Eppie (10 page)

‘I’m beginning to think you know as much about woodland life
as I do.’ He sighed sadly. ‘Well, I’d better go home.’

‘What about your den?’

‘I forgot. Quick, see if you can find the way in.’ 

Clumps of fern grew in rotting parts of the bark. Eppie
wrenched them aside. ‘There’s no way in.’

‘Try there.’

‘A hole!’

‘Squeeze in.’

‘By, it’s dark n’ spooky.’

‘Feel for a rooty sort of branch that sticks out.’

‘Got it!’

‘It goes up inside the tree. There are handholds. I’ll come
behind, should you fall. Ouch! Watch where you’re putting your feet; you’ve just
crushed my fingers.’ 

‘Sorry!’

She scrambled onto the flattened area within the tree. ‘It’s
like Wakelin’s loft. It’s even got his tiny window.’ She peered through the
opening where a branch had been hacked centuries ago. In the distance the river
pounded.

 Fetching down a tin, he passed her a biscuit. ‘I keep a good
supply of victuals for when I come here, wishing to be alone. Make yourself
comfortable, my lady.’

She sank onto a heap of green velvet cushions. ‘Does anyone
else know about your lair?’

‘When Talia was alive, she and I sometimes sneaked off here
when we knew father would not catch us. Thurstan played here when he was a boy.
He and his mother came to live with us after the death of Uncle Charles. My
father encouraged Uncle Charles to invest in a shipping company owned by a man
called Jared Grimley. The company traded in diamonds, lapis lazuli and other
precious stones. Jared was married to Augusta, Lady Bulwar’s only daughter. After
pirates attacked the ship, murdering all aboard, including Jared and Augusta,
the company collapsed. Uncle Charles went bankrupt and committed suicide.

 ‘I think father feels guilty about the death of my uncle so
he goes overboard to please Thurstan. I’m pretty sure that Thurstan hates
father, though it doesn’t stop him bothering him when he wants something.
Father bought him Bullet, a thoroughbred black stallion. He even gave him the
money to buy The Rogues’ Inn in Litcombe.’

‘Wakelin says Thurstan is horrid to him.’ 

‘Prince Ferdinand once became stuck on a branch. He’d gouged
his paw. I climbed out of this window to rescue him. Thurstan must’ve trailed
me into the woods. He was in one of his vile moods. He shouted that he’d soon
have my cat down, and hurled a stone. It must’ve hit me because the next thing
I knew it was nightfall and I found myself sprawled over the branch like a
tiger in the jungle.’

‘Why hadn’t anyone come to look for you?’

‘Thurstan had lied to my parents, telling them I was sick in
my room and didn’t want to be disturbed. My clothes were damp from the drizzle.
I couldn’t stop shaking as I climbed down. I was terrified of finding my cat dead,
like the time I found Genevieve, my sister, dead. Luckily, Prince Ferdinand had
tumbled onto a vixen’s bed of dry bracken. I had often seen your grandfather
tend sick sheep, and he had once cared for Prince Ferdinand as a kitten, after
father had tried to drown him. So I took my cat to him. He made him better. Ever
since that time I have been afraid to climb trees.’ 

Eppie tried to cheer him. ‘If you like I’ve got some
blackberries in my basket.’

‘I’ll fetch them.’ He was glad of something to do to
distract him from his unhappy thoughts.

She was unscrewing the ivory mounts of the boxwood flute
when he crawled back up. ‘I’d love to play the flute.’

 ‘I like to play the flute because it makes it seem as
though I live in Talia’s world, a magical place where only agreeable things
happen to me.’ He reddened, self-conscious that his words might seem whimsical,
suggestive that he lived purely in the realms of fantasy. ‘I could teach you to
play the flute, if you like.’ 

‘No!’

‘Why not?’

‘My pa’s a weaver.’

‘Why should that be an impediment?’

‘I’m too small.’

‘I began when I was little.’           

She smiled brightly. ‘Well, all right, if you’re sure. Who teaches
you the flute?’

‘Mrs Hester Grimley. Occasionally, mother and I visit her
and her husband in Malstowe. They live in an odd house. It is built on a
bridge.’

‘I thought your mam was stuck in bed.’

‘Agnes, my former nursemaid, is mother’s sick-aid. She helps
push mother about in a wheeled chair.’

Eppie wafted midges. ‘A fly’s landed on my blackberry.’

‘Higher up there’s a bat roost. The bats eat thousands of
flying insects. Last spring, there were four wren eggs in a nest outside this
branch-window. The fledglings were brave, swooping off for the first time. One
became so tame that it would perch on my hand when I whistled to him.’ He took
a blackberry and stared blankly at it in his palm. ‘When Thurstan returned from
Oxford he whistled my tune and the wren flew to him. All the way back to the stockyard
I shouted at him to let it go. He chopped its head off with a cleaver.’

‘Why would he do such a nasty thing to a sweet little cutty?’

‘The wren is the king of the birds. It is sacred and may
only be killed on Saint Stephen’s Day. Through the act of butchering it, Thurstan
became the lord of the year, prevailing over all men. It gave him an excuse to
be as callous as he liked towards others.’

‘Is that why you was crying? Had your cousin been bullying
ya?’

‘You must think me feeble-minded to allow myself to become
so distraught.’

‘Not a bit.’

‘Mother says Thurstan is mean to me because he’s jealous of
me. This morning I took a basting from father after he checked my arithmetic
answers and found they were wrong. When I returned to my chamber I looked at my
work and realised that my original work had been torn out. On a fresh sheet
Thurstan had written the answers incorrectly. He had even made blots with his
quill like I do.’

‘You ought to tell your pa.’    

‘He would say I was making it up to be horrid to Thurstan. He
knows that I do not like him.’

‘It must be awful being schooled.’

‘Not everything’s bad. Doctor Burndread is a natural
philosopher. I like him teaching me about the ways of animals.’ 

Deep in the woodland a man yelled, ‘Gabriel, where are you?’

‘Thurstan!’ Gabriel was horrified to think how late he must
be for his studies.

Pelting off, the children soon reached Shivering Falls. A
gang of men and boys hung around the plunge pool, circles of water springing from
their onslaught of stones. They wore striped blue and yellow jackets, waistcoats
and caps. Most were barefoot, trousers rolled over their knees. Some knelt beside
the pool, ducking their heads.

Aiming to get a closer look, the children dived for cover
behind a willow. Her hand resting upon Gabriel’s elbow, Eppie peered, cautiously.
Sunlight gleamed on metal around the men’s ankles. ‘Shackles! It’s the prisoners!’

Clutching a musket, the guard stood upon the boulder where
Gabriel had played the flute.

A stocky, bald prisoner, a scar down his cheek, glared at
the guard. ‘Go on, Boyle, it’s sweltering. I could do with a dip.’

The guard was a tall, stooping man, with a gaunt, ascetic
face. ‘What do you take me for, Jag? A dullin? You’d run the moment I took your
shackles off. Not that you’d get far with that limp.’

‘Mam told me to keep away from them.’

‘Let’s run through the woodland. We’ll come out near your
cottage.’

They were creeping away when a dog raced up.  

‘It’s Twiss!  Pa must’ve sent him to fetch me.  He’s going
right up to them!’ 

Twiss rolled onto his back at the feet of a freckle-faced
boy.

Jaggery approached the dog. ‘Poor ol’ dog, yer brain must be
jellied-meat in this heat. Tell ya what’ll cool ya!’ A muscular man, he easily
scooped Twiss off his paws, and hurled him.

The dog hit the water with a tremendous splash. Frantically,
he paddled back to land.

Spray flew over the amused prisoners as he shook himself.

Picking up a familiar scent, the dog padded towards Eppie. Before
he had got far, Jaggery grabbed him, ‘Like this, don’t ya, ya miserable doggy.’
Twiss wriggled and whined, trying to shake the man off, to no avail. 

Once more, churning waters boiled over Twiss’s body.

Afraid to go forward, to where the prisoners stood laughing
at him, he attempted to clamber up the steep side of the pool. The rocks were slippery,
his plight hopeless.

Eppie was desperate. ‘I must help him!’ 

Tiring fast, Twiss slid back, his head submerging time and
again.

Gabriel stared into her stricken face.  ‘The guard will do
something.’  

‘He ain’t!’  She shook off his hand and dashed forward.

‘Eppie, come back, it’s dangerous!’

At the moment she ran, a slim, brown-haired man, who had sat
alone, clambered along the rocks to where the dog floundered.

Jaggery laughed loud and ugly. ‘That’s right, Scattergood,
heave him out so I can give him another dip in this midge-infested puddle.’

Skidding to a stop before Jaggery, Eppie stamped her foot. ‘Oy,
just you stop it!  Twiss is my brother’s dog.’

Jaggery was startled by Eppie’s sudden appearance. ‘What’ve
we got here, a wood goblin?’

Sam Scattergood set Twiss onto his paws, and the dog shook
himself. ‘Do as the girl says, Jag.’

Jaggery was not one to willingly take orders. Twiss
whimpered as he grabbed him by the scruff again.  

‘Come on, Jag, the dog’s had enough,’ Boyle said.

‘Has he? Then what about the girl?’

Before she knew what was happening, Eppie felt herself whisked
into the air. Pressed against the prisoner’s chest she tasted his sour sweat.

Sam made to wrest her away from the hateful man. Twiss
bounded about, afraid to attack.

Gabriel picked up courage and ran forward. Joining in the
fray, he kicked Jaggery’s shins. ‘Let her go you, you pit-bull terrier!’   

Jaggery grabbed Gabriel by the back of his lace collar. ‘I’ll
drown the both of ya.’

Robert du Quesne crashed through the woodland on Ranger, his
grey stallion. ‘Unhand my boy!’ 

Jaggery took one startled look at this awesome man, his
self-important, domineering presence, and released his grasp.

Huddled around, the prisoners stared nervously at the butt
of a pocket pistol projecting from du Quesne’s silver embroidered waistcoat.

‘Where have you been, boy?’ du Quesne demanded. ‘I do not
pay Absolom Burndread to sit twiddling his fingers. After your lessons you can
expect a severe beating from me.’

Thurstan galloped up on his black horse. Checking that his
uncle was not looking, he took his foot from a stirrup and, as his cousin
trudged by, dealt him a kick on the shoulder.

Wincing in pain, Gabriel stole a glance back at Eppie.

She knew by his slight nod that, no matter what, they would
soon be together again. 

Prisoners toiled before The Fat Duck,
sheathing the lane with graded stones. 

Eppie dropped a twig into the river. She was tired of the
hammering and splintering of stones, the clank of spades and crash of buckets
hurled into carts. ‘Mister Jonas told pa that he didn’t like Mister Lord making
the guards and prisoners keep their covered wagons in the field behind the inn.
They make a racket and pinch logs from his barns to make fires.’ A horse
cantered towards the packhorse bridge. ‘Uh oh, Mister Lord’s a-coming!’

Martha averted her eyes as du Quesne rode loftily towards
them.

Eppie was bolder and curtseyed. ‘Tis a mighty fine morning, sir.’
She watched him pass by without uttering a word of reply. ‘Why don’t his
lordship ever bid us a good day?’

‘He reckons he’s too grand for
the likes of us.’ 

Later that morning, having fetched chairs from the parlour,
Eppie settled at the streamside to practise carding, ready for Martha to spin
the fibres into yarn. It was difficult balancing the boards of short metal
teeth in her small hands. 

‘Deary me, that’s getting twisted,’ Betsy said. She brushed
the fibres in the same direction in a continuous skein. ‘What ya need’s a bit
o’ elbow grease.’

‘I’m tired of it, anyhow.’

Martha scrubbed Eppie’s pinafore and dunked it beneath the bubbling
waters. ‘Judging from these stains, you must spend half your life climbing trees.’

When Eppie had told Martha and Gillow about her visits to
the Crusader Oak, they were pleased for Gabriel’s sake. ‘He seems such a lonely
boy,’ Martha had said, ‘though there’d be trouble if Wakelin finds out you are
friends with Thurstan’s cousin. And Lord du Quesne certainly ought not to learn
about your meetings.’ 

Already Gabriel had taught Eppie to recognise simple words
and write her name on a slate. 

‘O’t else needs doing, Mam?’

‘There’s Gillow’s Sunday shirt.’

Returning, she found Eppie had placed her chair in the
middle of the stream. Wading in, she handed her the horn-button. ‘Remember, the
needle goes up and down in the holes, not over the edges.’

Betsy lay her carding on her lap. ‘I think I’ll join you,
Eppie, m’dear. Martha, stick my chair in that shallow spot. Make sure it’s steady,
I don’t fancy a tip in.’

Kicking her feet in the water, Betsy tugged her mobcap low
over her wrinkled forehead. ‘This is doing my ankle a treat. Look at you, Eppie
- you’re as brown as your mam’s gravy.’ 

Riding across Miller’s Bridge, du Quesne scowled at them.

Betsy tittered. ‘His lordship thinks us most unladylike,
sitting here with our skirts rolled over our knees.’ 

For the fourth time, Eppie attempted to thread the needle. 

Claire leant over the bridge. ‘You two look like decoy
ducks. Mind that prison guard doesn’t fetch a shot at you.’ 

In the lane, the pack draper rang his bell, heralding his
arrival.