says all those failing to attend church on the Sabbath must have their names noted in the church records. They will be dealt with at the quarter sessions, like it or no.’

‘You must do your work, and no person here will think badly of you for it. Be that as it may, I might yet attempt a second meeting with the reluctant Mister Masters…’

‘Bess?’ William’s voice made Bess start. She had not noticed him come to stand next to her. She frowned, annoyed that she would not now be able to follow the reverend’s conversation further.