North Side of the Tree. Maggie Prince

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      She shakes her head. “First Verity, now you, going your own ways. What’s happening to the world, Beatrice? I warrant the queen started all this, setting her face against good husbands, God bless her. I’m sure I don’t know where it will all end.”

      Uncle Juniper comes in, hurls a log on the kitchen fire and claps me on the shoulder. “They’re real killers, my new dogs, Beatrice,” he booms. “Canst hear ’em, out in t’barn?” I smile and nod, and he goes to sit in a corner and scratch himself in private places.

      Aunt Juniper leans her elbows on the table. “Beatrice, I would like to think you will not make any hasty decisions about this.”

      Hugh turns away, flushing with anger. “Mother, she has decided. Your plans cannot always go to order.” He marches out.

      Aunt Juniper watches him in astonishment, then continues as if she had not been interrupted. “You see how much you have upset him, Beatrice? I hope now that you will reconsider. ’Tis no wonder you have been shut up in your room, with such wilfulness on display. Have you and your sister no thought at all for the work and distress your behaviour causes? Marriage is a serious business, not a matter for idle preferences. In heaven’s name, what sort of income do you imagine a village priest will have? A lot of thought and planning goes into securing your futures and your fortunes, to give you the best security you can have. I don’t mind doing it. It’s no more than my duty. But Gerald already has to be found someone else, with Verity gone. I’m considering Mistress Fairweather of Hagditch. She’s badly pocked, but has fortune enough to make up for that, and is very young to have been left a widow. Gerald would make her – or anyone – a splendid husband.” She pauses, as if struck by an idea. “You wouldn’t consider…?”

      I bite my lip. “I think I’m unfitted for marriage, Aunt. To anyone. Truly, I am not ready even to think about it.”

      We sit in silence for a while. Hugh returns and pours elderflower wine and hands it round. He gives me a brief, rueful look, a glimpse of the old Hugh, which fills me with a strange pang of relief and regret. Aunt Juniper intercepts it. She asks quickly, “Would you care to come and stay here, Niece, rather than at the parsonage? Your uncle and cousins would protect you from your father. You need have no fear of that. You would be closer to Verity and to your mother. It would be a blessing for me to have another woman in the house. You could read Holy Writ to me of an evening, whilst I sew.”

      There are voices in the gatehouse. We all look round. I have been half aware of someone arriving on horseback. Now Gerald enters, glancing behind him, holding out his hand to an unseen figure. A woman’s voice answers him, whispering uncertainly. Gerald steps back, vanishes, then returns with his arm round Germaine, forcing her forward. Aunt Juniper stands up, staring at Gerald’s arm. “What in heaven’s name are you doing, Gerald?” she exclaims. “What are you doing with that serving woman?”

      He moves forward into the kitchen, and Germaine has no choice but to move with him. “I’m glad you welcome the presence of another woman in the house, Mother,” Gerald says. He kisses the top of his mother’s head. “Germaine is coming to live here. She is coming to stay with us.”

      One look at Aunt Juniper’s face seems to indicate that this is a good moment to leave. I move round the table kissing each of them on the cheek, though hardly noticed by them in their shock-eyed immobility. I stroll out into the bright autumn afternoon, full of relief that my own mission is completed, overwhelmed by startled admiration for Gerald and Germaine, that they have dared to do this.

      It is whilst I am mounting my horse outside the stables that I first hear the sound. I hear it, then it is lost again amongst the faint beat of axes that resounds all round the bay. I stop and listen, one foot in the stirrup. The sound comes again. It is different from the woodcutting. It has rhythm and resonance. It grows louder then fades, carried on gusts of wind across the water, two slow beats and three fast, the sound of a drum. I mount up. I cannot imagine what a drum is doing on a clear autumn day with winter coming on and no conflicts threatened, but it seems unimportant, and as my mind returns to the confrontation probably going on behind me in Mere Point Tower, I soon forget about it.

      John and the bishop have already returned to Low Back Farm, when I arrive there. They meet me, with Verity and James, at the gate.

      “How did you…?” I scarcely need ask how they fared. Their expressions tell me.

      “We gained entry,” the bishop tells me as he helps me down from my horse. “That much we did achieve, but only to be harangued at great length and ejected again. Your father did not wish to listen to reason.”

      I see to my horror that he has a red swelling on the side of his face. “And this, sir?”

      “The doorpost. In his haste to see us on our way, your father deemed some assistance was necessary.”

      I stand with my hand to my mouth. This is worse, far worse, than I had anticipated. “Oh, I am so sorry. I am so sorry. Please excuse him. He is unused to suggestions from others as to how he should behave.”

      “I have forgiven him,” the bishop declares graciously. “I think it probably does me good to experience life amongst the farther reaches of my wild and scattered flock. It has a most humbling effect.”

      Verity widens her eyes at me, and I know that despite everything, she feels inclined to side with my father. She leads the bishop indoors, to soothe him with wine and cakes. James hesitates, preferring to stay with us, whom he knows, but when John catches hold of my arm and holds me back, James follows them indoors.

      “What?” I respond to John’s anxious expression.

      “There’s something else, Beatie. Your father – I think he is unwell.”

      I stare at him in alarm. “In what way, John?”

      “His colour is bad. It is most unwholesome looking, a very choleric purple in his cheeks and nose, and he seemed short of breath. I suggested to him that he needed a doctor, but the idea seemed to drive him into a further rage. I do think it would be wise for him to consult either a doctor or the Cockleshell Man, before the day is out.”

      “Was my mother there?”

      “No. Was she not at your aunt’s?”

      “No.”

      “Then she will be with Cedric.”

      I glance at him. “Do you disapprove?” When he does not reply, I save him the embarrassment of having to, by adding, “I think I should go and take a look at my father. I will ask James if George and Martinus may accompany me.”

      “I’ll come with you.”

      “I think not, thank you John.”

      When I explain my intention to Verity, she also insists on accompanying me. James, John and the bishop escort us up the valley to the edge of the clearing, and watch as Verity, the two henchmen and I go on alone. As we draw near to the barmkin I can see that Michael, the new henchman, is keeping watch on the battlements. We see him calling down to someone. A moment later the door of the pele tower flies open and my father rushes out.

      Although there are four of us, we instinctively draw back. I see at once what John referred to. My father’s face is dark purple, and as he comes nearer, I hear his breath gurgling in his chest like water from a bottle.

      “Daughters!” he shouts, and teeters СКАЧАТЬ