Eppie (45 page)

Slicing a length of rope, he tied Gabriel’s hands. ‘I’ll be
back after I’ve had summat to eat,’ he thought. ‘Force ‘im ta say footpads
attacked ‘im. Threaten ‘im not ta blab about his sister, or else.’

Sleeves rolled past her elbows in
readiness for baking, Martha stood in the open doorway.

Although last night’s Harvest Home would have meant free
meat, she was loath to go anywhere near Tunnygrave Manor and so had made do
with her home-made harvest pie.

Eppie thumped down the loft steps. ‘Why hasn’t he come
home?’

‘I’m worried sick wondering what has happened,’ Martha
answered.

‘He’s probably helping with the mill,’ Eppie said, coming to
stand beside her.  

The air smelt heady, saturated with a rich earthiness
released after last night’s deluge.

‘I hadn’t thought about that.’

‘I’ll go and see.’

‘Would you? I need to stay with
Lottie. It’s not surprising she’s sickening after all that sun. And Eppie,’ she
called, watching her going to fetch the donkey, ‘when you find Wakelin ask him
how Gabriel is.’ 

Already preparations for towing the pumping mill were
underway. Astride his horse, Maygott waved animatedly amidst a scene of
disorder. Labourers, who had the unenviable task of tethering two score oxen to
yokes, were charging hither and thither after a frisky beast that had bolted.

Sparrows pecked at fallen corn ears around the wheels of the
brewery wagon.

‘Mister Jonas, have you seen Wakelin?’ Eppie asked, riding
up.

‘He was still at the Harvest Home when I left last night.’

‘Keep an eye on Dusty, will ya?’ She tethered the donkey
beside Dodgy, the innkeeper’s horse.

The rectangular mill was set upon a central pivot and fixed
onto a sledge-like framework which enabled it to glide across the earth. Lying
upon the ground were massive cloth sails, temporarily removed to lighten the
structure.

Oss Cordwainer checked the tethers of the rearmost oxen.
‘Team’s ready, sir.’

‘Then get on with it, man,’ du Quesne said, gazing at approaching
storm clouds. ‘If we leave it much longer the land will be a quagmire.’ 

The mill shuddered forward. 

‘They’re off!’  Flip shouted.

About the event was an atmosphere of festivity. Large-eyed
children, having waited in suspense, charged the sky with rousing cries. Enthused
by the buzz of excitement, Eppie trotted alongside the tramping oxen.

Thurstan rode into the field. ‘So it is true, you
are
breeding monster-sized chickens. Busy shifting the hutch, are we?’

‘I can do without your quips,’ his uncle replied. ‘What are
you doing here, anyway? I did not imagine the science of crop management to be
one of your passions.’

Thurstan’s friends, Cudbert, Stanhope and Hugh, dismounted
their horses beside the brewery wagon.

‘What’s it to be, squires?’ Jonas asked. ‘Drunk for a penny
or dead drunk for tuppence?’

Thurstan handed his uncle a weighty leather pouch. ‘I know
you might consider it vulgar to present you with coinage here, in the field,
but this might put you in better spirits. The final repayment of the money you
loaned me.’

Du Quesne gave a mollified nod. Untying the leather throng
which secured the pouch, he estimated the value of the coins.

‘I find life is treating me favourably these days,’ Thurstan
said. ‘I will be delighted to return your kindness and make you a loan should
the occasion arise.’

‘The occasion will not. I can handle my money.’

Thurstan smirked; satisfied that he had pulled off his
roguish scheme in handing over the forged coins.

The mastiffs bolted past and raced furiously around the
mill. Ranger reared in alarm.

‘To heel you brutes!’ du Quesne cried. Unbuckling his saddlebag,
he agitatedly stuffed in the money. ‘What’s got into them?’

Wretchedly, Regal and Sceptre slunk away, tails between their
legs.

Driving a cane-sided whiskey, the physician turned into the
field. Over the summer, Doctor Burndread had been experimenting with mouse
droppings, of which his larder produced bountiful heaps. Upon hurling balls of
the stuff, carefully blended with a compound of poisons and soda, from an upper
floor window, he found that, upon shattering, they emitted a smell not unlike a
concoction of mouldering fish guts and sewage. That morning, having hit on the
idea of lobbing them upon the French from hot air balloons, he decided to dash
over to solicit du Quesne’s ruminations, and to beg the much needed capital to
fund the venture.  

Attention riveted upon the oxen as the mill continued its
wobbling stop-start motion. Only a few, including Eppie and Maygott, noticed Wakelin
pelt towards the mill.

Eppie hastily twisted back through the crowd. Glinting, the
rounded edge of something stuck out of the soil. Prising it up, she realised it
was a coin. It must have tumbled from du Quesne’s pouch and been trodden in by
Ranger. She pocketed it, intending to return it.

‘Dunham!’ Maygott cried. ‘Get down from there.’

Howling, Wakelin butted his forehead into the timber
cladding. The cry reminded Eppie of the time he had had a decayed tooth pulled
out by the blacksmith. Letting go of the ladder, he leapt backwards to the
ground.

The commotion over, the estate manager cantered away,
leaving Wakelin muttering curses and threats in his wake.

He pushed ahead of the crowd to watch the progress of the
pumping mill.

Eppie tried to keep up with his brisk strides. ‘Why were you
going up there?’

‘Huh?’  

‘Did you fight with Gabriel?’

‘Keep yer voice down, sap head.’ Checking that no one was
listening, he answered, ‘He pushed me to it. He weren’t much hurt. Leastwise, I
don’t think ‘e were. I meant to go back, honest. I got drunk at the Harvest
Home and fell asleep. He must still be tied up in there. Thing is, I’ve got to
get to him and tell him not to blab to his pa that I beat him up. Oh no! He’s
watching.’

Eppie followed his furtive
glance. The mill looked like a Cyclops, the small window in the top storeroom
its eye. It was through this window, casting a stricken look upon the oxen far
below, that a shadowy face peered. 

Gabriel had been awakened by a bump.

Terrified of heights, he fought back nausea as he gazed upon
the scene in the field below, caught between a sense of fascination and fright
at his predicament. 

Amongst the plainly dressed workers who, from this elevation,
looked like a drab patchwork of browns and creams, he easily made out the
richly-attired figure of his father. The man’s behaviour and complaining bluster
also set him apart.

‘Can’t you keep these refractory beasts moving?’ du Quesne
thundered.

Burndread was gesticulating to gain his lordship’s
attention.

Du Quesne rode up to the lead oxen and cracked his riding
crop upon the rump of a flagging creature.

Gabriel’s attention shifted to one who stood slightly apart,
not watching the herd but observing him. The sight of Genevieve’s lonely figure
left him burgeoned with misery.

Without warning, the sledge
shot forward and grated over hummocky ground. A shudder ran up the fibre of the
mill, through Gabriel’s bones, and he fell.

‘Take it easy, Cordwainer.  Do you want it on its side?’

In response to du Quesne’s angst, children shrieked with
delight, dying to see the mill tumble, to add to their amusement. 

‘No, Eppie!’ Wakelin cried, seeing her rush off. ‘You
mustn’t!’ He made to follow. To his dismay Tom grabbed him and, with a wide grin,
flourished a tankard of beer beneath his nose. 

Eppie knew it was reckless to climb whilst the mill was
lurching. If she did not keep her wits about her she might easily lose her
grip.  Added to this, the leather-lashed wooden rungs were slippery with the drizzling
rain.

Reaching the top, she tugged up the rope handle and thrust
back the door.

Gabriel was shivering violently. His shirt felt horribly cold
and damp from last night’s downpour.

She fell to untying his hands.

‘I knew you’d come,’ he croaked in a wooden voice.

‘Wakelin must be out of his mind doing this to you.’

She helped him to his feet, supporting him by the arm. ‘We
need to get out of here or both you and Wakelin will be in trouble with your
father for fighting.’

Before them the door creaked back and forth like the dead
weight of a body upon a gibbet. Turning her foot upon the rung, she looped her
body and glanced up. Gabriel was staring, transfixed, at the ground.

To him it was like peering over a cliff at rocks buffeted by
crashing waves. At any moment he would be blown over the precipice.

Eppie’s reassuring voice broke through his uneasy thoughts. ‘You
can do it. Take your time.’

Grimly clutching at the ladder, he followed, ponderously.
The mill wallowed in a depression. Beneath his hands the ladder vibrated.  ‘I
can’t!’  

They were a few feet off the ground when someone thumped up,
two rungs at a time.  ‘I’m warnin’ ya, du Quesne!’

Gabriel, who had begun to feel at ease with Eppie’s coaxing,
was unnerved. Looking down, he stared into Wakelin’s fierce face.

‘One word outta you …’ Wakelin threatened.

‘It’s too late.  Eppie has to know. Your father must.’

‘Pa’s dead!’ Eppie cried.

‘Yur,’ Wakelin said. ‘It were your pa what killed him.’

Gabriel felt too stunned for words.  He stared down at
Eppie.

‘Your father rode into the graveyard when Molly was being
buried,’ she said. ‘He shot pa.’

‘Molly’s dead?’ he said, mortified. ‘So much has happened
since I’ve been away. But why would father shoot Gillow?’

‘B - , I mean, someone cut off Ranger’s tail.’

Having spotted Wakelin mounting the mill on a second
occasion, Thurstan realised something was afoot and rode back to investigate. He
was rewarded by the sight of Gabriel’s bruised face. ‘I see you’ve been doing a
spot of bull fighting in Spain, little cousin.’

 Tussling around Eppie’s legs, Wakelin grabbed Gabriel by
the ankle, and spoke in a low voice. ‘Say nowt, you hear?’

Gabriel kicked to release Wakelin’s hold. As he did, his
foot upon the rung slipped and he lost his grip. Plunging forward, he cried out
in terror as the ground rushed to receive him.

Eppie hastened down and knelt at Gabriel’s side. ‘Wakelin,
why did you have to do that?’

‘Take your hands off my son, you maimed dullard,’ du Quesne
yelled.

Thurstan jerked Eppie to her feet.

‘Leave her be!’ Gabriel cried, struggling to rise.

Wakelin ploughed in, enraged by Thurstan’s rough handling of
Eppie.

Unwilling to soil his outfit in a scuffle, Thurstan rammed
Eppie into Wakelin and Gabriel’s arms as though she were a hurled shield.

Du Quesne surged through the crowd on Ranger.

‘How can you speak to Eppie so pitilessly, sir?’ Gabriel
remonstrated.  ‘She is … ’

Wakelin grabbed Gabriel by the front of his shirt. ‘I’m
warning ya!’ 

Stunned by Wakelin’s action, Cudbert and Stanhope rushed in
and dragged him back.

Not yet having been able to gain du Quesne’s complete attention,
the physician panted madly into the hub of action. ‘Sir, about my invention, it
would mean riches. An end to the war.’

‘Confound your blasted mouse droppings, man. Can’t you
appreciate that I have more important things on my mind?’ Du Quesne glared at
Gabriel. ‘I see that all these months of learning and cultural awareness have
done nothing to abate your recalcitrant ways. Burndread, take my son back to
the manor house and mop him up.’ To mollify the doctor, he added, ‘Bring a bomb
to dinner tonight. We will ruminate on it. Hopefully, it will take my mind off
my son’s disgraceful antics.’ 

One hand resting upon Ranger’s neck, he watched the whiskey
bumping its way across the field of stubble. ‘What the deuce could the boy have
been up to? I never even knew he had returned home.’

‘I see it all clearly,’ Thurstan said. ‘Dunham has always despised
me. Now he is turning his attention to Cousin Gabriel. Upon riding back to the
mill, I saw him wrench Gabriel off the ladder. He tried to kill him.’ 

‘That’s a bare-faced lie!’ Wakelin screamed.    

‘Hold your tongue!’ du Quesne demanded.

His chin raised, thumbs dug behind his jacket lapels,
Thurstan strutted back and forth before Wakelin, droning on in his well-practised
magistrate’s voice. ‘How many more of Dunham’s violent acts are you prepared to
tolerate, Uncle?  Many years ago he stole your firewood. At the time I
maintained that he should have been severely punished. As I maintain he must
now.’ Glancing sidelong at Wakelin, an evil light sprang into his eyes. ‘After
all, what is one peasant less, an iniquitous one at that?’ 

‘There are significant issues to consider,’ du Quesne
answered. ‘In these days of political agitation even you would agree, I am
sure, one must remain on cordial terms with one’s labourers.’ 

‘Indeed, and what is to say that Dunham is not one of these
agitators? Hired to assassinate you and your son? It is apparent to me that he
intends to stir revolutionary tendencies. I insist, as chief magistrate, that he
be executed.’

Ice-cold, a shiver ran down Eppie’s spine. A sigh of horror
escaped on-lookers. Thurstan’s friends whooped.      

‘Before a court I would have no solid grounds on which to
arraign the man,’ du Quesne reasoned.

‘We need not trouble ourselves to involve the king’s court,’
Thurstan answered.

‘I would need a jury of twelve steadfast men to cast a
verdict of guilt.’

‘And so you have them.’ Thurstan turned to itinerant workers
who had stayed to witness the novelty of the mill’s transportation. ‘Onus
probandi. Why bother with the burden of proving Dunham’s guilt when the facts
speak for themselves? You would willingly see this scoundrel swing, would you
not, my fine gentlemen? Let us agree, a guinea a piece for your services?’ He
dipped into his purse.