Eppie (40 page)

‘I purposefully brought you for the skating,’ he answered
irritably, shoulders tightening. Aware of her jaded sullenness, he sought to
cajole the callow woman. ‘With such comely feet as yours I am sure that,
together, we shall skate divinely in poetica. But first, carpe diem, quam
minimum credula postera: let us eat, drink and be merry.’

Beside a chandler’s tent, boys were egging their friend on to
jump a lofty row of candles set up as a game of leap-candle. Tallow candles
were expensive with the high levy on them to help pay for the war against
France. Eppie and Martha hated rushlights and would rather go to bed early than
suffer the smell of them. Lingering at the display, Eppie picked up a yule
candle and
decided to buy it for Martha.

Tired of waiting for the chandler to wrap it with his clumsy
fingers, she glanced around. Grinling and Agnes Clopton were conversing with
their brother Fulke. Agnes’s small head and scrawny neck projected from a cloak
trimmed with ermine, an unusually fine adornment for a poorhouse matron, giving
her a vulture-like look. Aware of Eppie gazing at her, Agnes glared back, disdainfully.

It was then that Eppie noticed a furtive watcher. Squire
Bulwar, his bloated face looking not dissimilar to a vinegar-soused pig’s head hanging
on a nearby stall, was rubbing his chins in deep thought. Only when Dawkin
turned from the stall with the candle did she realise that the squire was glaring
not at her, but at him.

All of Litcombe seemed to have taken
to the ice. Everywhere people struck out, some skating alone, others in pairs,
hands linked across their chests.

Tired from their exertions, skaters wove their way towards
the island for refreshments. A butcher’s audacious decision to lead his pony to
the island was paying off, for he was doing a roaring trade, roasting meat over
a flaming brazier.

For the benefit of non-skaters a line of sacks had been laid
across the ice, forming a walkway that linked the shore with the island.

Eppie and Dawkin donned their skates.

Twiss, now an old dog, with ashen flecks of age in his fur,
nestled beside Wicker for a snooze upon a heap of discarded sacks.

Cautiously, Dawkin pushed onto the lacerated surface. ‘This
doesn’t feel safe.’

Thrusting her arms away from her body, whirling, pumping,
Eppie sought to maintain her balance, but fell in a heap. ‘I can’t imagine why
mam would think this is fun.’

‘I guess we’ll get used to it after a few hours of practice.’

‘I can’t wait that long!’ Knees apart, head dangling between
hunched shoulders as though battling against a strong wind, she advanced,
slowly. 

Dawkin waited for her to catch up. ‘You look like a duck that’s
about to lay an enormous egg.’ 

A boy raced recklessly towards them. The tip of his skate scuffing
into the ice, he smacked into Dawkin and sent him sprawling.

‘And you look like a
scrambled
egg!’ Eppie said,
giggling.

In place of the skates he lacked, a pauper boy had tied sacks
over his feet. Fetching out a tin that looked to contain horse grease he rubbed
at the coarse material, lubricating it so that the makeshift skates would not
stick to the ice.

Despondently, Eppie watched him speed away. ‘I think I’d
rather have sacks on my feet.’ Lowering her eyes, she determinedly made a fist
of her dropped hands, steeling herself to do more than simply balance
precariously. However, as soon as she got up a bit of speed, one or the other
leg took off of its own accord and, tottering, she would crumple onto the
glassy surface. Agitatedly, she slapped her elbows, knocking away frostings.

‘Eppie, are you coming sledging?’ It was Ella, riding in a
red sleigh, her father at the reins.

Eppie had often seen George at work on the sleigh in his
workshop. She rubbed her mittened fingers over the graceful bows. ‘It’s like a
Viking long ship.’

She and Dawkin clambered in, joining a tribe of carefree,
chattering children who had crammed in toboggans. The white ponies set off to
the northern vales, silver bells around their necks ringing gaily.  

George inclined his head towards the sun riding in a pale
blue sky. ‘The ice won’t last. It’s a wonder it hasn’t cracked already under
the weight of all these folk.’

Firs dotted the sloping valleys and broke through snow that
sparkled in drifts.

Panting, the children came to the summit of the hill. Esmond
staggered towards them. ‘Gyles tobogganed into a tree!’ Animatedly, he simulated
the accident. ‘Whoosh! Crash!’

‘Is he much hurt?’ Ella asked in concern. 

‘No idea. He’s run off home to ma.’ He dropped the sledge at
Dawkin’s feet. ‘Wanna go, Daw? It’s real good, dead slippery and hard to stop.’

Peering over Dawkin’s shoulder, Eppie cast a look of
circumspection down the precipitous ice ride, trying to conquer her sense of
rising anxiety. Worn smooth by countless sledges wending down the valley, its
hummocky surface glinted. Not wishing to be left out, Wicker leapt aboard. Dawkin
tucked the badger between his legs and kicked off.

Twiss howled, trying to follow but Ella, knowing the dog was
almost deaf and might be struck by a toboggan, kept a grip on his scruff. 

Zipping beneath branches, bowed with powdery stiff snow, the
children were rapidly lost from sight, though their voices, shrieking in
exaltation, were clearly audible upon the hilltop. 

Eppie charged back up, her cheeks glowing with exertion. ‘Another
go?’

Dawkin’s breath smoked in the wintry air.  He returned her
grin.

After a few more rides they waded to join children who were putting
the finishing touches to a snow farmer who frowned down on them from coal eyes
set close to a carrot nose. Melted ice soaked into Eppie’s mittens. Though her
hands hurt from chilblains, she was not going to miss out on the fun.

Gyles ploughed towards them, waving his enormously bandaged
hand. ‘Only sprained worst luck.’

With the toe of his boot, Esmond drew a line in the snow. ‘Everyone
throw from here. The winner’s the one who knocks the apple off the snow farmer’s
hat.’

‘Miles past!’ Flip sang out rudely, seeing the attempts of
other children. ‘Get your eyes glued on this.’  His ball landed with a plop, away
to the left.

Pip cast her brother a disparaging glance. ‘You couldn’t
fling a horse patty.’

Orderly turn-taking veered towards mayhem.

‘Won’t you have a go?’ Eppie beseeched Dawkin.

‘It wouldn’t be fair.’

‘They’re getting nowhere fast. Wicker would love an apple.’

He gathered a handful of snow and sauntered to the line. All
around him the children, dismayed with their dismal shots, ceased throwing.
Silence descended. One by one they turned to watch him standing stock-still,
sizing up the target.

With a rapid over-arm throw he launched the snowball. It
smacked into the apple, dead centre. Whooping in delight, the boys swept off
their caps and tossed them into the air. Girls fluttered around Dawkin, astounded
by his skill and marvelling at his radiant good looks.   

All too soon it was late afternoon. Snow spun aimlessly in
the bitter wind, swirling around the higher slopes.

From the island drifted the smell of wood smoke and roasting
chestnuts.

Dawkin’s nose twitched.  ‘I don’t know about you, Ep, but I
fancy something hot.’

Drifting along in George’s sleigh they saw Thurstan gliding
upon the ice, the tip of his sword sticking out like the spur on a fighting
cockerel.

Eppie watched him twirl as fast as a spinning coin. ‘I wish
I could do that.’

‘He’s a show off,’ Dawkin muttered, a pang of jealousy in
his voice.

Thurstan swirled towards Millisande, who appeared less
confident, her arms waving as though she was wading chest-high in water. Seeing
her take a tumble, Eppie winced in sympathy. ‘Miss Milli’s not having the best
of days.’

Upon the island, they stretched their hands to the fire and
stamped their frozen toes. 

‘Get your puppy dog pies here!’ rang out the staccato voice
of a pie-man.

Sidling to the barrow, Eppie stared at the puny-sized pies
on a gridiron, wondering whether or not, as meat was in short supply in winter,
the man spoke in jest.

‘Here, grab a hold!’ Dawkin shoved a jacketed potato, in a
greasy wrapper, into her hand.

‘Ow!’ she shrieked, biting into the cheese. Nursing her
burnt tongue, she cast an eye around for Twiss and Wicker. She spotted them
scavenging on discarded bones littered beneath the butcher’s cart. 

Sacks still tied to his feet, the pauper boy lingered beside
the cart, his lips blue with cold. At first Eppie could not make out what he was
eating. Then it dawned. Half-starving, he was chewing the stub end of a mutton
candle.

A calf hoof tumbled from the brazier to the mushy snow.  

The ragged boy dived and swept up the morsel.

‘Magistrate!’ the butcher yelled as the boy fled to the ice.
‘Him’s stolen me flesh!’

Consumed by a rising sense of panic, Eppie crunched to the
edge of the island to see what would happen. ‘If he’s caught Thurstan will hang
him for sure.’

A lump sprang to Dawkin’s throat from the memory of his
friend, Titcher. Without giving a thought to the repercussions of the transgression
he was about to enact, he dragged the red cap over his face and scooped a
handful of snow. Not the sort of snow that would turn to powder when it smashed
into its target. Rather, he purposefully chose snow which was slightly melted.
When compacted, it was rock-hard, weighty with half-ice, the sort that hurt. He
let loose.

Hurtling forward, Thurstan was about to call a chase after
the pauper boy when he was smacked, with a resounding thwack, in his gaping
mouth. Sliding treacherously, he crashed onto the ice with an ungainly thud. A
look of outrage written upon his face, he picked himself up and headed back to the
land. Pestered by concerned skaters, wondering if he had injured himself with
his sword, and trailed by giggling, wobbling Millisande, he was forced to make
light of the calamity.

What neither Eppie nor Dawkin noticed, as they hugged one
another in jubilation, was a sinister figure who lurked behind the butcher’s
cart, a man who had seen Dawkin lob the missile.

Donning her skates for the last time, Eppie, at first, went
carefully and safely. Growing bolder, she listened with pride and pleasure to
the whip-whip of the blades as she set her feet down firmly. ‘Watch me, Dawkin!’

‘That’s gr- !’ Struggling to keep his balance, blades
skimming, he flipped forward onto the ice, landing with a noise like a fish
thrown onto dry land. To his horror, the ice creaked beneath his outstretched
palms. Trapped within the ice lay pools of water as silver as mercury. ‘Ep!’ He
tried to control the quavering fear in his voice. ‘I think it’s time we went home.’

She pulled a long face. ‘I was just getting the hang of
this.’ 

Reaching the shore, they joined folk who were hurrying away
to make ready for Christmas Day. It had begun to snow again. Most of the
stallholders had left, although the wassail singers remained, their voices,
soft and melodic, drifting through the darkening skies as they sang, ‘
God
rest ye merry, gentlemen, let nothing you dismay.’

Intent on making a few last minute sales, the butcher
greedily eyed a gang of apprentice tanners, easily recognised by their
brown-stained hands. ‘Hoy, lads, what d’ya say ta pork scratchings?’ Leaning
against the neck of his less than sure-footed pony, he was leading it back
across the ice towards where the tanner boys, having arrived late on the ice,
were racing one another to the island. Blue smoke curled from the brazier set
upon the cart.

Dawkin was shocked to see the butcher’s pony trotting
towards the icy patch where he had fallen only moments ago. ‘Get away from
there, guv’nor! The ice is cracking!’

His warning came too late. From beneath the cart came a boom
like gunpowder blasting within a rocky cave. Jagged lines shot out from the
rear wheels. The cart tipped backwards and the brazier crashed down, sending up
a spout of water.

A hand slapped heavily upon Dawkin’s shoulder. ‘I thought I
recognised that voice.’ The chimney sweep cast him a sickly smile. ‘Where ya
bin hidin’, ya good fer nowt weasel?’

Dawkin shrank under the man’s grip. ‘I ain’t been hiding, Mr
Crowe. You didn’t want me. Me arm was broked.’ 

‘Well, look-e ‘ere, seems it’s nicely mended. Yer coming with
me. Christmas is always a busy time. And like as not I’ll get a good few years
out o’ ya yet, though you’ll have to lose some of that puppy fat you’ve put
on.’ Swooping, he tossed Dawkin into the wagon, where the other climbing-boys
sat. ‘An’ if you lads wanna live out the night, you’d better keep a tight hold
on ‘im.’

Stricken at being forced away from Eppie, Dawkin valiantly
fought against the ensnaring arms.

‘You can’t take him!’ Eppie shrilled at Crowe. ‘You’ve no
right!’

‘Ah, but you see, Mr Crowe has every right.’ At the sound of
that calm, confident voice, she knew she was defeated.

Following his clout, Thurstan smouldered with a cool anger.
‘Permit me to introduce a witness who saw this boy throw the snowball.’

A vindictive smile twisted Squire Bulwar’s lips.

‘To strike an officer of the law is a capital offence,’
Thurstan said. ‘So, unless your young friend wishes to face a more, how shall I
say,
final
punishment, I fear he must comply, whether he wishes or no.’

With a cutting lash of his whip, Crowe sent his horse
bolting. ‘A week of starvation will tame the lad’s wicked ways.’ 

‘Stay!’ Eppie implored Twiss, raising a finger to the dog,
knowing that he would be unable to keep up with her.

She tore after the wagon.