The Knot. Jane Borodale

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ have predicted. For a moment he has the most peculiar, overwhelming sensation that something vast is creeping up on him, drawing nearer. He turns around in alarm but it is only Blackie, trotting over the wet grass towards him, blunt tail in the air.

      Chapter X.

      Of BLOOD-STRANGE, or Mousetails. It floureth in Aprill, and the torches and seede is ripe in May, and shortly after the whole herb perisheth, so that in June yee shall not finde the dry or withered plant.

      HE NEEDS TO GO AND COLLECT A HUNDRED ready-set slips of gillyflower, on order from Mistress Shaw, an old woman of some sixty years that lives in Wells. At its best her garden is a fat, colourful kerchief of blossom, and the children always vie to come with him in the cart when he goes to her for plants and seed. Rumour has it that as a young girl she was a Benedictine novice in a London convent, but that she left the calling and walked south-west long before the upheavals in the Church began. They say that she was never wed, yet everything else she plants springs eagerly to life.

      Once they arrive at her garth, which is a square of land that sits beyond the town on the flat beyond the Bishop’s palace, Mary and Jane run off to hide and reappear later with the stains of strawberries about their mouths, oozing fistfuls of redcurrants, though they swear they were not thieving. She never chastises them, which he suspects is not only because their household provides good custom for her business. On occasion he has caught that raw, hungry glance that the barren can sometimes have on seeing children, but she seems to take some pleasure in cultivating their sound running full tilt in her garden.

      She has narrow shoulders, but these days a protruding abdomen makes her very wide about the middle under her gown, and walking makes her lean a little as if one side of her were puckered up. Henry Lyte sees that she must suffer from some kind of growth inside her, but knows he cannot mention it unless she does. But on this visit, which is about his fourth or fifth already that season, as he is ducking out of the gate in her garden wall, he turns back to her. Checking that the garden boys are out of earshot, he asks very quietly, ‘You have been seen by a physician, madam?’

      She looks down at her hands. The knuckles are shiny with the swelling of old age, and the nails green and split and grubby with work. When she speaks he smells her breath has the unmistakable unsavoury sweet smell of rot, and he is sorry for it.

      ‘There is no need, Master Lyte, no need at all.’

      ‘A doctor would give you physic to ease your suffering, and he can prepare you for what you might have to expect.’

      ‘I go to church to know what there is ahead of me. And beyond that I do not want to know. I pray. I try to sleep at night.’

      ‘Do you sleep easily?’

      ‘I do not.’

      Henry tries to think what he can usefully do to help her. ‘I shall have a boy ride over with a bottle of aqua vitae for you, for the pain,’ he says.

      Mistress Shaw’s eyes widen. ‘No! I can manage, thank you, Master Lyte.’

      ‘Or I can leave half a crown and you could order some yourself.’

      ‘No, really, but I thank you anyway.’

      He smiles, will not be put off by her firm demurral. ‘I do insist,’ he says. And when he gets home he dispatches it immediately, a corked brown bottle wrapped in cloth.

      But something very strange happens, which is that Mistress Shaw sends it back unopened with the boy that very evening, and with it is a little note. I thank you again Master Lyte, but I will not take strong drink. I hasten to assure you how this has naught to do with what they say of you, which wickedness I shall not believe.

      What they say? Precisely what is it that they say? He must find out. He calls his bailiff but he is still out at market. He begins to asks Lisbet but before he reaches the crux she finds a pretence to vanish away to the kitchen. There is someone else he could ask, but something makes him hesitate. In the gloomy distance, he can see Mote’s form on the edge of the garden, digging, digging. He considers sending the boy to call him in. He delays lighting the candle, so that he can keep an eye on his progress. But in any event he does not need to make further enquiries, because by tomorrow forenoon a letter from his father comes.

      Chapter XI.

      Of HORSETAILE. It is good against the cough, the difficultie and paine of fetching breath, and against inward burstings, as Dioscorides and Plinie writeth.

      HE IS NOT SURE WHICH IS WORSE, the fact that he has disappointed him, or believing that his father would allow himself to be manipulated into this position by that woman.

      He stands, transfixed, in the hall. Across the passage he can hear Frances giggling in the kitchen over the clatter of pots. Her condition is softening her, she has begun to waddle very slightly as she moves from room to room, and listening now to her voice like that makes him feel protective. It suits her, this temporary relaxing of the rules she has set herself. He hears footsteps approaching from the kitchen, towards him standing there. The smile dies on her face.

      Frances sees he has a letter in his hand. ‘What is it, Henry?’

      ‘From Sherborne.’ He is smarting.

      Frances snatches the paper from him. ‘What does he say? I cannot make head nor tail of your father’s hand – it’s like cobwebs.’

      ‘Here.’ Henry directs her to the passage.

      Her mouth opens a crack in disbelief as she takes it in.

      ‘How can he even suggest such a thing? And then seamlessly he goes on to talk of picking up the barley malt on Friday. It’s scarcely credible.’ Disparagingly she turns the paper to see if there is anything of worth to be found on the reverse. ‘This cannot warrant a reply,’ she says. ‘Do not even give him the pleasure of watching you put your attention to it.’

      ‘But does it sound like his usual way of speech?’

      ‘I scarcely know him, Henry.’

      ‘It is that viper woman, hissing in his ear. I know it.’ Henry bites at his thumbnail. ‘Coiled in the sand over my father’s money like a clutch of someone else’s eggs.’

      ‘It’s just the words of a bad-tempered old man. Pay no heed. Parents can be cruellest to their children, but they may not always mean it.’ Frances pretends that it is of no consequence but her cheeks have flushed scarlet with offence. She stands for a moment, rubbing the mound of her belly and looking at nothing.

      ‘But to say that God will punish me,’ Henry says. ‘And that my conscience will be nothing if not tainted. This is like a curse upon us!’

      ‘What has provoked it?’ she asks.

      Henry does not know where to begin to answer. ‘The imminent arrival of a child can bring on … change, bring unsaid, underlying matters to a head. There is nothing like new life to unleash the past,’ he says.

      ‘But what underlying matter could that be?’ she says, bewildered.

      Above them there is a crash on the floorboards, one of the children starts to cry and she has to rush upstairs.

      So certain things begin to make sense. Here is the vile rumour laid out in black and white upon the page, in his father’s hand. He СКАЧАТЬ