The Girl with the Red Ribbon (13 page)

As she made her way to the dairy, she didn't see Fanny watching her from her bedroom window.

That night, as Rowan waited for the moon to rise high enough in the sky, she pondered on the strange events of the past weeks, trying to work out how long it had been since Sab had begun ignoring her. After she'd carried out her ritual she would go on up to the top field and have it
out with him, she determined. Slipping out of bed, she carefully untied her mirror from the door and tiptoed down the stairs. Although there was little chance of Fanny catching her, for it was nearly midnight and her stepmother would be fast asleep, she didn't want to take any chances.

With her mirror glinting in the moonlight, and dressed only in her nightdress, she made her way up to the old oak. Carefully casting her circle, she placed the mirror in the centre. After giving the tree a greeting hug, she put her back against the trunk and slid to the ground, tapping into the natural energy around her. With her eyes tightly shut, she cleared her mind until she could feel the life rising through its roots, trunk and branches. Then jumping to her feet, she skipped around the huge, old tree, chanting:

Daylight and darkness of equal length,

Balance our –

Suddenly the red ribbon yanked her wrist hard, making her wince and break off the reciting of her charm. Her hand made to soothe it but before she'd even had time to ease the band a sack was thrown over her head from behind. As she gasped for breath she felt herself being lifted roughly into the air and carried over the rutted ground. Desperately, she tried to struggle free, but heard a man's coarse laugh as her captor tightened his grip.

Rowan opened her mouth to scream but the sour smell of the sacking made her retch. She didn't know what was happening, only that if her body didn't stop jolting up and down soon, she was going to be sick all down this man's back. He came to an abrupt halt, and she felt herself swung into the air before being dropped unceremoniously onto hard bare boards. Momentarily stunned, she lay trying to collect her thoughts. Then, as her strength started to return, outrage burst through her. How dare anyone treat her in such a manner? Anger lent her the determination to manoeuvre herself into an upright position, but no sooner was she sitting up than she was roughly pushed back down again. Feeling a tightening around the hessian, she gasped. Her assailant was tying her up like a parcel.

‘You fool, you should have knocked her out,' she heard Fanny whisper. ‘You'll need to sedate her or she'll holler so loud Edward and Sab will hear up in the top field.'

‘I ain't being responsible for anything like that,' the gruff voice grunted.

‘Do it,' she hissed. ‘Here's the necessary paperwork, now scarper.' Rowan heard Fanny's footsteps hurrying away.

‘What about the rest of my money?' the man called after her.

‘You'll
get it when I hear the job's been done,' Fanny snapped. ‘Now scram.'

Rowan heard the farmhouse door slam. Realizing she was now at the mercy of this man, she began shivering uncontrollably with fear. Then she felt herself manhandled again, the rope untied and the sacking peeled away. A shadowy figure loomed over her and she just had time to register the musty, musky smell of his cologne before a filthy cloth was thrust over her mouth, replacing it with an overwhelming bitter stench. Her last conscious thought was that she was being abducted, and then she knew no more.

She woke to the rattling noise of a wagon being driven at speed over cobbles. Her head felt muzzy and she was incredibly thirsty. What was happening? Where was she being taken? She struggled to sit up but was overcome by a wave of wooziness and slid helplessly back to the floor. She just had time to register the sacking was only loosely tied and that something thick and warm was covering her, before she lost consciousness once more.

Next time she came to, her head felt clearer, but it still took a few moments to register they were stationary. Heated voices were coming from nearby and as she listened it became clear that it was about money for a delivery that needed to be made. As she tried to manoeuvre herself into an upright position the warm cover was suddenly torn away and before she could utter a word she was once again hoisted into the air, tossed over a bony shoulder and dumped unceremoniously onto another hard surface. Then she felt the crackle of an old canvas being thrown over her.

‘There
you go mate, all yours,' that same gruff voice muttered. ‘No helping yourself to any of the goods now.' His coarse laugh was followed by the sound of a horse and cart driving away at speed.

Another man's voice, seemingly softer than the other, called to his horse, and once again Rowan was on the move. Before long the cobbles were replaced by smoother ground but she could tell from the laboured way the horse was plodding that they were climbing uphill. Obviously she'd been transferred to another cart, but where was she being taken, by whom and why? Although her brain was functioning better now, it took her a few moments to remember she'd been snatched from the farm. But why? Was this Fanny's way of getting rid of her? And where was she being taken? By listening carefully, she could pick out muffled birdsong so it had to be daytime, although she couldn't see any light coming through the sacking. She could hear the bleating of sheep all around, so they must be travelling through countryside. This time she had no thick cover to keep her warm and she shivered from the cold air and perhaps, too, from fear.

Someone called to the horse and the cart jolted to a halt, then lurched as the driver leaped to the ground. Wriggling and writhing, Rowan desperately tried to free herself and had just managed to work the rope loose when she heard a scream. The sacking was gingerly peeled back and she found herself staring into the bewildered face of a young lad. Above him mist swirled and she shivered, her breath rising in plumes in the cold air.

‘What the … ?' he began, looking shaken. ‘Who are you?'

It was such an incongruous question, Rowan burst out
laughing. Once she started, she couldn't stop and, realizing she was bordering on hysterics, she pulled herself together. By which time the lad seemed to have recovered his composure.

‘I was told this was a delivery of meat,' he said, shaking his head so that his dark, matted hair flapped against his scrawny shoulders.

‘Charming,' Rowan spluttered, struggling to sit up. ‘Where are you taking me?' she asked, determined to find out what was going on.

The lad shook his head again, his blue eyes wary. ‘I didn't know you was alive. I mean I thought you was rations for the asy–' He stuttered to a halt, fearful he'd said too much.

‘Asy? What asy?' Rowan asked.

‘Look, miss,' the lad said, ‘I don't want no trouble. I've to make this delivery or they'll want their money back and then me and my sisters won't have no supper. If they comes after me I'll be the dead meat,' he muttered.

‘Who are they? And where are you taking me?' she asked. But the lad, already fearing he'd said too much, wouldn't be drawn.

‘Wish I'd never stopped to relieve myself. Look, we're on the moors and if you leg it you'll be lost in no time. We're nearly there now anyway, so if you promise not to try and escape, I won't tie you up again.'

For the first time, Rowan stared around her. She could just make out huge dark rocks looming starkly through the mist, which seemed to be thickening even as she watched. A few twisted, apparently lifeless trees were dotted here and there, but there was no sign of civilization.

Mistaking
her look, the lad jumped back into the cart and snatched up the reins, calling over his shoulder, ‘Don't you try and jump, miss. The peat bogs here are treacherous. Many a man's been caught bog hopping and been sucked right down till they've swallowed him up whole. Horrible way to go,' he added, shuddering. Then, with a shout to the horse, he drove the cart forward, only to slow a few moments later as he tossed an old blanket back to her.

‘That'll keep the worst off yer,' he shouted, before urging the beast to go faster.

Realizing it would be foolish to try to escape, Rowan bunched up the sacking to use as a pillow, then lay back and pulled the cover over her. It was rough and smelled of horse but as the mist enveloped her like a ghostly shroud she was grateful for its warmth. She now knew they were on Dartmoor but had no idea in which direction they were headed. The lad had said they were nearly there, so she would wait until they arrived and then find out where it was. By the way the cart was veering this way and that, he must be carefully picking his way and she didn't want to distract him. She'd heard her father talking about how treacherous the moors could be, and the idea of escaping only to be sucked into a bog seemed sheer stupidity.

Thoughts of her father made her heart leap. He'd be wondering where she was by now. How long would it be before he came searching for her? Then she remembered hearing Fanny's voice when she'd lain trussed up in the first cart. Her heart sank. What treachery had her stepmother come up with now?

She
lay on the floor of the cart, watching the grey mist whirling eerily around her until eventually the lad yanked on the reins and the cart rumbled to a halt. Rowan pulled herself up onto the bench, wrapped the blanket tightly around her, then peered into the gloom. Ahead, a forbidding black granite building rose out of the murk. Before she had time to move, there was the jangle of keys followed by a clank, and the huge iron gate in the centre of the edifice squeaked open. There followed a swift exchange between the lad and a guard before the cart rumbled forward again. As they neared the austere-looking building, Rowan eyes widened in horror. It had high slit windows that were fortified by bars.

No sooner had the cart stopped again than two more uniformed figures appeared. One of them inspected the papers the lad was holding out, whilst the other helped Rowan down from the cart. No sooner had her feet touched the ground than the cart moved off at speed, and she could only watch as it was swallowed up by the murky shadows. The gate clanked shut behind her and the second guard, who had a huge moustache, took her firmly by the other arm. Before she had time to ask what was going on, she was marched up some stone steps and through an imposing iron-bound, studded door that was dominated by a huge keyhole.

The stones were freezing cold beneath her bare feet and she shivered. Conscious the men were ogling her body through her white nightgown, she shrugged off their hold, pulled the blanket over her head and secured it in a knot around her neck. As she stood there staring defiantly at them they laughed. Then, taking her by the arms once
more, they swiftly marched her down a long, dimly lit corridor. When finally they came to a halt, one of them rapped sharply on a dark panelled door.

‘Enter,' a voice boomed. Swiftly she was marched into a room that was dominated by a huge leather-topped desk, behind which another uniformed man was seated. A fire blazed in the grate and Rowan instinctively moved towards it. Immediately, she was tugged back.

‘There's no need to be rough,' she said, snatching her arms away.

‘Be respectful, woman,' the guard with the moustache barked. ‘You are standing before the receiving officer and are permitted to speak only when addressed.'

‘Thank you, Jenkins,' the receiving officer said, nodding to the guard. Then he gave Rowan a searching look over his half-moon glasses. ‘Now, who have we here?' Before she could answer, papers were passed to him and he sat back in his huge leather-backed chair and studied them. ‘Oh, I see,' he said finally. ‘You are Rowan Clode?' he asked, peering at her from under his bushy brown eyebrows.

‘Yes, but I don't see why …' she began.

‘Silence,' the guard to her right barked.

‘But you said I could speak when I was spoken to, so I did,' declared Rowan. She thought she saw the lips of the receiving officer twitch, but must have been mistaken for he was now staring gravely at her.

‘Rowan Clode, it states here that you have been declared insane.'

Rowan gasped. ‘Don't be daft,' she said.

‘It's you that's daft,' the moustached guard tittered.

‘Silence,'
the receiving officer ordered, turning back to the paper he was holding.

‘Rowan Clode, it has been observed that you are prone to delusions and fantasies,' he read. ‘You show abnormal qualities of behaviour, namely that you leap over mirrors in the moonlight, hug trees and talk to them, also by moonlight, plant things in the garden by moonlight, hit cows with sticks, mix magic potions and cast spells on people. Have you done any or all of these things?'

‘Yes, I have. You see …'

‘In that case I must concur with the diagnosis made by your apothecary and clergyman that you are a lunatic suffering with sad mania,' he cut in. ‘Are you clean in habits?' he asked, looking her over like she was some animal for auction.

‘Of course I am,' Rowan declared.

‘And in good physical health?' he persisted. She nodded and he cleared his throat. ‘Then by the powers vested in me, I declare that you be committed to this, the Hell Tor Asylum, where you will receive moral treatment until such time as you are deemed cured.' With that, he gave a curt nod to the guards, who once again took her by the arms and marched her out of the room.

‘I've never seen any apothecary or clergyman,' Rowan protested. But nobody took any notice. The grip on her arms tightened and she was led along yet another dingy corridor and then down steep, twisting stone stairs to a room in the basement. As another door clanked shut behind her, she felt frightened and began to shiver uncontrollably. Where on earth was she and how would her father ever find her?

‘Steeples,'
one of the guards barked, making her jump. A woman with fair frizzing hair, whom Rowan deemed to be of middle years, appeared out of a cloud of steam, bringing with her a strong smell of lye and something Rowan couldn't distinguish. All she knew was that it was overpowering and worse than anything Mrs Stokes used on washing day.

‘Get this girl cleaned, deloused and into her uniform,' one of the two burly men ordered.

As their footsteps died away, Rowan turned to the woman.

‘I haven't got lice,' she declared indignantly. ‘And I'm clean, thank you,' she said, looking down and noticing her grimy feet and mud-spattered nightdress. ‘Oh, no,' she gasped.

The woman merely smiled back at her. ‘Don't worry, dearie. That's not the sort of clean they mean, anyway. Ma here will soon get you organized. Now, where are your things?' she asked, looking behind Rowan.