Authors: Janice Robertson
The rumpus over, the mourners made their way to the church.
Singing the Lord’s Prayer, they cast circumspect glances back at the gypsies
who were turning their wagons into the field opposite.
‘Thanks for frightening those scary dogs off Dawkin and me,’
Eppie said gratefully to Wakelin. ‘I’m sorry pa shouted at you.’
He nodded, realising she understood his suffering. Hand-in-hand,
they strode into the graveyard.
Hymns were sung low and mournful, their steady flow broken
by occasional sobs and Hannah’s thunderous nose blowing.
Singing snatches of hymns, Eppie gazed upon the coffin. It
was draped with white linen, symbolising the death of an unmarried person. The
sun dipping behind bruised clouds, three candles, set into a candelabrum upon
the top of the coffin, glowed in the stony gloominess.
Eppie recalled how Lord du Quesne had forbidden villagers
from attending the funeral of Lady Constance. Longing to pay her respects, however,
she had discreetly shadowed the hearse. The last time she had seen Gabriel, when
he had given her the flute, he had told her how, although no windows or doors
were open in the church, a white robin had alighted upon his mother’s coffin.
It was his belief that the bird was the spirit of Talia.
Glum, black-headed sheep eyed the pensive mourners, who
silently crossed the close-cropped grass and stepped warily over little heaps
of droppings. Happier to see them, Blinkinsopp, the sexton, tossed down his
spade in expectation of the mourners’ offerings for his effort in preparing the
grave.
At the moment the coffin came to rest in the bowels of the
earth, the mourners heard du Quesne’s sharp demand, ‘How dare you camp here?’
The swarthy complexioned travellers were settled around a
blazing fire, one man playing a fiddle.
With a sweep of his tongue, du Quesne painted travellers
with the same unjust brush, ‘Your sorts of people are nothing but turnip-pilferers,
idlers and poachers. No, I do not want my fortune read. Leave my land this
instance or I will have you hung for theft of firewood.’
Flip clambered on top of Aunt Zelda’s upturned-rowing-boat
grave to get a better look. ‘Hey, look at Ranger!’
Hearing the boy’s shout, and unwilling to cause himself any
inconvenience in vaulting from his horse, du Quesne rode into the churchyard.
Vases bursting with garlands placed by loved ones on Flowering Sunday were
knocked flying by Ranger’s hooves.
Hector Lowford, not having quite the middling morning he had
expected, clapped his hands to his temples. ‘Sir, you must not ride that beast
in here! This is consecrated ground!’
‘Last night,’ du Quesne bellowed at the uneasy mourners, ignoring
the parson’s outburst, ‘some evil-disposed person maliciously hacked off my
horse’s tail. Ranger is a thoroughbred worth hundreds of guineas. Who amongst
you know something of this crime? I warn you, I will deal severely with any
person found to be withholding knowledge.’
Recalling Wilbert’s words at the inn, Eppie and Dawkin could
not help but cast furtive glances at Bill. He glared back, hard.
Dismounting his own steed beneath the lychgate, Maygott
hurried towards the mourners.
Aware of Wakelin scowling, du Quesne formed his own
supposition. ‘It was you, wasn’t it, Dunham!’
In astonishment, Eppie stared at Wakelin. For once short of
an answer he gaped like a half-wit, stunned at finding himself arraigned for
something he knew nothing about.
‘For sure it weren’t Wakelin, sir,’ Jacob said. ‘Straight
after his labours he came over and held vigil with Sarah and meself.’
Du Quesne was piqued that Wakelin should get away with the
crime. ‘But after that, Dunham,’ his rancorous words spilled out, ‘you stole
into my stables. Admit it!’
‘I didn’t do it, but if any one of us here did, I reckon he
had good cause.’
Gillow was expectant of trouble. ‘Bide your silence, boy.’
‘Why should I hold my tongue? I’ve done nowt wrong.’ Wakelin
deflected his wrath at du Quesne. ‘If some fellow’s chopped your horse’s tail,
as vengeance most like, it comes as no surprise to me. You keep us here like brainless
fowl, so poor we ‘ave to peck dust to stay alive on the miserly wages you dish
out.’
The huddle of workers murmured their agreement.
‘That’s preposterous,’ Maygott said. ‘Every man here is paid
a fair day’s wage for a fair day’s work. To demand more than you rightfully
earn is robbery.’
‘If it’s stealing you’re on about, what about these land
enclosures we’ve had to put up with?’ Wakelin asked.
‘Land enclosures can hardly be described as theft,’ du
Quesne replied. ‘Any cottager who is able to establish his claim is left with a
parcel of land.’
‘Please, sir,’ Percy Timmins piped up, ‘that scrap you gave
me an’ the missus ain’t enough to grow a string of peas.’
‘Claire and I have a good-sized plot, sir, but since losing
my job as bailiff I’m worse off,’ Henry put in. ‘Holding a quarter of an acre
or more of garden-ground renders me independent of any assistance from parish
relief. Besides, with these day-labourers coming in from afar and them prepared
to work for lower wages, well, that pushes my wages down further.’
‘We’d all be six feet under, like my girl, if it weren’t for
helping each other through the hard times,’ Wakelin declared. ‘Even if we knew
who’d slashed your horse we wouldn’t squeal.’
‘Yes, you are as thick as thieves,’ du Quesne answered, ‘each
and every one of you too cowardly to speak against him who has wronged me.’ Seeing
the black looks of his labourers, however, he began to regret that, distraught
at finding Ranger abused he had perhaps overstepped himself on this occasion. By
speaking in a slanderous manner to Wakelin he had incited the men’s wrath. Bad
feeling amongst his workers was not a risk he could take or, as had occurred at
other estates, he might find his hayricks blazing, thanks to the teaching of
agitators that landowning farmers are tyrants. He was all too aware that
reflexes of panic and class antagonism inflamed against the aristocracy by the
French Revolution were such as to remove inhibitions and to aggravate the
exploitative relationship between master and servants.
‘On this occasion, I shall let the matter drop,’ he said,
seeking to pacify the men. ‘Having been placed here by Divine Providence as a
landowner I feel the responsibility of my situation. God has allotted you to
your lowly path in life. It is your part to faithfully discharge your duties to
me and contentedly to bear its inconveniences.’
‘And ya can bet there’s plenty of ‘em,’ Bill grumbled. ‘These
men called at The Duck, trying to get us labourers to join their Friendly Society.
They reckon we should be asking you for a fixed minimum wage. With this war
against the Frenchies, prices have risen sky-high.’
‘Such organisations are a guise for revolutionary workers’
unions,’ du Quesne replied hotly. ‘It is within my power to have you severely
punished for conniving with these men. What I pay is more than generous and a
wage on which you can live.’
Wakelin glared at du Quesne with loathing eyes. ‘If you gave
us fair wages we could afford a physician when we get sick. Molly might’ve had
a chance to get better instead of coughing up her guts.’
‘God alone points the finger of death,’ du Quesne answered.
‘Beside which, you should be thanking, not castigating me. It was I who was
more than generous in tolerating the girl’s less than wholesome character. Frequently,
I was forced to reprimand her for her churlish attitude. Pert and obstinate,
she proved herself to be a wicked, meddling prevaricator. My housekeeper
informed me that the girl stole keys from her cupboard in order to gain
admittance to the scullery and the former nursery at the time when your mother
and sister besieged my home. If I had been acquainted with this knowledge
before the girl left my employment in failing health, I would have had no compunction
in seeing her thrown into jail. If anyone deserved death it was she.’
Tormented by du Quesne’s callous words, Wakelin emitted a vehement
cry. Leaping over the gaping pit he grabbed hold of Ranger’s reins and
attempted to drag du Quesne from his saddle.
His horse’s flanks pressed against encircling gravestones, the
terrified beast reared, kicking the air with his front legs. Ranger’s massive
belly became a living roof above the mourners. They backed off, shrieking, frightened
of being struck by the animal’s hooves.
Pounding down, perilously close to the crumbling edge of the
grave, the horse slithered. Loose earth rained upon the coffin lid, making dull
thuds.
Trying to force Wakelin to release the reins, du Quesne hit
out with the toe of his boot, catching him beneath the chin.
Undeterred, the light of madness in his eyes, Wakelin ripped
the hunting knife from his boot.
Gillow, sensing imminent disaster, sprang between du Quesne
and his son. A blast echoed and re-echoed around the graveyard.
Hit, as from a leaden object, his face an agony of surprise,
Gillow fell forwards. Blood drenched the jacket on his broad back.
‘No, Pa!’ Wakelin yelled, catching his father before he
crumpled to the ground.
A horrible quiet consumed the watchers.
Vapour, smelling strongly of gunpowder, drifted from the
barrel of du Quesne’s pistol.
Eppie was filled with a nebulous sensation, as though she
were watching the tragedy from afar. So overpowering was the stabbing in her
heart, though, she knew this to be no illusion.
Martha dropped to her knees beside her husband, dumbstruck
at what she was witnessing.
Lying with his head on Wakelin’s lap, his father forced open
his eyelids as though they were weighted with rocks. ‘I’m sorry, lad. I’ve … wronged
ya.’
‘Don’t die, Pa! It’s me what’s bad. Say ya forgive us. Say
it, Pa! Say ya forgive us!’
Focusing upon the iron-grey clouds, Gillow spoke in a
cracked whisper, blood trickling down the sides of his mouth. ‘So … cold.’
Smattering, the first drops of rain fell into his unseeing
eyes.
Christmas Eve. The white ghost of a
sun shed no warmth upon the slumbering land.
Following Gillow’s death nine months ago, Martha suggested to
Wakelin that he take up weaving.
‘I had enough of being cooped up, cropping at Strutt’s. I’m me
own man. No way am I gonna step into pa’s cold boots.’
Accepted as head of the household, he had grown serious of
spirit, his vision bent solely on keeping the family from poverty. Doggedly
driving him on was his determination to do right by his mother. Recognising
this, she had come to rely upon his strength of mind and body, believing his
rebellious streak to be spent. In truth, he was chomping at the bit like a
wilful pony, longing to get even with his father’s killer. Playing a waiting
game, he was watching for an opportunity when he could pounce and furtively
murder Robert du Quesne, without bringing the law of the land upon his head.
After Gillow’s death, du Quesne, for his part, had taken
refuge behind the power attendant upon his title and the capricious nature of
the law system. His revulsion at finding his horse’s tail shorn and his
contempt for Wakelin had been so overwhelming that it took him several days to
cool and realise the impact of having taken the life of an innocent man. It was
a disagreeable thought, but no more than having a bad taste in his mouth. By
degrees he spat out the notion until he felt whole again. Drawing himself up
tall and dignified in front of his labourers he convinced himself that not a
jot of blame could be thrown his way. His act had been one of
self-preservation. What he repressed in his subconscious was the truth that, on
that fateful day, he had been consumed by the idea of deadly revenge. The
weaver had simply got in the way of his nefarious resolve.
Working on the floor, surrounded by woodworking tools,
Wakelin was making Martha a pair of snowshoes, threading a latticework of
rawhide lacing onto a willow frame, with bindings to attach them to her feet. Over
the last few days he had been kept busy threshing barley in the barn at the
manor. Though a monotonous task, he was glad of the companionship of his fellow
workers.
Icy puddles splintered beneath the wheels of Haggard’s wagon
as he drew it to a halt before Dank Cottage. ‘Wakelin, is you about?’
‘Can’t come today,’ he shouted from the porch. In the
freezing weather the canals were iced over, so steersmen could not transport
fuel to Litcombe. ‘I’m off to the pit-mouth near Garn Hall to fetch a load of
coal for the manor. It means an extra shilling for my ma.’
‘So long as we’ve a good stock of wattles come spring,’
returned the hurdle-maker, urging his horse onward. ‘There’s bound to be a rush
for them at lambing time.’
Morose, Eppie was reluctant to leave the comfort of the
hearth. The sight she could see out of the window, of a frozen crow dangling
upside down by one leg in the oak tree, did little to raise her spirits. Beside
her, Lottie played merrily, banging a pewter mug with a spoon.
Wakelin reached for the fowling gun. ‘On the way, I’ll see
if I can kill summat for ya, Ma.’
Rolling skeins of wool onto a spindle, she nodded her
acquiescence. Though heavy fines, even imprisonment, or death, were the
punishments for those caught poaching, she no longer stopped him taking
firewood and the occasional meal from his lordship’s land. Nearly every other
man in the village was apt to carry out a little poaching to feed his family.
Being older and wiser her son was, she assumed, more adept about concealing his
illicit activities.
‘Wild creatures are simply that, wild,’ he had bawled at her
shortly after Gillow’s death, when she had expressed her worries about the
sinfulness of stealing. ‘If a pigeon perches in a tree belonging to du Quesne
why should that mean the bird belongs to him? Simply because a coney hops
across one of his fields, du Quesne can’t argue that it’s his property.’