North Side of the Tree. Maggie Prince

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      “Master John was my schoolmaster, my lord of Carlisle,” I answer the bishop, also in Latin. The bishop clasps his hand over his eyes.

      “My child, please forgive me.”

      “I fear it is I who will be begging forgiveness after you encounter my father, my lord, so please disregard it entirely.”

      He stands up, so that from deference I must remain. “And the answer, Beatrice? What is the answer to my question?”

      John is shaking his head, trying to silence him. I wish above all else that I were lying down in my room, and not having this conversation. I drop a curtsey and reply that on the contrary, his lordship has made a mistake, and that I am to marry my Cousin Hugh. It is whilst I am saying this, that I realise it is no longer true.

      

      The bishop arrived in a red and gold coach most unsuitable for our country roads, and which was mired several times on his journey here, so we travel to Barrowbeck on horseback the following day. We go first to Low Back Farm, and find that James has begun building a fortified pele tower on to his farmhouse. His henchmen, led by George and Martinus, are moving blocks of limestone with pulleys, ready for the Irish builders to lay the foundations.

      I stand in this familiar place, and breathe in the smell of first frost, and let the distress of the past two weeks seep away. The ground is getting colder. I can feel it like a great stone under my feet. Overhead, seagulls scream and head inland, a sign of fierce weather coming.

      It is wonderful to see Verity again. John, the bishop and I stay for an hour, eating hot buttered wheaten cakes and drinking more wine. Verity has begun keeping bees, and shows us her trussed straw bee-skeps, and the workroom she will use for producing honey and beeswax candles and furniture polish. She is noticeably increased in size.

      “Now madam, you must marry,” says the bishop sternly as we are leaving.

      “Gladly sir, if you can obtain my father’s permission,” Verity replies irritably. “It is not of my choosing to live thus.”

      “If necessary we will dispense with your father’s permission.” The bishop stares along the valley to where Barrowbeck Tower dominates the horizon. “Nevertheless, we will reason with him first.”

      “God bless your efforts.” Verity’s expression does not indicate a great measure of confidence in them, with or without God’s blessing.

      As we are leaving, James arrives back from chopping trees for winter fuel. He is riding bareback on one of the two carthorses which are dragging the huge pallet of tree trunks. He jumps down when he sees us, and I am struck by the change in him, as he smiles and asks if we cannot stay a little longer. He is clearly overawed by the bishop, yet he makes an effort, and converses with us, instead of retreating into silence as he would have done until recently.

      John explains our mission, and we bid them an affectionate farewell and set off up the valley. I have told John that I shall visit my aunt whilst he and the bishop call upon my father. I have not told him the purpose of my visit. Behind us, from all along the valley, comes the dull beat of axes on wood, as logs are chopped for winter, and I find I am worrying about our own farms winter supplies. Has anyone thought of cutting trees for Barrowbeck’s winter fuel yet? My father will not have, since he spends his time roaming the countryside causing grief of one sort or another. Wood needs at least two months to season, before being burnt. Last year we were late with it, and the burning of green wood all but smoked us out of the tower. Then there is the root cellar. When I left, it was already piled high with parsnips and carrots, safely covered with black woollen cloths to keep out the damp, but has anyone thought to lift the first of the turnips yet and bring them in? Anxiety and homesickness overwhelm me. I think with a pang of all my summer’s herbs so lovingly cut, dried and hung on their S-shaped metal hooks, filling the root cellar with pungency. This winter I shall be a guest in another house, and it will not be the same.

      We part company at the edge of the clearing. “Go carefully,” says John. “We’ll meet you back at James’s farm at sundown.”

      I guide my horse on to a less-used path towards Mere Point, which will keep me out of sight of Father’s watchman on the tower. The path is strewn with bright leaves. Berries like jewels glow on the stripped autumn trees. This is my first time alone in the woods since I was attacked. I duck under the low-hanging branches and ride deep into the forest, and everywhere I go two dead men with their throats cut march behind me.

       Chapter 7

      At Mere Point they are also chopping wood. Hugh and Gerald, red-faced and sweating, are swinging their axes at a pile of tree trunks near the edge of the clearing.

      “I’ll be along in a minute,” calls Hugh, as I head for the tower.

      The sea is far out, distant and innocent-looking under a wide blue sky. Sea birds drop and swoop in the great space below the cliff, turning deftly and rising again on the breeze.

      I find Aunt Juniper in the smokehouse at the side of the tower. She is standing on an old stool, hanging black sausages perilously over the glowing embers in the smoke-pit, where several sides of pork already hang. The atmosphere in the smokehouse is thick and greasy. Aunt Juniper looks round as she hooks the last looped sausage on to the chain, and turns the handle to trundle them along.

      “I should be asking you to do this for me, Niece,” she comments, “since heights appear not to trouble you.” She climbs down and embraces me. Her face is blotched from the heat. “Are you well? Safe and well and in one piece? Welcome, my dear. I’faith, young women today, not willing to be locked in towers any more. I don’t know what the world is coming to.” She laughs. “Have you come to visit Hugh?”

      I avoid replying, and instead wave to Hugh across the clearing as we walk towards the tower. Hugh wipes his face on his sleeve and waves back. Suddenly I feel very fond of him.

      “I’m smoking the pork with applewood this year,” my aunt continues. “Your mother’s was so good last year. What is she using this year? Do you know? I have forgotten to ask her with all this business of Verity going on.”

      “Rosewood and elder, I think.” I am glad to avoid more contentious topics as long as possible, but eventually the moment arrives when I am sitting opposite Aunt Juniper at the kitchen table, waiting for Hugh to come in, and there is no longer any getting away from it.

      “Auntie, I am here to tell you something. I must say this to you first. I cannot marry Hugh.” I say it as fast as I can, then wait.

      Aunt Juniper looks at me, then purses her lips and spreads her hands flat on the table. “Is it because of Parson Becker, Beatrice? They are saying you have a fondness for the parson… that you and he have a fondness for one another. Can this be true?”

      Hugh comes in. I can see from his face that he has been listening. His hands hang tired and red from hewing the wood. He is unsmiling.

      I turn in my seat. “I’m sorry, Hugh. You’re like a dear brother to me, and always will be. We’re too close to think of marrying. Please forgive me.”

      Hugh looks hurt and puzzled. He looks as if his pride is wounded, but I wonder if I am imagining that he also looks a little relieved. Aunt Juniper appears distressed and bewildered. “Is this attachment of yours to СКАЧАТЬ