The Lady's Slipper (19 page)

The cream was efficacious, she knew it. So Margaret reckoned a personal call would bring her a more speedy payment. No gentleman wanted an old crone settling on his doorstep, particularly if he happened to have guests, so he would pay up if only to be rid of her. Margaret was a little tired, for she was not as young as she once was; her bones were starting to creak a little and her fingers were becoming twisted like hawthorn branches. But to give in to infirmity was not Margaret’s way–she had a will of stone and ignored her body’s weak protests, hurrying on, her hood shadowing her face, bony fingers hooked around her travelling bag.

She opened a five-barred gate and strode into a field full of bullocks–she would take a short cut, for in the distance she could dimly perceive the high walls and turreted chimneys of Fisk Manor. The yellow squares of lit windows, floating in the dark, were a good compass. She set them in her sights, pushing past the warm damp flanks of the curious beasts who surrounded her–like all other animals, they recognized some sort of kinship with her and sought to make acquaintance. As she got nearer to the manor, she fancied she could hear music. Then again, these days she was becoming a little deaf and perhaps it was only her imagination.

Above her the sky was dark and swirling with clouds, like the tidal flux of the ocean. There were no stars visible behind the impenetrable moving mass, the air was heavy and damp. There was no birdsong, no night-time hoots of owls, no cry of a fox. It was eerily silent, as if the wild creatures had retreated into their holes and lairs and were watching with sly eyes. Margaret slowed, straining her ears. Perhaps she was deafer than she had thought, for the world seemed hushed. The blue-black clouds tilted and rolled silently overhead. Into her mind came the image of a procession, an odd group of masked people following a silent carriage. They were shuffling forward, their faces covered, as if groping blindly in the dark–like mummers, puppets caught in an age-old drama over which they had no control. The vision disappeared as quickly as it had come, but Margaret knew not to disregard these signs. It was a funeral cortege, that much was clear. Sir Geoffrey Fisk had better be careful. Death was stalking him through the lanes.

The motley troupe from the village wound its way past the end of Richard’s lane, around the bottom of Helk’s Wood, past the village green and headed south, out onto the main mail track, away from the lights of the village. Alice heard the noise from where she was stooped in a hedge, cutting ivy. She had been out far longer than she intended and had wandered far from home, collecting wild flowers to make studies for her flower diary.

She had relished getting out and about into the countryside to make notes on what was still flowering. She had been cooped up too long indoors. To her great delight, the lady’s slipper had revived, Margaret’s remedy had worked, and she could relax a little whilst she waited for the seeds to come. She hoped Margaret might call again to see how well it had done. She looked forward to learning more from her about plant physic. On the way back from her walk she had been attracted by this ivy, the first she had seen in flower that year, its round star-globes of milky green barely silhouetted against the sky in the darkness.

The sound of drums and clapping of cymbals could be heard in the distance. As it got closer, she stood up from the hedge in astonishment. The noise was tremendous, like an army on the march, a bobbing cavalcade of lanterns coming towards her and the trundling noise of cartwheels over the flinty ground.

Afraid, she stepped back a little into the hedge.

‘Ho, mistress!’ called a voice.

Alice did not reply, taking in the cart hung with bells and horns, the grotesque cavorting figures dancing weirdly in the darkness like a scene from a masque. It looked like some sort of outlandish fertility rite, something against which it would be wise to shield one’s eyes.

She turned back to the hedge, intending to ignore them and let them pass by. She took her knife from her basket and bent low beside the ditch, pretending to cut some more ivy.

‘Don’t ye want to join us, mistress?’

The voice right behind her made her jump. She startled and stood up. She heard laughter and muffled whispers. She was sure it was Cook’s voice. But she couldn’t see anyone’s features, they wore hoods or cowls pulled down or vizards covering their faces. In the dusky gloom, these cackling masked creatures appeared ghoulish and threatening–she became acutely aware that she was alone, unchaperoned. Alice hastily picked up her basket and pruning knife and, feeling slightly foolish, set off in haste towards the safety of home. The laughter followed her as she hurried by.

In the procession, the merriment continued until they were close to the drive to Fisk Manor, which was marked by two stone balls on stone pillars. At the gates they hushed, anyone who giggled or laughed was silenced with a hand over the mouth. The farrier bent over and tied sacking round the horses’ hooves to muffle the sound of the iron shoes, and all lanterns and torches were extinguished.

‘Not a sound now,’ Audrey said. ‘We will wait close by and send these two to the door.’ She pointed to the fake Sir Geoffrey and Lady Emilia. ‘Once the horns are up, then we can all make as much noise as we like, but only at a safe distance.’

‘They could set the dogs on us,’ the farrier whispered hoarsely, ‘so be ready to run like hares.’

‘Get the old ones up onto the wagon then,’ Ella said.

A few of the older people were hoisted up onto the cart before the procession pulled through the gates; the rowdy crowd was subdued to the rustling of cloth, shuffling of shoes and creak of wheels. Whispers were quickly silenced by shushes.

Inside Fisk Manor, Sir Geoffrey looked gloomily into space. He hated the pretentious sound of the players’ voices, their exaggerated mannerisms, their way of trying to draw the audience into their charade with their winks and asides. He wished it were over, but when he had enquired into the length of the play he had been told it was three acts, some several hours. And all at his expense. Emilia let money trickle through her hands like water, he thought. It was what came of having over-indulgent parents.

Money was tighter these days. His newfound interests in the plants and healing herbs of New England had meant his voyages were less lucrative than they had been when his ships were filled with spices and exotic foodstuffs. Storms at sea meant wasted cargos, and the new decorations at home had cost him dear. Still, he wasn’t to be outdone by Robert Rawlinson at Brockhurst Manor.

He took another draught of wine. It tasted bitter. Recently all his wine had tasted dry as aloes. Unless his palate had been changed by his time abroad, his wine merchant would be getting better instructions. Since taking the nerveroot the torment of the itching had stopped. It was like a miracle to be free of it after all these years. He would not have been able to stand such company else.

He carried a phial of it with him all the time now, and if the tetters started again he knew to take his physic. But his eyes were unaccountably dry and his head throbbed as if it would burst. He rubbed at his temples with his fingers, surprised to find he was damp with sweat, but his face felt numb as if it did not belong to him. He would just get some air; the wine must be off. As he stood, he found himself clutching the arms of the chair. His hands seemed to have turned into claws, the room swam around him. The walls took on unusual curves as if falling inwards, the players’ faces slid out of kilter like melted wax.

He slumped back into his chair but a wave of nausea propelled him out of it and he keeled towards the doorway. The room was curd ling around him, the walls like soft cheese, the doorway swaying before his eyes. He saw the darkness of the hall and staggered towards it, away from the harsh sparkle and heat of the dripping chandeliers, to where the night air would be cool and he could retch unobserved. As he got to the doorway Jane Rawlinson was just passing through, her purple-hued face lurid in the shadows. She smiled and her face seemed to turn into a snout like a snarling fox’s mask, the lips curled strangely out of shape into two ballooning wads of flesh. He pushed past her roughly, ignoring her indignant look. Her eyes were glass marbles in the pouchy sockets of flesh.

He stumbled to the door and tried to tug it open but it seemed to be stuck, and he thought he heard voices on the other side. He pulled harder and it flew open into the hall with a clang and a rattle. A grotesquely painted woman’s face stared back at him, her hair hanging lank as a horse’s tail. Geoffrey saw over her shoulder that dark figures were running in the darkness, scattering in all directions the way rabbits run from a blunderbuss.

A wisp of colour caught his eye. Geoffrey glanced up. He saw there was something pinned to the door. He made out a pair of ram’s horns, be-garlanded and hung with bells, ribbons and old man’s beard. By this time the woman was halfway down the steps. Geoffrey roared and made a grab for her but he was too late, she squirmed out of his reach. Geoffrey reached for his hunting knife from the cabinet in the hall.

At the same time, Margaret saw the lights ahead and brightly dressed figures moving like gaudy smears past the windows. Her sharp nose smelt food, too, something roasting, potatoes and the pungent tang of rosemary. As she approached the steps to the big front door, she was almost knocked aside by a man fleeing down the steps as if his life depended on it. He was wearing fancy dress, a flaxen wig and what appeared to be a false moustache. She ignored him and continued to make her way up the steps. As she got halfway up she saw that the door was open, and in the light from inside the hall she could see another figure, a man dressed in a gown, made up as a woman. Margaret paused. Momentarily confused, she sensed some other commotion behind her and turned to look. There were people running down the drive, cowled ghostly figures scattering in all directions.

As she turned back to the door the man in the gown shot past her, holding up his skirts and leaping down the steps two at a time, just as a tall gentleman cannoned into her, something glinting silver in his hand. He made a noise, a cross between a snarl of rage and a cry of pain. Margaret instinctively turned to run, but he was on top of her before she knew it.

‘Thought to get away with it, did you?’ A sharp pain in her ribs. ‘Who put you up to this?’ His face was close to hers, his eyes wild and his breath thick with wine, foul-smelling and rancid. Another sharp pain in her side. Everything seemed to be happening very slowly. The world exploded round her, the pain exquisite, unbearable. Almost immediately everything shimmered into a new kind of light–as if washed out, colours drained of their hues. At first Margaret struggled to get loose and run away, but something in her had already given up. Her cracked fingernails ceased to scrape at the buttons of his waistcoat, and now it was she who was leaning on him, her legs buckling, and he was backing off, trying to get away from her. The tables had turned in an instant. He pushed at her with bloodied hands, but she let her weight fall towards him, her body heavy, warm.

‘You can’t get away from me,’ she said, ‘you’ll never get away from me–I will never let you go. You will see me in every old woman you meet.’ The words seemed to spill out of her mouth without her bidding, as if her mouth and mind were already disconnected. She tightened her grip on her old leather bag; whatever happened, she would never be parted from it.

‘Leave go,’ the man groaned, pushing her so she reeled down the steps.

From inside the house there was applause and calls of bravo. Somewhere down the drive out of sight there was a huge cheer, as if the crowd had somehow managed to assemble there as well. Margaret heard the applause and the cheering, though it was faint through her ears. It seemed somehow appropriate. She wondered if everyone heard cheering before they saw the white light.

Her other hand tried to pull her cloak about her but her arm felt weak, like a feather. She allowed her body to fall, like a plum drops from a tree, rolling over and over in the dust until she lay still at the bottom of the steps. Her bag was still over her arm, its hard leathery corner pressed against her shoulder where she fell. She looked up into the swelling depths of the sky, her face calm. So it was her, not the gentleman, after all. She had seen the signs but not realized it was her own name they were calling. She smiled at the glorious irony of the world. Her knowledge and skill–it all died with her. She was the last of her line. A huge sadness engulfed her. Was this all it was? These few years, and over so quickly? She held more tightly to the leather handle, although she knew she would soon have to let go.

‘Alice Ibbetson.’ She felt as if she shouted the words, but they were faint whispers from her mouth. ‘Pass my bag on to her.’

She was surprised to hear the final rattle she had heard so often before–but this time she heard it anew, and it sounded different from her own throat. Her cloak lay round her on the gravel like a brown pool. In a few moments her chest sank, like the settling of silk, and she was completely still.

Geoffrey stared without comprehension at the heap of rags at the bottom of the steps. She had tried to speak at the last, but he had not caught her words. There was an uncanny silence now that her breath had stopped. He did not understand how this woman came to be lying there. He had meant to cut down the horns from the door with his knife. Now, suddenly, there was a body of an old woman, and his hands were wet and sticky with congealing blood. It was as if he was caught in a chain of events that were nothing to do with him. He licked his lips; they were bitter as wormwood. He was dimly aware of more applause and laughter from the open windows. The start of Act Two. Garnering his wits, he ran down to the motionless heap. There was blood seeping into her cloak in a thick slippery stain.

Realizing she could not lie there in full view of all his guests, he wrapped the cloak round her and prised the heavy bag out of her white hand. He dragged the body across the stony drive out of view of the house to the stables. Her head bumped against the rough ground, her lips seemed to move as if speaking, her eyes rolled open, staring. He saw her hair, shining white in the darkness, a fine floss like sheep’s wool. He recoiled, and stopped to drag the hood down over her face.