Eppie (24 page)

He shook away his stupor. ‘Oh, yur. Stay here. I’ve found
summat yu’ll like.’ He strode off. ‘Knowing I was gonna bring ya here, I fetched
‘im along earlier.’

Unable to believe her luck, she did not linger. ‘He really
is such a guddy-ho at times,’ she thought. The footing treacherous, wet with
rain, she slipped almost immediately. 

In a trice he was upon her. ‘No running off, ya clodhopper.’

Prodding her in the back, he forced her to walk in front of
him.

In a clearing, she recognised Martha’s earthenware jar,
stamped with the words
Captain Green’s Mulligatawny Paste.

He levered off the wooden
top. Pieces of straw popped up. A zigzag along its slippery ribbon body, the
snake slithered to the ground, hissing. Eppie could not take her eyes off the
forked tongue darting in the adder’s swaying head.

‘I found him sleeping in pa’s
manure. He could kill ya with one bite. It’d be a long, sore death.’ Thrusting
a y-shaped twig over the snake’s neck, he whisked it towards her face. Seeing
her tingle with trepidation, he sniggered cruelly. With a sweep of his arm, he
hurled the creature into the torrent. Grimly, he stepped towards her. ‘Now it’s
your turn.’

An overwhelming feeling of
rejection swept through her. She spoke in a quiet, choked voice. ‘Ya loved me
once.’

Taken aback by her words, he
stared deep into her eyes. ‘I still do. Yet, I’ve never dared love ya too much.
I always knew yu’d come to hate me, in the end. Yuv gorra understand that’s why
this is so hard.’

‘You ain’t making no sense,
Wakelin. How can I understand what I’m meant to understand if I can’t
understand what I’m meant to understand? You’ve got me all of a quirl.’

‘It’s you what scares me.’

To her surprise he slumped
to his knees. Shoulders heaving, he sobbed.

She stared round at the
autumnal canopy of trees ruffled by the buffeting rain. This was her second
chance to flee, and this time, she thought, ‘I will not make a boffler of
things.’

Yet, an overwhelming wave of pity rooted her to the ground. Wakelin
was so much a part of her life. How could she leave him here without at least
trying to understand him?  Always, she longed to be close to him, craved this
more than anything. Only rarely did he desire her friendship. Even then, he
would clam up, or shout at her and slink off, leaving her wondering at his volatile
nature.  

Though there had been bad times, there had been good. It was
the better times she recalled. Like when Wakelin, so clever with his hands, had
crafted toy boats from wood. One spring morning, leaning over the packhorse
bridge, they dropped them into the swift current to see which would be the
first to reach the opposite side.

She pictured a day last summer when she and Wakelin had spotted
something slithering beneath the lettuce leaves on Gillow’s platter. The same
emotion bubbled inside now, remembering how hard it had been holding back the
laughter, both of them dying to know if he would eat it. Absorbed in
conversation with Martha, Gillow pronged, heartily chewed and swallowed the
slug, mistaking it for a slither of sliced boiled egg. The mere sight of him
glaring at them, poker-faced, unaware of the reason for their hilarity, caused
them to rupture into convulsed laughter, tears tearing down their cheeks.

She turned her smiling face towards Wakelin. He had stopped
crying and was glowering, a look of vengeance in his bleary, unblinking eyes.

Her blood froze.

Jaw hanging open, he rose to his feet, breathing in sharp,
laboured gasps.

Petrified, she took a faltering
step backwards, realising her chance for freedom was lost.

Leaving lagging wagons behind, unaware of the baffled looks
of their occupants, Gabriel galloped on Wayward. In the whirlwind of his dash,
rain lashed his eyes and showered from his hair. Far off, he caught the sound
of Twiss’s distressed howls.  

Dismounting, he hammered on the cottage door. ‘Eppie!’

He did not await a reply, but burst in.

Finding the loft deserted, he vaulted to the ground.

Gillow was dead to the world, lying with his arms flung over
his head, his snoring sounding like the creaking of an unoiled door.

Twiss jerked on the chain as
the boy approached. Trusting to his split-second judgement that the dog would
not attack, he released him. ‘Go Twiss, go find Eppie!’

Eppie’s eyes fixed on the
hilt of the jack-knife projecting from the leather sheath inside Wakelin’s
ploughman’s boots.

He took a swig from his
pocket pistol. ‘I can’t do this in cold blood.’ He thrust it at her. ‘’ere, you
tek a nip.’

‘What is it?’ she asked, startled by the request. ‘I
mightn’t like the taste.’

 He stood with his legs
straddled, tense. ‘It don’t marra if you like the taste or not, ya dunderhead. Drink!’

 ‘Won’t, ‘less ya tell me
what it is.’

 ‘It’ll mek ya sog.’

 ‘I don’t wanna go to sleep! I want mammy.’ 

 ‘Yur, I bet ya do, ownee ya don’t know what yer asking for.’

‘Why do you always talk in riddles?’

‘Just drink! You don’t like it when I get angry with ya, ya
obstinate little girl.’

‘Don’t call me a little girl. Call me by me proper name.’

‘Yur, you’d like that, wouldn’t ya,’ he asked scornfully.

‘Of course I would. The way you rattle on, you make it sound
like I’m a nowter.’

In his wild fury, terrified of what he must do, he shook her
violently by the shoulders, slopping some of the liquid over her clothing. ‘Drink!
Drink! Drink!’

‘No!’

‘You half-wit girl, can’t ya see that you are a nowter! You’d
have been a nowter if you’d have been one of them nowters. Not being a nowter,
you’re still a nowter. Understand?’

She opened her mouth to argue back, but instantly found his
hands gripping her chin in an attempt to pour the laudanum-gin down her throat.
The taste was foul. Bitter.

Giving up all hope of salvation, she sank upon a rock and
spat out the sickly taste. She gave a thin, frightened moan. ‘What’ve I done wrong?
I don’t want you to be cruel and hate me.’

As though a thunderstorm brewed inside him, he reached down
and swept her off her feet.

‘No!’ she screamed, her stomach seemingly left behind as he
whirled her around.

Teeth
gritted, he leapt to the precipice, ready to hurl her in.

Dizzy,
helpless, she clung tightly onto the back of his jacket.

Mighty,
the roar of the brimming river mingled with the throbbing terror in her heart.

Consumed by abhorrence at
his power over life and death he recoiled and dropped her to her feet. ‘I
can’t! I won’t do it! If I did, I’d be no better than that scum, Thurstan.’

Desperately sobbing, she
encircled her arms about his waist, petrified lest he have a change of heart.

Vaguely, she was aware of barking.

His frozen feelings of love thawed and he thrust his fingers
through her tangled hair. ‘I’m sorry, Eppie. I should never have brung ya here.
It seemed the easiest way at the time. I see now, no matter how much I long to
be free, I’m trapped. Not by them but by you, ‘cos of me love for you. It digs
down, real deep.’

‘Let’s go home? I promise not to tell mam what you’ve done.’

‘Aye. We’ll go home, together.’ 

Fixed on getting them away from this raw, windswept ravine,
he took her hand in his. A blue tinge swept his cheeks.

A spasm of pain twisting inside his body, he doubled over,
crying out in agony.

‘What is it?’ Eppie asked, guessing, though, that he was about
to have one of his fits.

Falling awkwardly, he tumbled against her.

Caught off-balance, she stumbled towards the cliff edge.

Squealing, frantic, she swept with her arms, seeking
anything to clutch at, anything to stop her plummeting into the gorge. Found
nothing. Nothing! Only air.

Gabriel reached out and grasped her by the hand.

Fetching
the cart onto the lane, Gillow spoke appreciatively to Eppie. ‘You’ve done a
good job of knocking the muck off the wheels.’

Martha ambled up with
Eppie’s straw bonnet. ‘Typical man, he hasn’t even noticed what a beauty you’ve
made of Jenny.’ 

Eppie had spent much of
yesterday preparing for the trip to the fair, polishing the harness, and
weaving braids into the horse’s mane and tail. Adding to her excitement,
Gabriel was expected back from Bath today.

Betsy was hoeing around herbs
in her garden. ‘Don’t forget to bring me back a biskey.’

‘Are you sure you won’t come?’ Martha asked.

‘The black ox has well and
truly stamped on my bad foot,’ the elderly lady said, alluding to the fact that
she was past gallivanting.

Eppie stared at the still reins. ‘Why does Wakelin always
take so long to get ready?’ 

The Hix family overtook, also on the way to the fair.

Eppie stamped her foot, giving Jenny a surprise. ‘Huff! All
these carts are passing. We’ll never
get there.’

Gillow was amused. ‘Patience isn’t exactly one of your virtues
is it?’

Wakelin trotted back from the earth toilet. ‘Need us
pennies.’

Eppie grudged the further delay. Whipping the reins from
Gillow’s hands, she gave them a sharp flick and shouted at the gaping doorway,
‘We’re off!’

Without bothering to shut the door, Wakelin pelted after
them, his hob-nail boots ringing on the lane. ‘Hey, wait for us!’ 

Eppie shot a glance over her shoulder. ‘Get a shift on, old lead
feet.’ 

Gillow guffawed at his son’s misfortune. Twiss leapt about
in delight, his tail wagging.

‘Now you’re in trouble,’ Martha told Eppie as Wakelin dived
into the cart.

‘You little joker!’ he cried.

Eppie squealed as he dragged her into the back. ‘I was going
apple bobbing at the fair, but seeing as your cheeks are as red as apples, I
think I’ll have a nibble now.’

She shrieked at the ghastly sensation of his slobbery
munches on her cheeks.

‘As your penance, I’ll force you to drink a hot brandy an’
cider. You can buy me one an’ all.’

‘I will if it only costs half a farthing.’

‘If you’re that poor, I suppose I’ll have to buy
you
summat.
Hunch of pie or cake?’

She flung her arms around his neck. ‘Cake, cake!’

Clambering back to sit between Martha and Gillow, she sighed.
‘I wish we were there now. Will I see the mayor?’

‘I imagine you’ll be too busy rushing around the stalls and
sideshows,’ Gillow answered. ‘You’ll certainly hear the cannons fired from the
castle to mark the re-inauguration.’

‘I’d love to see the king. Have you met him, Pa?’

‘I can’t say that I’ve had that privilege.’

‘What’s so special about him?’ Wakelin asked. ‘He reckons
cows grow on trees.’

‘Our sovereign knows more about smallholding than you ever
will,’ his father retorted. ‘He might be a simple man, but he is kindly and
provides a moral example to folk through his virtuous way of life.’

Robert du Quesne overtook them in his carriage.

Wakelin’s eyes danced with mirth. ‘There’s a man in a hurry.
Mayor Attington must be offering free liquor to all the lords in the parish. I
bet du Quesne is friends with the king. They’re both crazed.’

‘You’re the only one I know who is out of their mind, especially
after last night,’ his father retorted.

Sneaking into the larder, Wakelin had fished pickled onions
out of an earthenware jug and dropped in ox eyeballs. During his evening meal,
not looking what he was doing, Gillow was about to take a bite out of one, but
was alerted to Wakelin’s ploy when Eppie screeched with revulsion at the sight.

‘That capswabbled you all,’ Wakelin said, sniggering. ‘I
don’t know why none of you wanted to eat ‘em. They was fresh.’

‘No one, except you,’ his father answered, toppling out of his
seat as he glared round at his son, ‘thought it was the least bit funny.’

‘Ah, don’t be such a grumpy chops.’

 Gillow frowned, his bushy eyebrows meeting in the middle. ‘How
dare you talk to me like that?’

 ‘Easily.’ Slumping dejectedly against the side of the cart,
Wakelin screwed up his eyes as Twiss licked his face. ‘I can talk how I like.
I’m a growed man.’

 ‘Well, you don’t act or talk like one.’

 Martha was aggravated by the trouble brewing between
husband and son. ‘I wanted this to be a happy day. I’ve only come along to
please you all.  I should really be at home with my feet up, especially as the
baby’s due in a few weeks.’

Gillow cast a concerned look at her. ‘If you’re feeling off
would you rather we go back?’

‘Don’t be daft. Eppie’s been excited about the guild fair
for weeks. Besides, I can’t trust you two to look after her once you’ve got a
few ales inside you.’

Passing the last of the wood-fringed lakes beyond Lynmere,
they topped the hill. Before them was swept the crowded market with its ordered
procession of stalls. Gay buntings depicting gold crowns flapped upon the battlement
of the Norman castle, which scrutinized the blithe occasion through
multifarious arrow-slit and cannon-blasted eyes. 

Nestling in a field beyond the castle was the fair, from
which arose the discordant notes of a brass band competing against the pipes of
a barrel organ.

Today there seemed a greater number of standings along Swine
Market Street, selling all manner of goods from seed-ploughs to meat, flax and
stockings. A disgruntled market official wove amongst the stalls, checking the
quality and value of pots, pans and knives on sale.