Old Magic(53)
The little smoke from the candles just hovers inside the cottage. There’s no raging fire like the other cottages must have. The room is miserable with damp. I’m still shivering from that cold sprinkling of rain and wish we did have a raging fire in here so I could dry off.
I take a good look around. Dragging my still stunned gaze away from the restless, offensive-smelling animals, I notice the cottage has only one window. I yank on the wooden shutters and close it, lessening the chill. The walls are sooty black; the room itself has little furniture. There is a pile of straw in a corner with a couple of dirty rags on top that might be animal skins, apparently where the inhabitants sleep. There are a couple of low crude-looking stools, a table with some stale black bread on top that feels like a brick, a few wooden plates; and a box with rag-like clothes inside.
Kate’s excitement is so real it’s spooky. She has no fear, and marvels at everything her eyes focus on, her fingers adoringly caressing even the tiniest details. Nothing escapes her passionate attention.
Even though I liked doing the research project I don’t have Kate’s eagerness for this era. The very idea itself, of being here, not only in a stranger’s house uninvited, but in another time, for goodness’ sake!
‘This is unreal, Jarrod!’
I stare at her. ‘It stinks.’
She just laughs, shaking her head as if she’s tolerating the ravings of an idiot child.
It begins to rain hard. As it pelts down on the roof, I worry it will fall in, it’s already dripping. My mind shifts to the sound of scurrying feet splashing around outside. People are running fast. It soon becomes apparent they’re running towards this cottage. Any second and we’ll be discovered.
‘Here.’ Kate grabs my hand.
We climb over the barricade and dive through startled animals. Chickens scatter noisily as we make for the furthest, darkest corner. Squatting, hugging knees to chests, we try to slow our breathing, and will the chickens to settle down quickly. A pig comes over to give us a sniff. His face hovers close to mine. I keep my eyes averted and try to slow the pace of my pounding heart.
Two women with five small children between them come rushing into the cottage. The children start tearing around, chasing each other, except for the baby, who is clinging to one woman’s hip. This woman is the elder of the two and has grey-brown hair poking out from beneath a sopping white scarf. ‘Is it true, Edwina?’
The woman called Edwina looks about twenty at the most, and is rake thin. She holds her arms out to one of the children, a small boy, who eagerly hops up. ‘Every word.’
They stand just inside the open doorway as the rain incredibly thickens outside and the ceiling drips increase. ‘He’s a cruel Lord, there’s no doubt about it, but this …’ The older woman shakes her head in a disbelieving manner, and loosens the dripping white scarf with her free hand. ‘Can he really do it? Can he turf ye out of your home, strip ye of your land?’
Edwina fights back tears. There is sorrowful pride in her eyes. ‘A woman’s no good to her Lord with no husband, bless poor William’s soul. Who will work the land? Who will work the Lord’s stupid fields?’
‘There’s no kindness in that man’s soul. He should take ye in at the castle, that’s what.’
‘He says nay. He says he has enough lazy servants.’
The older woman’s face contorts into a disgusted frown. ‘What will ye do?’
‘On the morrow we head south to the streets of London. Eventually I hope to find servant’s work there. If not, I will do all I can to survive. I have me little ones to think of, even if I have to beg.’
The older woman peers around the single room, her eyes moist with compassion; and for a second I swear she pauses as she glances into our dark corner. My own eyes shut tight as if I can will myself to disappear. A long breathless moment later I hear feet shuffle. Taking a quick look I see her attentions are taken by an older child clinging to her leg. She pats his small red head, straightening his hair. ‘This house is too cold, Edwina. Ye have no fire tonight. And that rain dripping in will make it difficult to start. Come, stay with me. We’ll drink to your sorrows. Aye, Thomas has plenty of ale to see us through till morning. Now don’t ye worry none. Lord Baron Thorntyne’s day will come and I will be there to spit on his grave.’
‘Make sure ye spit on it for me too.’ They laugh together and their conversation shifts to the children as another little one seeks attention.
Eventually the rain eases and the women, children clinging to their long skirts, leave.
We’re finally alone but neither of us seems inclined to move. I don’t know about Kate, but I’m still ingesting the women’s conversation, beginning to get the picture now. My ancestor, Lord Thorntyne, is throwing an entire family out of their home because the man of the house died and can no longer work his fields. I cringe at the harsh and callous act.