A Traveller in Time (14 page)

“Haste thee, Penelope. Thy aunt calls thee. There's work waiting and thou in the fields roaming like a boy. Thou mun make the pastry flowers and leaves for the pies and pasties,” said Tabitha, beckoning me indoors.

I went to the kitchen and found the great baking in progress, the preparation of food for a large household. Enormous pasties were stuffed with pigeons and larks, which Margery and Tabitha had prepared, geese and capons were roasting, and Jude turned them before the fire, his eyes glancing round maliciously. I sat at the table to shape the roses and leaves out of strips of paste, to trim the pies. It was my work, Dame Cicely said, and my fingers were nimble for it. Town fingers were better than country ones when it came to making ornaments, and doubtless I had seen fine devices at the pastrycook's.

There was a ham baked in honey syrup and spiked with cloves, and brawn and pigs' pettitoes soused, and tansy puddings.

When I had finished my task the table was cleared and scrubbed and the servants' dinner was set, with pewter plates and a horn-handled knife apiece, and a polished drinking-horn for the small ale and cider. I looked round for the forks but saw none, and Aunt Cicely was surprised at my inquiry. Mistress Babington had a silver fork and so had Master Anthony, but we used our fingers, and so did Master Francis. What were fingers given to us for, she asked, if not for eating? Forks were a newfangled habit from the Italians, and not for honest Englishmen.

I sat down to the table for I was very hungry, and the good smells of roasting and baking meats filled the air. I ate first some solid white pudding, heavy with lumps of fat which I carefully removed.

“You're too pernickety,” cried Dame Cicely. “London living's spiled you for wholesome vittles,” but secretly I dropped the scraps on the rushes for the dogs to eat. On the same plate I had a wedge of pasty stuff with pigeon and herbs and chopped apple. I ate this with my fingers, like the others—Aunt Cicely, Tabitha, Margery and a thin-faced girl called Moll. The men sat at a long trestle table and I was glad, for their manners were uncouth, and they spat out the food they did not like.

The drinking-horns were filled with ale, made in the brew-house across the yard, from our own barley. There was honey-mead for those who wanted it, but I wished for water. I knew where the spring was, for I had often filled the kettle for Aunt Tissie, and I ran out now with a leather jug.

On my way I passed a small room where a spinning-wheel clacked, and a girl sat turning the wheel and spinning the wool. She nodded and smiled and I went to her. She touched my dress and wondered at its smoothness of texture, and asked if my mother had spun the wool and dyed it in Chelsey. I said we had bought it in a shop.

“Ah! On London Bridge! I've seen the water of the Thames swirling under the arches, and I've been to the shops on the bridge. My name is Phoebe Drury, and I was born at Bow, but I've been in service here for ten years. Tell me, Penelope, have you seen the queen? They say she has a dress for every day of the year and her stomachers are stiff with pearls and rubies.”

I confessed I hadn't, although I had heard of the richness of her dress. Then I went out for the water, which came bubbling from the same spring, in crystal coils jutting from the ground. As I sipped the earthy coldness of it, cupping it in my hand, I was aware once more of the continuity of life, as if I were part of events past, present, and to come, and I could choose my way among them.

They were all talking when I returned, telling tales of magic and wonders, of fire-eaters and performing animals, speaking of a bear led by a warder which danced at Darby Fair, and a horse which talked at Nottingham Goose Fair. Yes, they said, the horse could tell the hour like the nightwatchman, and it pawed the name of Queen Bess. The serving men were leaning back, drinking from their horns, joining in the discourse. They spoke of Master Anthony, how he was visiting the farms on his estates, collecting his dues, paying wages owed, hearing complaints, and being well received, because his manner was affable, with no conceit or arrogance. He was going hunting in the great woods which stretched across the hills, and the huntsmen were to meet at a little manor hidden in the woods. There was new life coming to Thackers, they said, for the news of his homecoming had spread, and pedlars came with many-coloured ribbons and laces, coifs and silks, men who had been with gewgaws to Sheffield Castle. Dame Cicely had bought a bunch of ribbons that morning, and Mistress Babington had chaffered for a silver lacing and tassels of gold for her dress. Song-writers sent ballads to please him, and presents were arriving for his birthday.

Then the old shepherd seated at the men's table spoke up in quavering high-pitched tones.

“There ain't no good coming here. There's evil abroad. I've seed a comet in the heavens when I was a-minding sheep, and it bodes no good. Something harmful's coming,” said he, mournfully. “Young mester won't bide here, where he was born and bred. He won't bide. Stars are agin him.”

“He's going to Paris, that city of Satan,” said another, and the old shepherd shook his head. “He won't bide here,” he repeated, “and there's a comet in the sky.”

“All clever noblemen go to Paris and Rouen where there is much learning. There's no harm. Be silent,” cried Dame Cicely shortly. But the aged shepherd would not be silenced, and he mumbled on.

“It's for the Queen of Scotland's sake, and I dunno hold with her. She's in league with the Spaniards, and they'd utterly destroy us, like flax in the fire. I 'member things you young folk forget. I 'member tales of fire and burning in Queen Mary's reign. Those bloody days will come again if Spain gets here. Aye, we shall all be consumed like flax in the flames.”

“Master Anthony wouldn't agree to that,” said another. “For he loves his land, but he says the Scottish queen should be set free.”

“True,” said Dame Cicely. “So she should, for she'll be Queen of England some day, and Master Anthony will be rewarded.”

“If she doesn't die in prison first,” said Tabitha. “I heard she was ill and like to die a time back.”

“The Scottish Queen is a murderess. She's the Scarlet Woman,” shouted a young man with a fierce, dark face. “She plotted with Bothwell to blow up her husband, and the Scots wouldn't have her. She shall never be Queen of England.”

Several sprang to their feet, crying out on him, and seizing him. Such a hubbub arose that Dame Cicely was in a fine to-do, shaking her hands and crying out to be silent, the mistress would hear. Blows were struck and blood flowed and dishes were overturned for loyalties divided the house and some were for one and some for another, although I could see that all were for Master Anthony and his kindred.

I slipped out of the room, filled with dismay, and I ran along the passage, past the still-room with its odours of simples, past the spinning-room where Phoebe cried out to know what was the matter, but I didn't stop. I was seeking someone, looking for a dear, familiar face, a warm hand to hold, a voice to bring courage.

I crossed the panelled hall, where I had never been before. I caught a sight of the great sword and long bow hanging on the wall. They had belonged to Thomas Babington who fought at Agincourt with King Henry V, Mistress Foljambe had told me. They hung on either side of the crest.

“Foy est Tout,” I read, and I stopped for a minute to look up at the words which I had seen in the church, and I whispered them to myself as I climbed the oak staircase.

Below me at the end of the room sat Anthony and his family. Francis caught the flash of my skirt as I turned the corner. Footsteps came after me, and I hurried along the passage, past the door of Mistress Foljambe's room. Through a crack I could see the walls with their painted beasts and birds but I went on. I felt that I had to get away, or I might never reach those I sought. I passed other doors each with carved fruit at the lintel. and I came to the steps at the end. I ran softly up, my feet making no noise, my step light as air. Everywhere was silent, quiet as a dreamless sleep, the footsteps had died away, no one could find me. I lifted the latch and walked through to the landing I knew so well.

The air was different, the smells were homely—odours of primroses and fresh linen, for the oak chest was open and a clothes-basket full of sheets lay near. I had left the spiced and rich life behind me in summer's heat, to return to the cooler days of spring. I looked at my watch. Its fingers had not moved. The inexorable hours, the racing minutes were fused into one bright second into which I had gone undiscovered, sharing the ether with those unseen ones, breathing their rare atmosphere, living a life heightened by danger, returning with a dim memory of these things.

I looked at myself in the little mirror. My cheeks were flaming-red, my arms were sunburnt, but another sun had warmed them. The hot passions of those days flowed in my veins, I felt transfigured, old, wise, knowing a thousand things of which I had been barely conscious. Strangely moved by the knowledge that I was separated from that life by only the thinnest vapour, I went downstairs, my little watch ticking the minutes away, awakened from its sleep.

As I became accustomed to this journey in time and this transformation of scene, I found myself remembering less of the present, I became more absorbed in the past through my love for those whom I met there. Yet I knew there was a possibility I might not come back, and it was this knowledge which later on tainted my experience with fear. Sometimes I must have made the journey unknown to myself, when I slept, for they were not surprised at my reappearances, they evidently expected me. I, who had always been a dreamer, seldom awoke in the long nights at Thackers. I lay with my head nested on the downy pillow, unmoving till Aunt Tissie came into the room and the sunshine broke through the curtains. Perhaps I sped through time to the Elizabethan's home and shared the servitude of Dame Cicely, and returned while my body lay in that deep sleep. I brought no consciousness of my travelling, I lost all as one forgets a dream on awakening. When I went there in those flashes which I relate, I had an uneasy feeling that I had been there more often than I could remember. I was not a stranger, my feet moved unhesitatingly across the floors; I opened cupboards and presses aware of the contents, the taste of strange dishes was palatable to my lips. I shivered as I thought of this unknown journey, for I clung to the dear familiar things of life and I was not prepared to venture into the past unwittingly lest I should be caught and captured for ever in that time.

I only went once more, knowingly, into the secret life which moved alongside our humdrum country days before we went back to London. Whenever I stood on the landing waiting for the miracle to happen, the doors I saw were those of our own rooms, the wall was solid as reality, there was no entry into the past days.

It was after church on the last Sunday that I found my way there again. I sat in the Babington pew between Aunt Tissie and Alison, for Ian had refused to attend the monthly service and preferred to help Jess. Uncle Barnabas was left at home to look after the dinner. He said his duty was done without any psalm-singing, for already he had rung the solitary bell which went ding, ding, ding. I asked him where the other bells were, for in the old days there was a gay peal of six bells. Perhaps they had been melted down for cannon, or sold by somebody in the days of poverty which came to Thackers after Anthony Babington's death—he did not know.

I thought of this as I sat in church. Overhead were the oak rafters where a swallow flew to feed her young. Beyond I could see the carved shield with the motto: “Foy est Tout”. Somewhere else I had seen those words, but I could not remember where. Through the windows, whose richly stained glass was now replaced by plain, the branches of the yewtrees moved in the wind. Uncle Barnabas told me that villagers came to the churchyard for a hundred years for their yew bows, and the wood where we picked our bluebells was called Bow Wood because many yews once grew on its heights.

I listened to the words of the parson, a dreary man who sent us all to sleep. “For thine is the kingdom for ever and ever,” he intoned.

“For ever and ever and ever,” I whispered again, and a mist swam over my eyes. The village people whom I knew, the blacksmith and carpenter, the postman and schoolmaster, faded away, and another congregation was there, in wimple and kirtle and leather breeches and cloth doublet. They used the same words, “for ever and ever”.

In the pulpit was a stern man who scolded them severely for all their misdeeds. Timothy Tailor had not paid his tithes, Adam Buckley had beaten his wife, Tom Snowball had slept during the sermon. I thought I saw Mistress Babington beside me, but Anthony was not in the square oak pew with the arms carved on the door. The air was hot and sultry, there was a strong smell of straw and birch branches under my feet. I staggered for I could hardly breathe.

Aunt Tissie caught me and the ghostly congregation faded away. She led me across the yard back to the farm. There was dear Uncle Barnabas in the kitchen, with a monster spoon basting the roast beef. He was much concerned over my faintness. He ought to have opened the church windows, he said.