Time's Echo (26 page)

Stronger than me. I didn’t like that. I was used to being the strong one.

‘Can you make her go away?’

‘Is that what you really want?’

I didn’t answer immediately. ‘I’m not sure,’ I admitted. ‘I’ve got this feeling that I need to know what happened to Hawise. Something must have happened,
mustn’t it? Or why would she be so determined to make me relive her life?’

Vivien nodded. ‘Yes, clearly she is not at peace.’

‘So I think I’d feel as if I were letting her down somehow, if I shut her out completely,’ I said. ‘I know it sounds stupid, but yes, it feels as if she’s part of
me, and I’d be closing off something in myself. Oh, I can’t explain what it’s like.’ I shook my head in frustration. ‘I just hate this feeling that Hawise is
controlling me.’

‘Then you must learn to control her,’ Vivien said. ‘You must find out what she needs in order to rest, but first you must be able to contain her. Can you summon her at
will?’

‘I’ve never tried.’

‘Try now. You’ll be safe if I’m here.’

I hesitated. ‘How?’

‘Close your eyes,’ said Vivien. ‘Empty your mind. I think Hawise will come.’

I felt a bit silly, but I did as she said. I tried not to think about anything, but my mind wouldn’t stay still. It bounced around between Francis and Vivien and Hap and Sybil Dent, only
to veer off inexplicably to Lucas, then Drew Dyer, and the look on Sophie’s face as she gazed up at Ash.

My eyes snapped open. ‘It’s not working.’

‘You’re trying too hard. Close your eyes again and tell me what you can hear.’

Biting my lip, I squeezed my eyes shut once more and strained to listen. ‘I can hear a flutter of wings,’ I said slowly. ‘It’s a bird, a pigeon perhaps, or a blackbird,
settling on a branch. And I can hear a bee . . . that’s odd.’ I frowned. ‘There shouldn’t be a bee around in the middle of winter.’

A tiny pause. ‘What else can you hear?’

My clogs on the cobbles. I’m trying to keep up with Ned’s easy stride. His legs are much longer than mine, and I’m puffing out breaths that hang in the cold
air.

Henry Judd’s apprentices are working late, unloading casks of wax from a cart and rolling them up planks into his workshop. I can hear the crunch of the casks as the apprentices dump them
on the gravel, the chink of the iron bands against stone when they tip them over, and then the rumble of the casks on the wooden slope.

Thomas West and his wife are arguing as usual in the chamber above their shop. You can hear their quarrel halfway down the street, but no one is taking much notice. Robert Wharfe’s dog is
barking, but no one takes much notice of that, either. The sound of barking reminds me of Hap, and my heart twists as it always does when I think of him.

There is laughter spilling out of the alehouse, the jingle of harness as a stable boy leads a horse into the courtyard of the Bull Inn, and now the Minster bell is bonging in the chill air. It
is six of the clock on a dank November evening, and the street is still full of noise.

We are on our way to my father’s house in Hungate. I am not looking forward to it. I am ashamed of myself for being ashamed of my family, but my father is raucous when he is in his cups,
and Agnes is pale and trembling, and Jennet is a terrible cook. It will not be a comfortable evening for Ned or for me.

We must go, of course. I cannot naysay my family. I have chosen my dress carefully. It has to be fine enough to do them honour, but not so fine it makes Agnes look shabby. In the end I chose a
blue damask gown with puffed sleeves and a pleated skirt. I have to hold it up to step over the gutters as I walk with Ned, who is looking not handsome, no, but steady and solid. Every now and then
I peep a glance at him under my lashes and remember the night before, when he pulled the curtains around the bed and drew me to him with a smile.

‘I have missed you, little wife,’ he said.

I laughed. ‘You were only gone half a day!’

‘Still, I missed you.’

I think of his hands, of his mouth on my skin, and I shiver with remembered pleasure. No one looking at my husband would guess the passion that burns in him when we are alone in the dark.

Ned had noticed straight away that Hap was missing. ‘He was caught under a wagon’s wheel,’ I said. I did not tell him the truth. I am not going to speak of Francis. It will not
bring Hap back and, besides, what if Francis is right? What if Ned doesn’t believe me?

For Francis is quite the gentleman now. The neighbours speak admiringly of him. Everyone has noticed how devout he is, how seriously he takes his duties as churchwarden. His house is modest
enough, as befits an unmarried man, but he is careful to be generous without being ostentatious. His clothes are good, but not so rich that he makes his fellow notaries suspicious.

Oh, yes, he is clever. He has judged the neighbourhood to a nicety. They see a young man who is sober and devout. They do not know that he has hastened his master to his death, for so I am
certain that he did. They don’t see the ugliness in his eyes, the brutal violence that simmers just below that smooth, smooth surface.

I do. Before Hap, I was afraid of Francis and what he might do to me, but now hatred has settled low and hard inside me, ready for a long ride. I am not weeping and wild-eyed. My loathing is
cold, dark, unmoving, like the Foss when it freezes. I can feel it in my gullet, in my belly.

I do not have to see him often – that is something. He is at church, always, but I keep my eyes lowered. I know he watches me, though. I can feel his gaze burning through my gown. Once I
looked up and found him staring at me with an expression that made my stomach churn. He smiled when he saw me looking, and ran his tongue around his lips in a way that made the hatred clog in my
throat, and I wrenched my eyes away before I beat at him with my fists. I haven’t made that mistake again.

Now, as we walk through the streets, I look at my husband and marvel that I could ever have thought him homely. Ned’s mouth is firm, his eyes steady, and beneath my hand his arm is very
solid.

He brings me a gift whenever he comes home. A ring, a pair of gloves, a girdle. Yesterday he brought me a book – and oh, what a book! My eyes stung with tears when I opened it very
carefully.

It is a book of travellers’ tales, and I am entranced by it. When I turn the pages and run my fingers over the pictures, I even forget my hatred of Francis Bewley. There are pictures of
the men with only one foot, of the tribe who have only one eye in the middle of their foreheads and – my favourite – the Great Khan, with his costly robes.

Strange to think that outside York’s walls, far, far away, they are living such different lives. When I read my book I wish that I could be there, to see for myself, to be away from York
and the fear that, whenever I step outside my door, Francis Bewley will be there with his red mouth and his black heart and his strange, shiny eyes. What would it be like, I wondered last night,
turning the pages of the book for the first time, to go to the Spice Islands? To be free?

And as I wondered, there was a rushing in my ears, and a feeling as if I were being sucked out of my body so that I could look at myself with another girl’s eyes. A girl for whom it was
my
life that was different. My head was bent over the book, but I could see myself, the strangeness of me.

Then the feeling was gone, and my heart jumped into my throat as I slammed back into my body. There was no one else, just me and my book.

And my husband, watching me. My good, kind husband who sees me for who I am.

‘Do you like it?’ he asked.

I shook the strange feeling aside and smiled at him. ‘It is a book of wonders,’ I said. I laid it down and got to my feet so that I could go over to him and rest my palms on his
chest. ‘Thank you, Husband,’ I said, and I stood up on tiptoe to press my mouth to his. ‘Thank you.’

I hoped my kiss would tell him everything I didn’t know how to say: that I was glad to be his wife, that it didn’t matter to me now that he is older, that I craved his touch and the
feel of his body.

That I would like him to take me up to our bed, right then.

His arms did tighten around me, his mouth opened over mine and I melted into him, but then the latch was lifting and Isobel was bringing wine into the parlour and the moment was broken.

I wish we were alone again now, instead of rapping on the door of my father’s house.

Jennet lets us in with a grunt. Everything feels mean and faintly grubby here, and I am ashamed to compare it with Ned’s house. But I fix a smile on my face when we step into the parlour.
I don’t want to hurt Agnes’s feelings.

The smile freezes on my face when I realize that there is one other guest.

It is Francis Bewley.

His lips are glistening as he licks them slowly at the sight of me.

My heart lurches sickeningly and I take an instinctive step backwards, but Ned is behind me on the threshold and urging me forward, and there is nothing for it but to go on.

Somehow I greet my father, sketch a nod in Francis’s direction and turn to my sister – my poor sister who has no defences against a man like Francis. What is my father thinking of,
inviting him here?

‘Agnes,’ I say, kissing her cheek, hoping to convey my sympathy, but her face is bright as she draws back, and she looks flushed and happy. Happier than I have ever seen her
before.

A sense of foreboding grips me around my gullet. ‘You look well,’ I say. It is true.

‘Thank you, Sister.’

My father rubs his hands together and shouts to Jennet to bring wine. ‘Come, we are to celebrate! I have good news. Your sister has found herself a husband too,’ he says, and even
though I have feared this is what he is going to say from the moment I saw Francis standing there, my heart leaps in shock.

‘No,’ I protest without thinking. ‘No, that cannot be!’

There is an appalled silence while my words ring around the room.
No, no, no
.

‘Hawise . . . ’ Ned’s voice is troubled. Too late, I look at Agnes. She stares at me as if I have struck her, and her face crumples.

‘Come, come, Daughter.’ Even my father, usually oblivious, is uncomfortable. ‘You have a fine husband. You cannot begrudge your sister one too.’

‘It’s not that,’ I say, stumbling over my words. ‘It’s just . . . ’ But what
is
it? I cannot say, without explaining what Francis did to me, to Hap,
and I have left it too late for that. I wanted to spare Ned and myself the humiliation, and instead I have left my sister exposed.

Agnes stifles a sob, and Francis puts a hand on her shoulder. His eyes meet mine, and I want to scream at the others,
Look! Look at him gloating!

‘I’m sure your sister didn’t mean to be unkind, my dear,’ he says.

‘I thought you would be
happy
for me,’ she wails.

‘I am, Agnes, I . . . ’

I feel as if I have waded into a river, the mud and water weighing down my skirts, clutching at my feet. What can I say? What can I do?

For now, there is nothing. I wish I could believe that Francis really wants Agnes, but I only have to look into his eyes to know that it is me he wants. He loves me and hates me in equal
measure. He cannot let me go, and he will do anything to be near me. I know this without being told.

My tongue feels stiff and unwieldy in my mouth. ‘I
am
happy for you, Agnes,’ I say because I cannot say anything else. ‘I’m sorry. I spoke without thinking. Of
course this is good news.’

I go over to kiss her, but she jerks her cheek away.

It is the worst meal of my life. My father drinks too much, Ned and Francis carry on the conversation, and Agnes sits and casts me wounded looks.

None of them can see Francis as I do – not even Ned. He can’t see the malice in Francis’s eyes, or hear the slyness in his voice. He doesn’t understand that every time
Francis looks at me, I feel as if I am covered in slime.

They talk as men do, about trade and taxes, about the Spanish and the Lowlanders and the keelmen who ply the river between here and Hull, as if those things matter. Surely what happens in our
houses, in our streets, matters more than that? Isn’t it more important that our families are safe, that a man like Francis cannot walk in and foul everything he touches?

This is all my fault. Francis is using Agnes, I know this. How can she possibly be happy with him? And yet, she is happy now – or she was, until I spoke without thinking. She believes that
Francis cares for her, that is clear. She won’t want to hear the truth.

I pick fretfully at my food, very aware that Agnes never takes her eyes off Francis, while Francis makes a point of watching me. His gaze rests on my mouth, on my breasts. Can’t Ned
see
what he is doing? Can’t Agnes see? I want to squirm, but won’t give Francis the satisfaction.

At last we can go.

‘You are very quiet,’ Ned says as we walk home. ‘Why aren’t you happy for your sister?’

‘I don’t trust Francis Bewley,’ I say flatly.

‘He is pleasant enough,’ says my husband, ‘and he will make your sister a good husband. She needs a home of her own.’

‘I know, it’s just . . . I’m not sure Francis is the right man for her,’ I try.

‘He is willing, and that is enough.’ Sometimes Ned surprises me with his practicality. ‘Agnes is not well favoured. She has been lucky to find a husband at all. She is not like
you,’ he adds, his voice dropping to a caress. ‘There is no warmth or sweetness to her.’

‘She is sickly.’ I make excuses for her, the way I always do. ‘It is not her fault.’

‘All the more reason not to oppose this marriage. Agnes has little enough. Do not deny her that as well.’

I sigh. He is right. ‘I will apologize to her,’ I promise. ‘I will go and see her tomorrow.’

And perhaps then, I think, I will be able to talk to her alone and make her understand what kind of man Francis is.

But Agnes doesn’t want to understand.

‘Francis explained how it would be,’ she says when I go back the next day.

‘What do you mean?’

‘We have no secrets from each other.’ There is a triumphant look in her eyes as she spreads her skirts and sits at the window. She is very pleased with herself today.