Eppie (3 page)

Cringing, he howled in alarm, the sound of his voice lost
within the raging, foaming waters funnelling around the walls.

Almost immediately the waters stilled to create a perfect
circle about him. He felt, amazingly, bone-dry, overcome by a wonderful sensation
of tranquillity. Not a sound was to be heard, not even Gabriel’s cries.

Bright rays, like the sun shining
through the rose-shaped windows in the village church, cast upon a pale, willowy
child. Spilling over her lace mantle, her waist-length flaxen locks were
tangled with white ribbons and winter’s ravaged river reeds. Daisy chains
looped around the puffed sleeves of her gown. Ruched muslin cascaded from her
wrists to the floor of the tunnel like shoals of silvery fish. The hem of her
gown was invisible, giving her the appearance of floating as she drifted
towards him, her white skirts rippling like wind blowing gently across a lake.

He knew he ought to feel
scared. Indeed, he was afraid of the strangeness of what she had become, but
not of her. Not of Talia. He loved her so dearly.

What struck him most, revelling
in her loveliness, was the heartbreak of her life. A life spent with a vile
father who had treated her with disdain simply because she had been born a
mute. He was stung by the tragedy of her early death. He would hate to die
after only twelve years of life. If she had lived, she would have grown to be a
beautiful woman with countless admirers.

For a moment her gaze fell
upon the child in his arms. As if she had come to a decision, she cast him a
warm smile and beckoned him forward.

He realised she wanted him
to take Genevieve away from the manor! What he was doing was right. It gave him
a strong sense of sureness, more so because it was the baby’s sister
encouraging him.

In a daze, he pushed
through the tunnel opening.

Moments later, he reached
the pool and gazed up. To a casual passer-by the ghost would seem imperceptible,
like the early morning sun which shone feebly, cutting through rising vapours that
coiled around the trees. To Wakelin’s discerning eye, however, her figure stood
bold upon the bridge.

‘You won’t regret this,
Talia!’ he cried joyfully. ‘My ma will love her!’

She gazed at him keenly and
then, turning, melted into the waterfall. The sight sent a shiver of wonder
through him.

Protectively shielding the baby, he plunged through the
undergrowth. He felt ecstatic, filled with delight at the thought of seeing his
mother’s radiant face when she rose from her bed and lovingly took the infant
into her arms.

As he ran, though, the dread returned, and he shot terrified
glances over his shoulder, imagining the thudding footsteps of a pursuer.

When the physician examined the baby he might realise that
it was not Genevieve. His lordship was no fool. Eppie was the only new-born infant
in the village and Wakelin being a
ninnyhammer
, as his lordship had called
him, after he had been discovered sleeping beside a hedge when he was meant to
have been ditching, du Quesne would realise that he had stolen into the manor
and exchanged the babies.

Eyes blazing with determination he pressed on, faster, oblivious
to whipping branches, heedless of savage wild-rose briars which lashed his face
and drew blood.

Though his breath came in great gulps his throat felt dry
with the fear which threatened to overwhelm him.

‘How can I get home without being spotted?’ he thought
despairingly.

To give him time to think he raced towards the dilapidated
granary, a blurred reflection of itself in the rising mist. A rat, startled by
his sudden approach, scuttled away from behind a staddle stone.

Crouching with his shoulder pressed against the timbers, he peered
cautiously around the corner of the building and stared at the cottages which straddled
the lane.

Dew soaked through his tattered shoes, chilling his ankles,
and he shuddered.

From paddocks and backyards at the woodland edge arose the
odour of manure mingled with ripe pig. Already folk were stirring. Women
knocked fires in parlours. Chickens clucked.

‘Morning Bill!’

Though it was only his
grandfather hailing Bill Hix, his neighbour, Wakelin stiffened in dread.

‘I hear your Martha was put
to bed last night.’

‘Aye,’ Samuel answered,
pride in his voice. ‘Uppan a little maid.’ 

Twigs snapped like brittle bones.

Casting a startled glance back, Wakelin glimpsed a shadowy figure
swoop for cover behind a tree.

Eddying faintness seized him.
‘Has someone seen me
running away from the manor?’ he thought in horror. ‘Who could it be?’

Welling up from his stomach surged the overpowering queasiness
of the familiar falling-sickness from which he occasionally suffered.

‘Nah, God,’ he screamed in silent supplication, wiping away
the sweat of alarm that dripped into his eyes. ‘I’ve gorra get back afore ma wakes!’

An iron-like ring gripped his head, torturing.

Wailing in pain, he fell.

Darkness lingered. Snuggled close to
Gillow, Martha allowed herself a moment of relaxation. Though her body ached
after the long hours of labour last night, her spirits sang, knowing that she
had given birth to a healthy child. Eppie was far quieter than Hepsie, who had
cried so loudly for hours following her birth that she had kept the family from
their slumbers. The following day, Gillow had grumbled, almost without
cessation, about his weariness. ‘What about my tiredness,’ she had thought,
tackling her everyday chores.

Often the family would work for a couple of hours before
breakfast but, after last night’s ordeal, she and Gillow were too tired to rise
early. Drawing aside the drapes of the wainscot bed she stepped out and went to
peep at her new-born infant, longing to pull Eppie into a warm embrace. On
second thoughts, she hung back. She would get on with the chores and see to the
child later, once Gillow and Wakelin had come to the table.

She took her red and blue striped dress from the wooden box
at the end of the bed. Slipping it over her chemise, she dressed quickly, and
whipped her conker-hue hair into a bun, like a sagging robin’s pincushion. The
other box contained the family’s best Sunday clothes and their warm winter
clothing.

Sacking partitioned the bedchamber from the living quarters.
Dominating the parlour was Gillow’s loom. Her spinning wheel was set before the
one-pane window.

Lighting a handful of hay and faggots, she worked the bellows
until the open fire blazed, and set about preparing breakfast.

Beneath the chimney-hood, a cauldron was suspended by a
chain from a fire-crane, alongside the black kettle, with its tilter. Close by
was a bake stone and a baking pot on a griddle. The villagers of Little Lubbock
had a communal bread oven. Some cottages, like Gillow’s, also had a small oven
to the side of the fire for baking.

Although an attractive woman, Martha was not the least vain.
If anything, she was slovenly in appearance. Yawning widely, she stirred oatmeal
in the three-legged skillet. Around its rim was an inscription. She had never
learnt to read, but Gillow said it read
Ye Wages of Sin is Death
; an apt
maxim that succinctly summed up his philosophy on life. She did not wholly
admire his piety and had a hunch that, in the struggle between Christianity and
the native paganism that was so strong in the village, the latter reined victorious
in his mind. Of course, he would never admit to this, nor would she goad him
into acknowledging his superstitious beliefs.

From the oak dresser, where jugs hung above trenchers, china
plates, a butter working bowl and meat dishes, she fetched spoons out the rack.
Ladling the gruel into wooden bowls, she shouted her usual morning greeting: ‘Gillow!
Wakelin! ‘e that dun get up by five, ne’er do thrive.’

She stepped into the bedchamber.

Gillow, thick with sleep, was dragging on his clothes. Seeing
his wife’s stricken expression as she stooped over the cradle, tussling with the
baby’s blankets, he stilled in this pursuit. ‘Martha? What’s amiss?’

She clasped her hands against her cheeks. ‘The bairn’s
went!’

‘Gone? Don’t talk foolishly.’ Fetching out the turnip and
fox-hide cushion, a stony look sprang into his eyes. ‘Where’s that idiot lad?’

In a trice he had ascended the steep ladder behind the beam
of the open fire and leapt in the wool-loft where their son slept. Angrily, he
clambered down. ‘As I guessed.’

Stooping beneath the low threshold he stepped into the
garden, breathing in the bracing country air through his bulbous nose. The sun
peered above rolling hills. Dew glistened upon regimental rows of cabbages that
marched down to the picket gate.

Dank Cottage nestled in a hollow beside a fast-flowing
stream. It was the last homestead of a higgledy-piggledy cluster of stone
cottages that lined the lane. Most had tattered thatches mended with nets. Tied
to Bill’s thatch was a field gate to protect the roof from gales.  

‘Wakelin! Are you out there?’ Gillow shouted.

Overcome by spasms of after-birth pain, Martha sank,
despairingly, onto a comb-back chair beside the table.

Snatching up his black felt hat with its two blue magpie
feathers, Gillow marched to Miller’s Bridge, beside the cottage. The stream
bank was festooned with coppiced willows, their spindly branches in full leaf.

Clutching her shawl about her shoulders, Martha struggled to
his side, ignoring her soreness. ‘You’re not thinking he’s drowned her are you?’

The thought played on his mind, though he shook his head
reassuringly. Turning his back on her, he marched off. ‘You go back to the
cottage.’

Picking her way around potholes, she paced after him towards
the packhorse bridge at the furthest end of the lane. Above the roaring river,
buzzards soared effortlessly in a cloudless sky, shrieking, seeking prey.

Her husband headed into the shadowy glades of Copper Piece Wood.
‘He’s forever in here, shooting.’

‘Shooting? You’re not thinking … ?’

A boy wailed.

‘That must be him!’ Martha hastened to the granary.

Wakelin writhed on the dusty earth, a tiny foot sticking out
beneath his body. ‘It’s Eppie! He’s on top of her!’

 Dropping to his knees, Gillow made to grasp his son by the
arm. Jerking violently, Wakelin smacked him in the face with the back of his
hand. 

‘Do something!’ Martha cried, seeing her husband draw back
and rub his smarting cheek.

‘I am doing something!’ Hauling Wakelin over, he reached
down for the baby.

Betsy Psalter, Martha’s elderly friend and neighbour,
hobbled up. Her garden bursting with healing herbs, Betsy was a respected wise
woman, always on hand at times of illness or when women in the village needed
help with the trauma of childbearing. A widow-woman, her own children had
long-since gone to their graves. She frowned at Wakelin’s rapid muscle spasms.
‘Laws-a-massy-me, why ever is the lad sossing about?’

Martha dragged a filthy rag from the baby’s mouth. Raising
her voice above the child’s wails she sought to make excuses for her son. ‘The
sickness is upon him again. It seems he took our Eppie for an early morning stroll.’

Tutting, Betsy shook her head disbelievingly. ‘The poor bairn
might’ve caught her death.’ She took the child into her arms, and gazed upon her
face. ‘I’ve mothered thirteen. Never, though, have I known a lad as half-baked
as yorn.’

Gillow stood rigid, glaring at Wakelin. ‘Why’d the fool want
to take her anyway? It makes no sense.’

‘Oh, my!’ Betsy was careful not to let her astonishment show
in her face. Glancing in the direction of the manor she felt herself become
dizzy with the horrible realisation of what Wakelin had done.

‘Betsy, are you all right?’ Martha asked. ‘Let me take the
baby.’

‘Yes, it might be best if you do m’dear.’ Betsy handed over
the baby, her wrinkly, age-spotted hands shaking. Her nervousness was evident
as she spoke. ‘She is your gift, Martha. A gift worth more than riches.’

‘What are you chuntering on about, you batty woman?’ Gillow
asked, irritated.

‘Gillow, you shouldn’t speak to Betsy like that, especially after
all she did for me last night, helping me through.’ Martha rocked the baby.
‘Don’t take on little one, everything’s all right now.’

 ‘All right?’ Gillow roared.  ‘I’ll say everything’s not all
right!’

Martha was aware of Betsy’s look of alarm, her rotten teeth
showing as she stared open-mouthed at Gillow’s enraged face. ‘You mog on,
Betsy,’ she coaxed.  ‘Drop by later.’

Ambling away, shaking her head, Betsy muttered, ‘It weren’t
right, and trouble will brew. Mark my words. It will brew.’

Gillow wagged his finger at his wife as though it were her
fault. ‘Didn’t I warn you?’

She cast him a wary glance, knowing what was coming.

‘The lad is the work of the devil.’

‘No, Gillow, you must not speak so!’

‘Don’t gainsay me when I tell you the truth.’ He tilted his
eyes towards heaven. ‘Who so ever did not have his name written in the Book of
the Living was cast into the Lake of Fire.’

‘You mustn’t say it, not even think it. Wakelin can’t help
these fits what over-power him. In your heart you know this to be true.’

Reflectively, he gazed into his wife’s anguish-filled eyes.

‘Leave him be, Gillow, for my sake.’ She drew him to where
the boy lay motionless upon the beaten earth. ‘I’ll mog home and nurse this
little moppet. Carry Wakelin, will you?’

‘Aye,’ he relented, ‘I can’t have folk wagging, wondering at
his disgraceful behaviour. I’ll fetch him across Further Nigh Field and through
our backyard.’