Shadow of the Raven (7 page)

“An old woman like me lives in fear,” she cried, spittle flying from her gums. “There's always footpads and highwaymen abroad.” She pulled her shawl over her baggy breasts as she spoke. “And there's my hens. Not laid today, they haven't,” she told them, even though, in truth, she hadn't ventured out to look.

One of the men, their leader, she guessed, built like a brick barn with not a hair on his head, barged past her and cast an eye around her room: the dried herbs hanging from the rafters, the kettle by the hearth, the filthy rags on the bed, the dark corners festooned with webs. “You heard no men? No gunshot?”

Maggie shook her frizzy gray head. “I heard nothing,” she replied. She knew if she told them she'd seen a huddle of woodsmen up ahead fighting their way out of the thicket like things possessed, no matter what their purpose, they'd be hauled over the coals.

R
eturning to Brandwick later in the afternoon, Thomas intended to go straight to the Three Tuns. He did not wish to be interrogated by Geech, or anyone else for that matter, on what he had found in Raven's Wood. Circumstances, however, conspired against him. As he rode into town at the top of the High Street, he could see that a crowd of people had gathered 'round the square. He urged on his horse.

“What goes on?” called Thomas to a man on his way to join the throng.

“Commoners' meeting,” he yelled over the din.

The commoners—there were one hundred and three of them—were congregating. Their rights were ancient, set in the stones of the common, stored in the sap of the woodland trees, and cut into the boggy turf of the marshes. Had not the Lady of Brandwick herself bestowed the gift upon them? And now they were being challenged. Covering an area two miles to the north of the market cross and three to the east, Brandwick Common spanned grassland and scrubland, a river and several ponds, hillocks and downs, hollows and ridges. An elected council met every year to distribute plots of land and set the stint for pasturing animals to prevent overgrazing. Since time immemorial, each allotment had consisted of long strips of land, often separated from one another so that no one received more than their fair share of the best parcels. And when the harvest was gathered in, the poorer families could glean the grain that remained on the ground. It was then the turn of the horses, cows, and sheep to move in and graze, depositing manure to nourish the earth for the next year's crops. Where the soil was too poor to support such workings, then flocks of turkeys and geese would be set loose to peck and roam as they pleased, while the pigs were put to pannage in the woods. Thus it had always been and thus it would always be, if the commoners had their say. But now that way of life was being challenged, and where better to meet and discuss the matter than on the common itself?

Thomas looked around him at the growing crowd. They were mainly men, although a handful of women, a few with babes in their arms, had come to offer support. Some of them he recognized from his ministrations during the Great Fogg: Maggie Cuthbert, the cunning woman; Will Ketch, the cowherd; Abel Smith, the fowler; and Joseph Makepeace, the bury man. Together they would march toward their meeting place at Arthur's Hollow on the common.

Despite being an outsider, Thomas knew he had a duty to attend this villagers' gathering, for Lydia's sake, if not his own. If the Boughton Estate was to be enclosed by Sir Montagu, then Lydia, as its rightful custodian, must be informed. As the ragtag band started to move off, he decided to leave his horse at the Three Tuns and follow them at a respectable distance on foot.

Arthur's Hollow lay on the southern edge of Brandwick Common. The short walk passed peaceably, but Thomas noted that most of the people wore a slightly bewildered look on their faces, like passengers about to embark on a voyage to they knew not where. Their clothes and general demeanor marked them out as the poorer sort. There were plenty of men in ragged coats with frayed cuffs, their hats dusty and moldy, and women in soiled bonnets. Those from the woods gathered, too, men like the coppicers—the Diggotts, all three of them—and Josh Thornley and his moribund son, Hal.

A stink of sweat and dirt and toil hung about them all, so that those of middling rank who came to see what all the fuss was about held their scented kerchiefs to their noses and stood slightly back from the general melee. But among the poor it was their faces that spoke loudest. Hunger and cold had ploughed deep furrows on foreheads and under eyes. They had little in life, and they feared what little they had might soon be taken away from them. Nevertheless, the atmosphere was fearful rather than angry, curious rather than belligerent. Walter Harker, the watchman, was there to keep order, his cudgel in his hand, but it would be used only to tap unruly apprentice boys rather than to bludgeon honest men.

The rumors they'd heard about the Act of Enclosure were true, and now the proclamation was nailed on the church door for all to see. If their rights and liberties were to be upheld, then they would need to put up a united front against the Boughton Estate.

Will Ketch spoke first. He heaved himself up onto an old tree trunk so he could see above the crowd. His herding dog, a shaggy-coated bitch who'd been with him since she was a pup, sat by his side. He lifted his arms, and, after a moment the crowd fell silent. He was a commoner. He, his wife, and their six children lived in a messuage about a mile away from the village. He'd dwelt there these past ten years and eked out a living with a cow, two pigs, and half an acre of land. He was just thirty years of age, but his hunched shoulders, stooped back, and craggy face, weathered by the bite of so many cold winters, made him look more like a man of fifty.

“Good people of Brandwick,” he began. He had heard them addressed as such before by the vicar, or some such dignitary. “We are here today because our livelihoods are threatened.” There were grunts of approval from the crowd. “The very land that our fathers and their fathers and their fathers before them lived off may be taken away from us.”

A shout went up. “We won't let them!”

Heads were shaken, voices raised.

Buoyed by the response, Will Ketch continued. “Boughton's new masters would turn us out and fence off the land that is our birthright. We must not let them.”

“We'll fight!” came a voice from the crowd. This time fists were lifted. “Tear down the fences,” someone called, and another took up the chant. “Tear 'em down. Tear 'em down.”

Another shout went up. “We want compensation!” But Jed Lively's was a lone voice. He was a tenant farmer who worked ten acres. No doubt Boughton would negotiate with him, apportion him a good-sized allotment, but most of those gathered stood to lose everything. Lively was shouted down and the atmosphere was turning ugly.

Adam Diggott wanted his voice to be heard, too. He'd been readying himself for this moment. His blood was stirred, so, elbowing his way through the gathering, he made his way to the front and stood on the tree trunk to address the crowd.

“I have lived in the forest all my life, and I'll die there,” he began. “And I swear on the life of my son, Jake, that I'll not be turned out of my home.”

A chorus of approval followed. He scanned the sea of expectant faces, but just as he was about to rouse them even further, a great rumble sounded from somewhere behind him. Turning 'round, he saw horsemen galloping over the ridge from the direction of Boughton Hall. There were four of them, and they pulled up just short of the crowd, sending men and women scattering to the left and right. One of the riders was recognized by some as the bailiff, Marcus Jupp, a gruff, unforgiving man, who would countenance no challenge to his authority. In his hand he held a scroll. Another of the horsemen shouted for silence, and the gathering suddenly fell still.

In a loud, clear voice, the bailiff began:
“Our Sovereign Lord the King chargeth and commandeth all persons, being assembled, immediately to disperse themselves, and peaceably to depart to their habitations, or to their lawful business, upon the pains contained in the Act made in the first year of King George, for preventing tumults and riotous assemblies. God Save the King!”

The crowd remained silent, stunned by the reading of the Riot Act. They knew what it meant. They needed to be gone within the hour or face the death penalty. With these words the official folded up the scroll and surveyed his audience, watching for their reaction.

“You heard what the bailiff said!” shouted one of the horsemen. “Go to your homes!”

Only Will Ketch was foolish enough to try to lunge in anger at the bailiff, but his fellows wrenched him back just in time and his folly went unremarked.

The women made the first move to leave. The men, forced by their pride to wait just a little longer, followed shortly afterward. The horsemen watched them disperse slowly but peaceably, until just ten minutes later only the commoners' scrawny cattle remained on Brandwick Common.

Thomas, watching the proceedings from a few yards away, waited until almost everyone had gone before he, too, moved off the common. As he did so, one of the horsemen, his bald head glistening with sweat, called him out.

“Oi! You!” he shouted.

Lowering his head, Thomas quickened his pace. He did not wish to become embroiled with Lupton's thugs. As he kept walking, however, the sound of horses' hooves rumbled in his ears and he saw a shadow loom up behind him. Quickly he turned just as the horseman raised his cudgel. The blow struck hard on his shoulder and he staggered.

“Get you gone! You hear me!” cried the ruffian.

Still reeling, Thomas looked up. He was about to protest, but the man had already ridden off in pursuit of more straggling quarry. Clutching his throbbing shoulder, he made his way back to the Three Tuns.

Upstairs in his room, he managed to ease off his coat, waistcoat, and shirt and inspect his damaged shoulder in the mirror. The fire in his grate was not lit and he shivered as the cold pricked his naked skin. Inspecting himself in the cheval glass, he could see that a sizable bruise was blooming on his left blade. Gently he ran his right hand along the shaft of his clavicle, then back over his scapula. He satisfied himself that no bones had been broken, even though he found himself already debilitated. He winced with pain as he opened his medical case and retrieved a bottle of trusted arnica oil together with a pad of gauze. With difficulty he managed to dab his purpled skin. The arnica would soothe his throbbing muscles.

Easing on his shirt, he walked to the window and scanned the now deserted High Street. It was barely dark and yet the village was already under curfew. Even the piss-cart men, who collected urine for use in the fulling mill, had to put off their unsavory work until the morning these days. It was only a few weeks since Thomas had last been in Brandwick, and yet so much had changed. Boughton Hall was being inhabited by a usurper, an impostor. Nicholas Lupton was an occupying force. He had no right to be there, and the people of the village were living under siege. Their woes had increased since Lydia's enforced departure and were about to multiply even further if Sir Montagu had his way on enclosure.

Above the rooftops the soft curves of the hills rose gently beyond the town. Thomas lifted his gaze, and as he did so, something caught his eye. He glanced up to his right. The dark stain of Raven's Wood was silhouetted against the fading sky, but somewhere within the forest, he saw two pinpricks of light dancing in its midst. Lydia always teased him that it was a place of nymphs and sprites, of elves and hobgoblins. She'd spoken of the woods with a childish glee that conveyed a mixture of excitement and fear. Thomas watched the lights for a moment. They disappeared, only to reappear a few seconds later. Lydia's fantastic hobgoblins were poachers, he assumed, or worse still highwaymen. He remembered the stable lad's warning about the Raven, preying on unsuspecting travelers who were brave—or foolish—enough to venture through his domain. He had just begun to close the shutters on the night when his eye was snagged by a movement below his window. A cart was rumbling past, its cargo covered with a canvas sheet, and on the driver's bench sat Peter Geech accompanied by the young stable lad. What delivery could be so important that they risked arrest for breaking the curfew? thought Thomas. They trundled unchecked up the High Street in the direction of the fulling mill and the woods. He watched them until they disappeared into the darkness, then let the latch fall on the shutters. Such nighttime pranks were not his concern. He must try to rest before his journey back to London. Tomorrow was an important day. Tomorrow, if all went to plan, he would take another step closer to Lydia.

T
he moment the Bethlem clerk lifted his familiar bulging eyes and saw Thomas, he immediately reached for the bell to summon the guards. As soon as he did so, however, the doctor whipped Lupton's letter from his pocket.

“Before I am forcibly ejected, I would ask you to read this,” he said, flourishing the missive.

The clerk arched his brow and looked at the anatomist skeptically. He snatched the paper and unfolded it as if it were a foul-smelling rag. Reading the contents quickly, he cleared his throat and looked up to meet Thomas's gaze. His usual scowl suddenly dissipated as he rearranged his features into a less threatening expression.

“Dr. Silkstone. Of course,” he said grudgingly. “You wish to see Lady Lydia Farrell.”

Thomas resisted the temptation to reply that of course he wished to see Lady Lydia and had been trying to do so, as the clerk knew only too well, for the past eight weeks or so. Instead he simply nodded emphatically to signify what seemed a small, but significant, victory. Yet he remained anxious, even when the clerk issued him a ticket that granted him access. He stared at the small piece of paper. It was as if he were going to see a matinee in Drury Lane. At least Bethlem's patients were now shielded from public view. Up until a few years ago, they were regarded as peep-show freaks. Now, thanks to a decision by the court of governors, they could at least be accorded a little dignity in their various states of madness. Scrutinizing the scrap of paper, he realized it granted him access not to a female ward, but to the principal's office. He was glad of it. Now he would be able to demand answers directly. He could insist on Lydia's release in front of the man who had the power to grant it.

Up ahead lay a great staircase. On either side were large iron grilles, one on the left that opened onto the men's gallery and the other to the women's. Thomas stood in front of the grille and took a deep breath. As he walked through this last door he sensed that his own descent into hell was about to begin; a hell peopled by harpies and viragos who looked at him quizzically, or hissed and spat at him, a place inhabited by scorned mistresses, betrayed wives, ranting priestesses, and malevolent witches. His guide on this disturbing journey was a female warder with a round, benign face and a large bosom. She smiled as she jangled her keys and opened the grille. Waiting ahead, she led Thomas into a long gallery that was as busy as the Bath Assembly Rooms.

“Don't be alarmed, sir,” she assured him, seeing Thomas's apprehension. “They mean no harm, and those that do are locked safe in their cells.”

Thomas followed the warder, taking in every detail of the scene as if it were one of Mr. Hogarth's paintings. Some of the women merely promenaded, talking among themselves, or to themselves in a few cases, while others lolled about on benches, their expressions dazed and unseeing. As he passed one, he heard snatches of gibberish, as if she were playing the Fool in
King Lear
. There were some who were addressing blank walls or doors they regarded as real people, while one or two sat on the floor, rocking to and fro, mumbling. A toothless crone chewed her words like victuals.

Despite an underlying babel and the odd slamming of doors, the atmosphere was much calmer than he had anticipated. The noise, although constant, was not discordant, and although there was a whiff of urine on the air, he found the general state of cleanliness to be acceptable.

To the female warder, this was a most natural state of affairs. The bunch of keys at her waist rattled with each step she took, but she seemed completely inured to the harmless chaos that surrounded her.

“God put lunatics on this earth to remind us that we are mere mortals,” she told Thomas as she led him along the gallery. She did not even bother to look 'round when a patient tapped him on the back. He turned to see a young, elfin-featured woman, pale and drawn, with dark hair and large eyes. For a moment he was transfixed. His chest was robbed of breath. His tongue was hobbled in his mouth.

“Lydia?”

The young woman cocked her head like an inquisitive bird and smiled a knowing smile. The warder, conscious that she was no longer being followed, finally glanced back to see the inmate hold Thomas's hand to her cheek.

“Anna!” scolded the warder. Her tone was that of a governess reprimanding a child, rather than a jailer chastising an inmate. “Leave the gentleman alone.” She shook her head. “You must forgive Miss Kent,” she told Thomas, her double chin wobbling as she spoke. “Her fiancé's death made her so.” Then, as she turned to continue along the corridor, she said something that took Thomas quite by surprise. “She has a look of Lady Lydia, does she not?”

The doctor had to agree. “Yes. Yes, she does,” he replied.

“I be convinced that is why Miss Kent is drawn to her,” she added.

“Drawn to her?” queried Thomas.

The warder nodded. “She won't leave her ladyship alone,” she said. They walked on. Although he was well accustomed to the corridors of St. George's, this hospital set Thomas's nerves on edge. It was as if he had been asked to suspend all reality and rationality. After only a few hours in this madhouse, he could imagine even the sanest person might lose their grip on the everyday and commonplace. Routine and order seemed to have been left behind at the iron gate. His fears for Lydia and her condition grew with each step he took nearer the principal's office.

A set of double doors lay at the end of the gallery. The warder knocked and a man's voice called from inside.

“Come.”

The warder flung open the doors and Thomas proceeded to enter a spacious room with a lofty ceiling and walls that were lined with portraits of eminent physicians. An elderly gentleman stood from behind a long table to receive him, nodding graciously as he did so. His flat nose was purplish in color and his cheeks veiny. Thomas noted him for a heavy imbiber.

“Dr. Silkstone.” He shook Thomas's hand. “Dr. Angus Cameron, at your service. Welcome to Bethlem. Please.” He gestured to a chair opposite him.

As he seated himself, Thomas watched Cameron settle into his chair once more, then proceed to reach for a snuffbox from his desk. In silence he took a pinch, then inserted it into first his left, then his right nostril.

“Snuff, Dr. Silkstone?” He thrust the box in front of Thomas. The doctor declined politely.

The name Cameron was familiar to him. He recalled the physician's treatise on mental illness, published only the previous year. A Scotsman by birth, he had come south as a youth and quickly established a reputation in his chosen field of disorders of the mind. Despite his affable manner, Thomas knew him to be an advocate of radical treatments for those afflicted by insanity.

“So you are come to see your erstwhile patient?” Cameron said, snapping shut the lid of his snuffbox.

Thomas was quick to correct him. “Lady Lydia will continue to be my patient just as soon as you release her, sir.” He refused to be disarmed by the physician's easy mien. Caution would be his watchword.

Cameron sniffed and leaned back in his chair. “And what makes you think that her ladyship will ever be released?” The question, so sudden and brutal, took Thomas off guard.

The young doctor edged forward. “It must be clear to you, sir, that Lady Lydia is not mad, but a victim of circumstance.” He almost said “a cruel plot” but checked himself. He knew that Cameron might well be in Sir Montagu's pay, or at the very least in his confidence.

The elderly physician began to finger some sort of journal that lay open before him. He scanned its tightly written lines. Without bothering to look up, he said, “Her ladyship is no longer confined to her cell. She may walk unfettered along the galleries now.” His voice adopted a cheerful note.

Thomas looked at him askance. “Unfettered?” he repeated. “What have you done to her?”

Cameron's head jerked up. “Och! Calm yourself, sir!” He seemed indignant rather than frightened by the doctor's sudden outburst. Thomas, taking a deep breath, tried to compose himself. “'Twas for her own good. Her ladyship was most distressed on admission, but now she is settling in well,” added Cameron. Yet his effort to placate his volatile visitor had little effect.

Thomas leaned over the desk. “I would see her as soon as possible, sir,” he told him, his ragged voice unable to disguise his agitation.

Cameron nodded. “You will, sir. You will, but know this . . .” He shut the ledger with a deliberate thud and lifted his index finger threateningly in the air. “Madness depends as much on management as it does on medicine. It responds to coercion, restraints, and physical treatments.”

Thomas felt the bile rise in his throat at the inhumanity of this statement. He feared even more for Lydia's physical well-being. “There are those who disagree most strongly with you, sir, on that point.”

Cameron waved his hand dismissively. “Och! You are not here to talk polemics or discuss the latest treatises on mental health, Dr. Silkstone. You are here because I have consented for you to see your former patient.” He put an odd emphasis on the word “former.” His tone had switched from its initial civility to one of arrogance. He took another pinch of snuff and snapped shut the lid of his box with a deliberateness that reflected his changed manner.

“I'll be plain with you, Silkstone,” he said, also leaning forward over his desk. “I am allowing this visit purely because of this letter from Lupton.” He tapped the paper that lay beside him. “Her ladyship's mental state is delicate, and any sudden upsets might cause her to relapse.” He reached for a small bell on the table and rang it. “Lady Lydia will be with us shortly,” he said with a nod, as the plump warder appeared at the door.

An awkward silence swelled between the two men, and Thomas felt his stomach knot once more. The principal eased himself back in his chair for the wait, intent on making his visitor feel as uncomfortable as possible. Finally he could contain his ire no longer, and he broke the uneasy stillness. “Her ladyship is not mad. You know that, don't you, Cameron?”

The Scotsman's brow furrowed, and a look of puzzlement altered his features. Shaking his head he said, “I am afraid I am at a loss to understand your outrage, Dr. Silkstone. After all, it was you who signed her ladyship's committal papers.”

The principal's words stunned Thomas. Momentarily he froze. His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, as his brain tried to process what he had just heard.

“I signed the committal papers? What are you talking about?” His voice registered anger tinged with utter dismay.

Cameron fumbled with a leather wallet on his desk. “I believe I have them here,” he said. “Ah, yes.” He handed the doctor a sheet of paper. Thomas scanned the document. At the bottom were two signatures: One was Dr. Fairweather's; the other appeared to be his own. He threw it back down on the desk in disgust and leapt up, pushing his chair back so that it scraped loudly on the wooden floor.

“A forgery!” he cried. “I would sooner cut off my right hand than condemn Lady Lydia to stay here any longer.” He raked his fingers through his hair and turned in thought. Sir Montagu Malthus and Lupton must have gained access to his letters to Lydia in order to fake his signature. He felt his mouth grow dry and his heart pound. Seconds later he switched back. “Has her ladyship seen this?” He picked up the signed sheet once more and brandished it in the air.

Cameron, clearly bemused by Thomas's display of furious indignation, nodded. “She is aware that you are one of the signatories, yes.”

Thomas's shoulders drooped almost instantaneously, as if the whole world had suddenly fallen upon them. “She thinks I sent her here?” His incredulous voice was a loud whisper, addressed to no one in particular. He fixed Cameron with a glare. As he did so, there came a knock, and both heads turned.

“Come,” called the principal.

Thomas watched as, at the far end of the room, he saw a small, slight figure take faltering steps through the open door. He could not be sure it was Lydia. The warder was at the woman's arm, supporting her. Forcing himself to check a great urge to run up to the woman, if indeed it was Lydia, and hold her, he watched every achingly slow step with growing alarm.

“What have you done to her?” He shot a look of incomprehension at Cameron, but the principal remained unrepentant. He, too, was watching the woman's deliberate and clearly bewildered progress toward them.

“Nothing more than a purge and a good bleeding. Both requisite to the cure of madness, Dr. Silkstone,” came the glib reply.

As the woman drew to within a few feet of him, Thomas felt the blood drain from his own face as surely as if it had been drawn from his body. It was Lydia. Of that he was certain, but her cheeks and forehead were white and papery, and under her eyes were dark shadows. Of her lustrous chestnut hair there was no sign. She had been severely shorn, and what remained barely covered her scalp. What was more, her painfully thin frame was encased in a stiff white jacket with long sleeves. Thomas looked for her hands. He could not see them. Suddenly he realized with dismay that her arms had been crossed in front of her body and tethered by ties on the sleeves at the back. He flashed a look of horror at her and saw her brown eyes suddenly latch onto his. They stayed there for just a moment, but it was a moment in which hope flickered before her gaze swam away from him once more.

Terrified that Lydia might be lost to him, Thomas shot an angry glare at Cameron. “Why is she wearing this vile jacket?” He heard the fury in his own voice, even though he had tried to suppress it.

The principal simply lifted his marbled features into the sly smile of a man who knew he had the upper hand. “For her own protection, Dr. Silkstone. 'Tis more humane than the usual shackles,” he replied.