When we were sat together at the table, my Liza went green in the face at the taste of the old bread and could barely get a mouthful of the stuff down before she bolted out the door to be sick. Out of old habit, I crossed myself. I looked to Kit, who looked to his wife, who shook her head in sadness. Elsie would deliver her firstborn within the month and now it appeared that Liza was with child as well. First I wondered who the father could be. Then I asked myself how we would feed two little babes when we were hard-pressed to do for ourselves. We were silent, the lot of us, Elsie doling out the buttermilk she had off the Bulcocks in exchange for a day's spinning. Our Kit gave his wife half of his own share of bread—wasn't she eating for two?
Then I found I couldn't finish my own bread, so I passed it to Kit before hauling myself out the door to look for Liza. By the cold moonlight I found my poor squint-eyed broomstick of a girl bent over the gatepost, crying fit to die. Taking Liza in my arms, I held her and rubbed her hair. I begged her to tell me who the father was, but she refused.
"It will be right," I told her. "Not the first time an unwed girl fell pregnant. We'll make do somehow." What else could I say? I'd no business browbeating her for doing the same as I'd done with Kit's father, twenty-two years ago.
After leading my Liza back inside, we made for our beds. I climbed to the upper tower. Room was so cold and draughty that everyone else preferred sleeping below, but of a crystal-clear evening I loved nothing better than to lie upon my pallet and gaze at the moon and stars through the narrow windows. Cold wind didn't bother me much. I was born with thick skin, would have died ages ago if I'd been a more delicate sort. Yet that night the starry heavens gave me little comfort. I laid myself down and tried to ignore the hammer of worry in my head. The Church Warden and Constable were sure to make a stink about Liza. Another bastard child to live off the charity of the parish. They'd fine her at the very least. She'd be lucky if she escaped the pillory. Sleepless, I huddled there whilst the wind whistled through the thatch.
When I finally closed my eyes, I saw Tibb, his face in its golden glory. Looked like one of the angels I remembered seeing in our church before the Queen's men stripped the place bare. Out of the dark crush of night came his voice, sweet as a lover's, gentle as Kit's father was in the days when he called me his beauty, his heart's joy. Tibb's lips were at my ear.
"If I could," he told me, "if you let me, I'd ease your burdens, my Bess. No use fretting about Liza. She'll lose the child within a fortnight, and none but you and yours will know she fell pregnant in the first place."
My throat was dry and sore. Couldn't even think straight.
"You're afraid of me," he said. "But you shouldn't be. I mean you no harm."
"You're not real," I whispered. "I'm just dreaming you."
"I'm as real as the ache in your heart," he whispered back. "You were meant to be more than a common beggar, our Bess. You could be a blesser. Next time you see a sick cow, bless it. Say three Ave Marias and sprinkle some water on the beast. Folk will pay you for such things. Folk will hold you in regard, and you won't have to grovel for the scraps off their table."
What nonsense.
The Church Warden would have me whipped and fined for saying the Ave Maria—and that was but mild chastisement. Catholics were still hanged in these parts, their priests drawn and quartered. I told myself that there was no such boy called Tibb—it was just my empty stomach talking. I rolled over, pulling the tattered blanket to my ears.
He wouldn't give over. "It runs in your blood. You've inherited the gift from your mam's father."
I shook my head no. "My grand-dad was an ostler. An honest man."
"He was a horse-charmer, if you remember well."
Tibb's voice summoned the memories. I was sat on Grand-Dad's knee, and he jostled me so that I could pretend I was riding a bouncy pony whilst he chanted the charm to St. George to ward horses from witchcraft.
Enforce we us with all our might to love St. George, Our Lady's knight.
Grand-Dad died when I was seven, but he'd taught my mam all his herbcraft for healing beast and folk alike, which she, in turn, had taught me, though Mam herself had no dealings in charms.
What a marvel. Grand-Dad working his blessings in the stables at Read Hall, beneath the Nowells' very noses. He must have served them well, kept their nags healthy and sound, so that instead of reporting him for sorcery they became his protectors. Perhaps that, indeed, was why the Nowells had given Malkin Tower to Mam—it did no good at all to vex a cunning man by treating his daughter ill.
Still, the knowing made the sweat run cold down my back. To think that I carried this inside me. I could not say a word, only pray that Tibb would vanish again and leave me in peace.
"My own Bess, do I need to give you a sign or two? You'll see what I've said of Liza will come to pass. Now I'll give you more knowledge of the future. Before the moon is new again, Elsie will bear a son."
In spite of myself, I laughed. "Any fool can see she's carrying a boy from the way she's bearing so high and wide. I don't need a slip of a lad like you telling me about wenches bearing babies."
My mocking didn't put Tibb off. He only coaxed me all the more. "They'll name the lad Christopher after his father, and you'll see your Kit's father in the little lad's face, my Bess. You'll feel so tender that the years of bitterness will melt away."
Tears came to my eyes when I remembered my lover who had given me such pleasure before he bolted off, never to show his face again, leaving me to bear my shame and endure an angry husband fit to flay me alive and the gossips wagging their tongues and pointing. My husband refused to give the baby his name, so that was why my Kit was named Christopher Holgate, not Southerns. As punishment for my sin, I was made to stand a full day in the pillory in Colne marketplace.
"That's not all I can tell you of your future," said Tibb, nestling close, his breath warming my face. "In time, your Liza will marry an honest man who will love her in spite of her squint."
"Fortune-telling's a sin," I squeaked. In this the Curate and the priests of the old religion had always been of one mind. A dangerous thing, it was, to push back the veil and look into the future, for unless such knowledge came from a prophecy delivered by God, it came from the other place, the evil place, the Devil. Diviners and those who consulted them would be punished in hell by having their heads twisted backward for their unholy curiosity.
But Tibb carried on in a voice I couldn't block out. "Liza will give you three grandchildren."
How seductive he was. If only I could trust him and believe that my Liza would be blessed by the love of a good man, a happy family.
"Her first-born daughter will be your joy," Tibb told me. "You'll love her till you forget yourself, my Bess. A pretty, impudent lass with skin like cream. A beauty such as you were at her age. She'll be your very likeness, and you'll teach her the things that I'll teach you." His voice sang with his promise.
"What else can you tell me?" I asked, my heart in my mouth.
Opening my eyes, I dared myself to look him in the face, but I only saw the stars shining in the window slits.
Poor beggar women mustn't allow themselves to be led astray by foolish fancies.
Have some sense for once,
I told myself. So I did my best to put Tibb out of my mind. Life carried on, same as it always had. I went begging or took what work was offered to me. Spent an afternoon on my hands and knees, scouring Old Master Mitton's henhouse in exchange for a loaf of bread, a cup of ale, and a bowl of thin gruel. As I scrubbed that stinking henhouse, Tibb and his promises seemed worlds away. How daft to think a woman such as I could ever charm or bless any person or thing.
After my work, I washed myself in the brook before heading home. Our Kit was gone, having found work at the slate pit, but Elsie was sat there in the firehouse with a face stark and clenched as winter. At first I thought her time had come.
"What is it?" I asked, the sweat rolling off me. "Have your waters broken?"
Lips glued together, Elsie pointed to the dark corner where Liza lay upon her pallet. The blankets and linens had been stripped off and were soaking in a bucket of cold water to loosen the red stains. My Liza was wan, her breathing shallow, but I could see no regret in her face. More like relief and silent thanksgiving.
"She took the tansy," Elsie said, speaking cold and hard.
I looked to the rafters where my garden herbs were strung and, indeed, the stalks of tansy with their shrill yellow buttons were gone.
"You've no business growing that evil weed in your garden," Elsie went on, "knowing what sin it's used for."
"Oh, shut it, Elsie," I told her.
Bustling over to Kit and Elsie's bed in the bottom room of the tower, I stripped off the blanket and carried it to Liza, draping it over her. Took my girl's hand and pressed it in my own.
"All will be well," I vowed.
Next I laid hands on Elsie's shoulders.
"You'll not breathe a word of this," I told her.
My hard grip set her trembling. She dipped her eyes and clutched her belly, so big it looked fit to burst.
"You'll not tell a soul," I went on. "Even our Kit. Our Liza never miscarried. She never fell pregnant. You understand my meaning?"
If the Constable and Church Warden were quick to punish girls who carried bastards, there was no telling what they would do to a wench who made herself abort—or, indeed, to the one who had provided her with the herb.
Elsie clutched herself and nodded.
Sore and aching though I was, I dragged the bucket of soaking blankets out to the brook and pounded them against the stones, scrubbing with lye soap till my hands were raw, till the last trace of Liza's blood had vanished out of the wool.
None of this was Tibb's doing. Liza had taken her fate into her own hands, brewed a strong dose of tansy, swallowed it down, and waited till the herb opened up her womb. Just as I might have done those many years ago if I hadn't been so soft and still in love with the man who had given me such happiness, only to abandon me.
Less than a week later Elsie went to her childbed and I delivered her firstborn—a son, as I knew it would be. Our Kit was so happy he wept. Liza, dry-eyed, helped care for the baby whilst Elsie recovered from her confinement. As soon as my daughter-in-law was on her feet again, we took ourselves to the New Church in Goldshaw to have the child christened. The Curate spoke the Gospel over the baby but refused to trace the cross on his forehead with holy water, for he considered such things to be popish sorcery.
Soon shearing season was upon us, and Kit had work every day for a fortnight. Liza, Elsie, and myself went from house to house to comb and card the new wool, Elsie bringing little Christopher along in a rush basket so she could nurse him. Walking homeward by dusk, I twisted my ankle coming down a steep track and had to hobble the rest of the way with one arm round Liza's waist. Come Sunday I let the rest of them go off to church whilst I stayed home to mind the baby. My swollen ankle was propped up on display in case the Church Warden or one of his lackeys barged in to see why I hadn't shown my face.
In truth, I was grateful for these few hours of ease with my new grandson. So sweet and perfect little Christopher was. Couldn't keep myself from taking him out of his swaddling to count his fingers and toes, then I trimmed his tiny nails gently with my teeth, for it was said that infants with long nails grew up to be thieves. I rocked and sang to my darling till he smiled. Couldn't remember when I'd last been so happy. That Sunday was the hottest we'd seen all year. Since the others were gone, I'd taken off my kirtle and was wearing only my thin smock whilst I was sat on the bench beneath the elder tree. My kirtle was hanging from the tree branch so I could slip it back on in a hurry if I heard the Church Warden coming. But for now I delighted in the cool shade and the singing birds and my baby Christopher cuddled in my arms. Elderblossom scented the air. Folk called it a witches' tree, but that was just foolish talk. In my mind, it was a tree of many gifts. I made elder cordial from the foamy white flowers and elderwine from the purple-black berries.
Little Christopher gazed up at me with innocent eyes, his fingers wrapped round my thumb, till he nodded off. Lulled by the sunlight, I leaned back against the tree trunk and, breathing in the elderflowers, slipped off to sleep as well.
His curling golden hair haloed by the sun, he bent over me, and I was young again, beautiful enough to dazzle him.
All I ask is one kiss.
His mouth sought mine. Tilting my face to his, I surrendered, just as I had before, a faithless wife taking her pleasure with a travelling pedlar. How he kissed me.
I awoke with a whimper as a hot tongue bathed the underside of my left arm. In the heat of summer, I'd gone stone cold and couldn't say a word, only clutch the baby tight. By God's grace, the child still slept. I had awakened to see a great brown dog pressed against my knee, slavishly licking my arm.
Though I willed myself to order the dog away, I couldn't speak. My throat was dry as dust. In a panic, I tried to say the Pater Noster, but I couldn't remember the words. Quailing, I awakened Christopher who shrieked. The brown dog trotted away, disappearing through a gap in the hedge.
Though I'd dreamt of Kit's father, it was Tibb's kiss that burned on my lips, Tibb's visitation that made every hair on my body stand up. And then I knew that, unlike Kit's father, Tibb would never leave me, as much as I sought to banish him. It was useless trying to fight it or deny it. He would be with me always.