Eppie (46 page)

‘That we would, sir!’ went up the enthusiastic chorus.

‘Exactly what I like,’ Thurstan said, ‘a swift judgement.’

Eppie gaped at Wakelin’s petrified expression amidst the
ecstatic countenances of his captors.

Rain fell, intensifying. In the breeze, the ladder beat
rhythmically against the mill like blood throbbing through veins.

‘First I must speak with Gabriel and this wretch. I need to
get to the bottom of this confrontation.’ 

‘You are far too irresolute, Uncle.’ Thurstan gestured at
the stunned faces of the workers with his open palms. ‘Surely you cannot
entertain the thought of these languid labourers laughing behind your back, declaring
you to be a coward?’

Du Quesne’s face turned a grimy shade of purple. ‘How dare
you make such an accusation?’

Smiling condescendingly, Thurstan spoke in a voice as smooth
as polished stone. ‘To prove you are a man of uncompromising disposition, I
demand that you forfeit Dunham’s life for his attempt to kill your son. He must
be hung, this very morning, for all to see, from the scaffold at The Fat Duck. By
this act you augment your leadership and convince these heathens that you are a
force to be reckoned with.’

Tom sprang to his friend’s aid. ‘Sir, you can’t hang Wakelin
for a trumped up charge.’

‘You don’t want to be too hasty in your decision, your
worshipfulness,’ Jacob added. 

‘At least listen to what Wakelin has to say,’ Bill put in.
‘He’s a good lad at heart.’

‘I will have an end to this wheedling!’ In a low, strangely
resonant voice, du Quesne said, ‘So be it.’

Wakelin threw off his captors and ran.

Leaping onto his horse, Thurstan spurred it on and was
quickly after Wakelin.

Wakelin felt a kick between the shoulder blades so hard that
it seemed almost to dismember him. He was left sprawling and gasping in pain
upon the ground.

Having made his decision, du Quesne’s mind cut off from the
fate to which he had condemned Wakelin and back to the task in hand. ‘Cordwainer,
the oxen are restless.’

In a mass stupor, labourers drifted away with the mill,
their murmuring voices like the hum of so many flies. Tom, Edmund, Samuel, and
others loyal to Wakelin stood in a huddle, unwilling to leave him.

Eppie remained unmoving, staring as Thurstan’s friends hauled
Wakelin over, shaking and whimpering, and forced him into a crouching position.
His head of cropped hair sunk to the ground between hunched shoulders, he
looked as though he were awaiting decapitation.

‘First, Dung Heap, I insist on a little fun to while away
the time.’

Behind her, as she ran towards Dusty, Eppie heard thuds and
roars of delight as Thurstan, laughing sardonically, hailed a torrent of kicks
upon Wakelin. 

Unbeknown to Eppie, labourers,
encouraged by Cross-Eye’s earlier triumphs, had taken bets as to whether Dusty
could drink a pint without taking her lips off the tankard.

To her consternation she found the donkey, its breath
smelling strongly of beer, asleep beside the brewery wagon.

She would have to run to the manor.

She was past the carriage shed, almost to the manor house
when she skidded into Mrs Bellows who emerged from the dairy, reeking of ripe
cheese. ‘Not you again? His lordship made it quite clear that he does not want
you near his home.’

‘I need Gabriel.’

‘Yes, and we all know where that leads don’t we, young lady.
Trouble. Be off.’

Eppie streaked up the stairs and along the corridors, Mrs
Bellows’ bluster echoing off the wainscoting as she relentlessly pursued the
trespasser. ‘Stop this instance! Do you hear?’

Charging into Gabriel’s chamber, Eppie slammed the door with
such a force that it sent papers on a table fluttering to the floor.

Nerves sparking, she crept forward, wary that she had
entered the room of a sick person.

Disturbed from his ablutions, one leg sticking up, Prince
Ferdinand eyed her charily.

‘Hello, pussy.’

Eppie assumed Gabriel was sleeping, though in an odd
position, with his elbows raised and palms pressed against his face.

‘Master Gabriel!’ Mrs Bellows cried, thumping on the door.
‘This simply will not do!’

‘Eppie, what’s that rumpus?’

‘Puffing Bellows is mad at me. It’s all right, though, I’ve
locked her out.’

‘Why’ve you come to see me when you’ve been told not to?’

She was heartbroken at his words. ‘Don’t you want me no
more?’

‘Of course, only, coming home, it’s been a shock having all
the ghastly things slapped in my face at once.’

Mrs Bellows rapped repeatedly. ‘Sir! Sir!’

He rubbed his aching forehead. ‘She sounds like a woodpecker
shrieking through the woodland.’ 

‘Sir! You know your father’s rules. And whatever will he
think of you having a girl in your room?’

Gabriel raised his voice as high as he could without it hurting.
‘At the moment I couldn’t care less what he thinks.’

‘Well, I never!’ Timbers vibrated as she rampaged away.

‘When I was young and became upset, I remember mother
telling me to keep my hatred in my fists, not in my head. That way I could beat
my pillows without the hate crushing me. It doesn’t work. My abhorrence of father
is always inside, ripping me apart.’ He drew in a shaky breath. ‘I’ve been
lying here, thinking about the fearful things that have happened, about the one
thing I wish I could change back to the way it ought to be, and know I can’t. It
is sinful, I know, but sometimes I long for my life to end, so that I will have
no more sorrow.’ He gazed at her steadily. ‘Someone always holds me back.’

‘Who?’

‘You. You are the only reason that I am.’

‘I dunno why you reckon I’m so special. But oh, Gabriel! You
have to help me! Thurstan said Wakelin has to go to the gallows for tugging you
off the ladder. They’re going to do it now!’

‘That’s ridiculous. I slipped.’

‘Will you come and talk to your father? Wakelin won’t be
able to speak up for himself; Thurstan’s beaten him to pulp.’

‘What can I do? Thurstan and father are a law unto
themselves.’

‘We must do something to help him. Since the accident,
Wakelin’s shown me nothing but kindness. Please come! They might’ve got the
pumping mill in place by now and be on their way to The Duck.’

Gabriel limped into the yard.

Waiting with the horse at the upping stock, Clem cast him a
concerned look. ‘I don’t reckon you ought to ride out, sir.’

‘I’ll be fine.’ Gabriel uttered short, agonising gasps as he
mounted.

Eppie raced off down the lane, scrambling and slipping at
the woodland edge.

‘Wait!’ Gabriel cried, as he rode after her. ‘Climb up and ride
with me.’

She would not listen, could not listen. Her mind whirled. Were
they already too late?   

Massed before Miller’s Bridge, she descried a clamouring
crowd of cottagers and mounted riders. The brewery wagon stood before Dank
Cottage.

Flip tore eagerly into the parlour to tell Martha what was
happening.

Rushing into the lane, she flung out her arms and moved in a
stumbling way towards the wagon, her voice thin and threadlike as Eppie had never
heard it before. ‘Pray, do not do this!  Please, God, my son!’

Eppie stepped quickly around the horses to Martha’s side.

Gabriel rode forward in silence, the cottagers parting
around him. Steadying Wayward beside the brewery wagon, he gazed upon Wakelin’s
prone body, disturbed to see the injuries his cousin had inflicted on the man;
his face was puffed, both eyes closed, blood stained his shirt where it had streamed
from his nose. ‘How can you call this justice, when the so-called felon is so
senseless he cannot even rise to his feet to plead his innocence?’ 

‘All the better for him,’ Thurstan answered caustically.  ‘He
won’t feel a thing.’

‘Of what do you accuse Dunham?’ Gabriel asked.

‘Attempted murder,’ Thurstan replied.

‘The man has not even been given the opportunity of a fair
trial. He meant me no harm.’

‘Then, might I enquire as to how you acquired those
bruises?’ his father asked.

‘It looks to me like Dung Heap has had a good attempt at reshaping
your face.’ Thurstan cupped his hand to his mouth and spoke to Cudbert, though
purposefully audible for all to hear, ‘I can’t say I blame him.’

‘Father, I demand that you release Wakelin.’

‘No!’ Thurstan yelled. ‘Dunham will hang. The law must be
upheld.’

‘What law?’ Gabriel scoffed. ‘It is your own vagarious
notion of the legal system of which you speak. You have a cruel, crooked
nature, Thurstan. Everyone here is well aware of the chilling frequency with
which you condemn even women and children to hang for the most minor of
offences.’

‘Have a bite of care for what you say, boy,’ du Quesne
growled.

His mouth drawn up in a sneer, a look of malice in his eyes,
Thurstan snatched a coil of rope from the wagon. Tying one end to the tackle of
the innkeeper’s horse, he flung the other high over a branch. Leaping onto the
wagon, he slapped Wakelin hard in the face until he came to a semblance of
wakefulness.

Despairing moans went up from the villagers, realising that
Thurstan intended to use the oak beside Miller’s Bridge as a gallows tree.

‘On your feet!’ Thurstan demanded of Wakelin.

Reluctantly, shakily, he rose.

Thurstan tightened the noose about Wakelin’s neck.

Her mind holding itself in readiness for what she must
witness, Eppie gripped the lip of the wagon, needing its support.

Wakelin cast a bewildered look about him. His eyes, wide and
blank with terror, fixed upon his mother. Fumbling with the rope, he tried to
free himself. He lacked the strength.

Unwilling to watch, Samuel turned away and tugged Martha by
the arm, trying to draw her away from the terrible scene.

She would not leave her son’s side. Her eyes dark with
horror, she groped at Thurstan’s wrist as he ran to speed the horse. ‘I beg you,
sir! You must not do this!’ 

‘Unless you wish your son to struggle in agony for several
minutes,’ he told her pitilessly, ‘I suggest you hang onto his legs to shorten
his suffering.’

Pulling hard on the bridle, Gabriel shifted Wayward sharply
sideward. Swinging his leg over the saddle, he scrambled onto the wagon.
Briskly loosening the noose, he thrust it over his own neck. ‘If you are intent
on hanging Wakelin, you must first hang me.’

Pride swelled in Eppie’s heart for Gabriel’s brave words and
deed.

‘What idiocy is this?’ du Quesne cried. ‘You disgrace me to
the dust, boy.’ Sombrely, after a moment’s thought, he declared, ‘There will be
no hanging.’ 

Villagers raised their voices to the sky in exultation. Tom
and Edmund ran to help Wakelin clamber down.

Thurstan stormed up to his uncle. ‘I will not have my
stripling cousin getting the better of me.’

‘Silence!’ du Quesne thundered. ‘I have spoken.’ He turned
on Martha. ‘I want you and your despicable family out of my cottage. Tonight!’

Eppie and Gabriel looked on, aghast.

‘Leave?’ Martha cried.

‘You can’t shove us out!’ Eppie cried.

‘By the deuce I can. What is more, I am.’

‘But where shall we go?’ Martha asked. ‘This is our home.’

‘You may go to the far ends of the world for all I care. I
have been lenient this far.  However, I warn you, if you are still here by
nightfall I will personally see every member of your family go to the gallows.’

Having rested throughout the afternoon,
Wakelin headed off with Edmund to The Fat Duck. 

Already, neighbours had called to bid their farewells.

Though they had spoken with some urgency of what must come,
Eppie and Martha drifted into silence, neither daring to make the first move
towards packing.

Sheeting rain sounded louder than the racing stream. Raindrops
sputtered down the chimney like teardrops, adding to Eppie’s depression. In a
daze, she picked up the poker and mechanically stirred the damp embers.

All afternoon she and Martha had busied themselves with
little chores: scrubbed the floor, peeled vegetables, collected windfall apples
and stowed them in the loft. 

It was into early evening when Wakelin returned, with Tom in
tow, their jackets soaked. Having forgotten to take his hat, runnels of rain
plastered Wakelin’s hair.

‘Are you both mad?’ Wakelin cried. ‘You should be ready to
go by now.’

‘I wouldn’t send a dog out in this weather,’ Martha answered
grimly.

‘Besides, this is our home,’ Eppie said defiantly. ‘Lord du
Quesne has no right to push us out.’

‘It’s du Quesne’s cottage!’ Wakelin replied, exasperated.
‘We pay him rent.’ 

‘That’s only money,’ Eppie said. ‘It’s not the same as where
we live. What about Twiss? If we leave, somebody new might dig him up. What if
Dawkin escapes and comes looking for us?  He won’t know where we’ve gone. I
won’t go.’

Martha sounded breathless, as if she might faint away,
entirely unlike her usual self. ‘Eppie’s right. His lordship’s anger will fade
away. He’ll forget what he said to us. He’ll give us another chance.’

Wakelin looked anxiously at his mother’s defeated, weary
expression, the end of everything she had ever known bitterly reflected in her
eyes. ‘There’s no softness in du Quesne,’ he said blankly. ‘He means what he
says, Ma. We have to go.’

With a deep sigh, she spoke almost to herself. ‘Whatever
shall we do? Where will we go?  I’ve never travelled further than Litcombe. I’m
scared.’

‘I know, Ma, but I’ll be there to look after you and the
girls. Pa always got mad with me for being a tough-head. Now I’ll need all my guts
to tackle what’s out there. What d’ya say, Eppie? We gonna stick together, as a
family?’ He drew them close, so that they rested with their arms about one
another. Quietness fell upon them like a warm, soft cloak.