Eppie (5 page)

Moonlight shone on the bowed nursery window. A pony
whinnied. Strangely, the sound seemed to come from
within
the chamber.
Overcome by a sense of unease, he thought, ‘I must be
really
sick.’

Branches rustled overhead. Sniggering. Something landed behind
him with a thud.

Whirling around, he saw a demonic creature with penetrating
eyes glaring at him. A poll of matted fur tumbled between its horns. Its body
was that of a man dressed in leather breeches. Over a ruffled shirt,
exquisitely bound with lace, it wore a spotted yellow and brown tailcoat.
Emitting a bloodthirsty cry, the bull stabbed a curved sword into the air and
charged.

Overwhelmed with guilt, Wakelin pressed his hands against
his eyes and cried, ‘I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to do it!’

The beast halted before him. ‘What did you not mean to do?’

‘I took our Eppie. I can’t think why.’ 

‘Would you like me to sharpen your memory?’

Wakelin felt the tip of a blade prick the skin on his neck. 
‘Dun hurt us!’

With a triumphant snort of laughter, the monster tore off
its head.

‘Thurstan!’ Wakelin cried, upon setting eyes on the person
he most despised.

Everything about the young man’s face was sharp, though
toned-down by loose brown curls which framed his face.

‘I thought you was the devil,’ Wakelin said, relieved.

‘The role of devil suits me, Cud. Would you not concur?’

Wakelin followed the direction of Thurstan’s upturned face. Cudbert
Catesby, the son of a silversmith, was straddled on a branch, swigging from a
tankard. He wafted his fringe from his eyes. ‘Who’s your friend?’

‘You cannot have forgotten Dung Heap, the oaf we beat up at
the last sheaf cutting? As to calling him a friend, I should say not. He is far
too peevish for my liking.’ He stooped to retrieve the bull’s head. ‘In fact, I
would venture to say that Dung Heap is a perpetual thorn in my backside.’   

Filled with a conquering urge, Wakelin lunged and made to
wrestle the sword off his assailant, intent on giving him more than a thorn in
his rear.

Thurstan was older, stronger and practiced at strategic
manoeuvres. In a flash he threw him off. ‘Like my sword do you? I picked it up
on my travels in Japan. You have never heard of the country, I suppose?’ He cast
Cudbert a wry smile. ‘Dung Heap only knows his lice-infested back yard. The wretch
lives the life of a hog, digging ditches for my uncle. His mother is the
filthiest sow you would ever have the misfortune to set eyes upon.’

Beside himself with rage, Wakelin aimed a punch at Thurstan.
‘Don’t you talk like that about my ma!’

Thurstan fended him off, smirking at his honourable words. ‘Existing
in your dreary sty, you know nothing of the world. You are uneducated, whereas
Cud and I are destined for places of great learning. I am forgetting my
manners. As your superior, I must educate you to lessen your ignorance.’

Cudbert yawned. ‘Come on, Thurs. I’m tired and we’re both
drunk.’ He leapt down.

‘A moment, my friend. Since Dung Heap is so smitten with my
sword I feel it is my duty to inform him of its origins. It is a samurai sword,
once owned by a member of a powerful military caste in feudal Japan. It has
killed thousands, if not millions, of rogues like you.’

‘I couldn’t care less about your sword, ya gr’it clod,’ Wakelin
yelled.

Cudbert tittered.

‘You should also be
enlightened as to the meaning of the word caste,’ Thurstan continued. ‘In
India, that is where people are grouped according to their importance, their
superiority, or, as in your case, their inferiority. You are what would be
known as an untouchable, a member of the lower caste. See his hands, Cud? Don’t
you agree that they are fearfully untouchable?  He was born with four thumbs. After
his father chopped off two they festered and turned the colour of bile. Shame
he didn’t miss and cut off Dung Heap’s head.

‘I have a capital idea, and
I say capital with all due intent. Trying to deprive me of my sword merits the
death penalty. Cud and I have a pastime of travelling to watch worthless
wretches like you swing on the gallows. I have not seen a good hanging for at
least a week. The last one was a boy hung outside Litcombe Castle for pick-pocketing.
He bit his tongue clean in half. I bought it as a keepsake. Pickled in a bottle
on my writing desk, it does wonders for my concentration. I tell you what I
would really like, Cud, is to slice off Dung Heap’s weird hands. They would
make excellent bookends.’
 
He twisted one of Wakelin’s
wrists behind his back.

Without warning, a shaggy dog bounded from the woods. Leaping
upon Thurstan, he buffeted him to the ground.

‘Off, Twiss!’ Gillow ordered. ‘Time and ag’in, Wakelin, I’ve
told you to have nowt to do with Thurstan du Quesne.’

Thurstan lay sprawled between exposed tree roots. ‘Weaklin,
that’s a good name for you, having to be rescued by your father,’ he goaded.

‘I ain’t no weakling!’

‘Home, Wakelin!’ Gillow demanded. ‘We can’t risk trouble
with his lordship.’

‘Why not?’ Wakelin retorted. ‘You always talk about Lord du
Quesne like he’s so high n’ mighty when he’s nowt but a mean, penny-pinching
scum.’

‘Is that so, Wakelin Dunham?’ a man asked in a commanding
voice.

 Robert du Quesne had ventured out of his home to discover
the source of the commotion. He unlatched the gate in the filbert walk that
bordered the western perimeter of the manor garden. A stocky man, he was known
to regale himself on a hearty breakfast of collared head, rolled beef and ham.
He was adorned in a snuff-coloured tailcoat lined with red-flame silk. Upon his
head was perched a powdered wig. The impression of a strong character could be
gleaned from his face, though his hanging lower lip was suggestive of
obstinacy.

Gillow snatched off his hat in homage.  

Ignoring him, du Quesne fixed his steely blue eyes upon
Wakelin. ‘How dare you attack my nephew!’

‘’e picked on me.’

In the distance came a gunshot, followed by the shriek of a
creature in its death throes.

‘It would seem that my gamekeeper has had a successful
night,’ du Quesne said. ‘He shoots vermin. Vermin includes trespassers. From
now on, Wakelin Dunham, I do not want to see you loitering near my home, day or
night. Do you understand?’

Wakelin glowered.

Gillow shifted, embarrassed by his son’s insolence. Humbly, he
answered, ‘I’m sure he do, sir. He’s right sorry for the trouble he’s caused
you and your nephew.’ 

Wakelin objected.  ‘I ain’t …’

 ‘As just reward for your querulous talk, Wakelin Dunham,’
Robert du Quesne interjected, ‘I will no longer suffer you working on my
estate. Not that you know the meaning of the word
work
. You revel in any
opportunity to sleep, and after my bailiff has shaken you into some semblance
of wakefulness you are as senseless as a tarsier for an hour.’

Thurstan hooted with laughter.
‘That’s it Uncle, you tell him. You’re an animated piece of offal, Dung Heap. And
if that dog attacks me again, I’ll run him through.’

Seated on the bench beside the porch, a bowl of raspberries upon
his lap, Wakelin squashed escaping maggots between his fingertips.

Since the events of last night, Gillow had been unable to
throw off his temper. ‘Stop gaming about, Wakelin.’ He returned to his task. Moments
later, he shot up
.
‘What have you been doing to
these peas?’

‘Picking ‘em,’ Wakelin sniped back.

‘Don’t use that tone of voice when speaking to me,’ Gillow
answered, incensed by his son’s maladroit handling of his precious vegetables.
‘You’ve pulled up the roots. There were dozens more pods growing. They’re
nearly all dead.’

Riled by his father’s passionate outburst, Wakelin thrust
his fist into the raspberries, mashing them to a pulp.

‘You have to use both hands.’ His father demonstrated. ‘One
hand steadies the main stem whilst the other holds the pod. Wakelin, watch!’

‘Ah, go stew yer head. I’ve had to put up with this all
morning. First ya went on at me for dusting the celery with soot to discourage
flies, and then got mad with me for hoeing the onions.’

‘Old soot, I said. When I came out to check how you were
getting on, I found that you’d thrown a pan of hot ash, straight from the
hearth, upon the plants, scalding the flesh. And I only pointed out that as the
onions are swelling, it would be helpful if you gently
scraped soil from
the bulbs. You’ve ripped most of them to shreds.’ He sighed in frustration. ‘I’ve
had all I can take. We’ll go in and I’ll let you have another attempt at the
loom, though I can’t understand why you can’t grasp how to separate the
warp-threads and bring the weft into proper position on the frame. You’re as
hopeless at weaving as you are in the garden.’

Betsy’s shrill voice rang out, ‘I’ve finished spinning this
yarn. Are you feeling better, Wakelin, m’dear? You’ll be glad to get back to
the field.’  

Martha came out to cut a lettuce. ‘Wakelin, why are you
scowling at Betsy? What have you done to those raspberries?’

Wakelin chucked the wooden bowl at his father, slopping
juice onto the cobbled path, pushed past his mother and went indoors to fetch
his jacket.

Martha sidled up to Betsy and spoke confidingly. ‘Wakelin’s
lost his job.’

‘Ooo, thar is bad news. Mind you, the lad’s no doubt making
himself handy around the garden.’ 

Gillow listened in disbelief to the hollow crunches as Wakelin
stomped towards the stream, trampling vegetables left drying in the sun.

‘Oy, watch my onions!  Where are you off to?’

Wakelin ignored him. ‘Twiss!’ The dog bounded over the
bridge and followed his master.

Gillow hurled his hoe to the ground, outraged by his son’s
lack of respect.

Tinkling over stones, the leaping
stream was pleasant music to Martha’s ears. She stood in the water, kneading
Eppie’s pilchers, the loop ties swirling about her bare knees. Soothing
birdsong saturated the garden. Meadowsweet shone like curd cheese upon the
stream bank.

Wakelin
was resting in the loft. Eppie, having worn herself out crying, had gone back
to sleep. Gillow was across the lane at old Jacob Leiff’s, talking beetroot. Even
whilst courting Martha he had been involved in friendly competition with Jacob
about who could grow the biggest vegetables.

Surging out of the stream, the wicker basket balanced on her
hip, she plodded to the buckthorn which fronted the lane. Uncoiling the woollen
triangles, she tossed them on the hedge to dry.

The labourers were making the most of the fine weather to
work in the fields.

Breaking the stillness, horses tramped in unison over the
packhorse bridge. Jingling harnesses glittered.

Only once before, at the funeral of Talia du Quesne, had Martha
seen such elegant black horses, ribbons tied into their manes and tails. Within
the glass carriage, etched with frosted images of floral urns, rested a baby’s
coffin. The procession was far more impressive than the labourers’ funerals. A
few months ago, villagers had attended the funeral of Fay Hix’s youngest, Tess,
who had died of smallpox. Bill had carried the coffin on his shoulder.

Lord du Quesne stared
rigidly ahead, the silk band on his hat fluttering. Beside him sat Gabriel. ‘He
looks such a gentle child,’ Martha thought. ‘He’ll be a comfort to his mother.’

Following in an open carriage were Squire Obadiah Bulwar and
his wife, Sapphira, firm friends of the du Quesnes. Bulldog-faced, the squire had
small, close-set eyes. Reaching up beneath her veil to dab her eyes, Sapphira appeared
dignified and gentile. Opposite them reclined Thurstan, his expression
revealing how tedious he found the occasion.

In the wake of the convoy paced pallbearers. Covered from
head to toe in black crepe cloaks, heads bowed, they resembled crows following
carrion.

Martha’s reverie was shattered when Wakelin burst from the
cottage. Throwing back his head, he howled like a trapped beast. Saliva
dribbled down the sides of his mouth.

‘Goodness! Whatever is the matter?’ She glanced at neighbouring
cottages. ‘Stop it, someone will see. You know your father’s particular.’

Without a word of reply he
stumbled after the cavalcade. 

Parson Hector Lowford sat beside Wakelin on the bench
beneath the mulberry tree. ‘Did you enjoy the christening?’

‘Yur,’ Wakelin answered unenthusiastically, wiping his
sweating forehead with his sleeve.

The parson was a short man with a stern, set expression of
the mouth. It was so hot that he had removed his periwig. His nose and balding
head shone in the heat. ‘You will be proud of your new sister, though wishing
you had a brother?’ 

‘Yur.’ Wakelin loathed the shackles of convention that meant
he had to endure uncomfortable, newly-laundered clothes and, worse, mind his
manners.

The parson nodded benevolently at folk mulling around the orchard.
‘Euphemia.  Delightful.’

‘Yur.’ Wakelin compared his calloused hands with the nimble
fingers of the parson. Outside his clerical duties the parson kept a pottery
workshop, but Wakelin wondered whether the man really understood how hard life
was for the cottagers. The parson could look forward to regular payments of
tithes, plump chickens for his stove, sides of the best pork and bags of the finest
wheat flour, whereas the farm labourers could never be sure of their earnings.
If the weather turned bad they were laid off, without pay.

A wry smile crossed his
lips seeing the parson accept another brimming goblet of his mother’s vintage
elderberry wine. Knowing the strength of the brew, occasionally pinching a few
bottles from the wring-shed when his mother’s back was turned, he contemplated
whether the parson would make it back to his cottage without falling from his
horse.