Maggie Prince - North Side of the Tree

There are voices in the gatehouse. We all look round. I have been half aware of someone arriving on horseback. Now Gerald enters, glancing behind him, holding out his hand to an unseen figure. A woman’s voice answers him, whispering uncertainly. Gerald steps back, vanishes, then returns with his arm round Germaine, forcing her forward. Aunt Juniper stands up, staring at Gerald’s arm. “What in heaven’s name are you doing, Gerald?” she exclaims. “What are you doing with that serving woman?”

He moves forward into the kitchen, and Germaine has no choice but to move with him. “I’m glad you welcome the presence of another woman in the house, Mother,” Gerald says. He kisses the top of his mother’s head. “Germaine is coming to live here. She is coming to stay with us.”

One look at Aunt Juniper’s face seems to indicate that this is a good moment to leave. I move round the table kissing each of them on the cheek, though hardly noticed by them in their shock-eyed immobility. I stroll out into the bright autumn afternoon, full of relief that my own mission is completed, overwhelmed by startled admiration for Gerald and Germaine, that they have dared to do this.

It is whilst I am mounting my horse outside the stables that I first hear the sound. I hear it, then it is lost again amongst the faint beat of axes that resounds all round the bay. I stop and listen, one foot in the stirrup. The sound comes again. It is different from the woodcutting. It has rhythm and resonance. It grows louder then fades, carried on gusts of wind across the water, two slow beats and three fast, the sound of a drum. I mount up. I cannot imagine what a drum is doing on a clear autumn day with winter coming on and no conflicts threatened, but it seems unimportant, and as my mind returns to the confrontation probably going on behind me in Mere Point Tower, I soon forget about it.

John and the bishop have already returned to Low Back Farm, when I arrive there. They meet me, with Verity and James, at the gate.

“How did you…?” I scarcely need ask how they fared. Their expressions tell me.

“We gained entry,” the bishop tells me as he helps me down from my horse. “That much we did achieve, but only to be harangued at great length and ejected again. Your father did not wish to listen to reason.”

I see to my horror that he has a red swelling on the side of his face. “And this, sir?”

“The doorpost. In his haste to see us on our way, your father deemed some assistance was necessary.”

I stand with my hand to my mouth. This is worse, far worse, than I had anticipated. “Oh, I am so sorry. I am so sorry. Please excuse him. He is unused to suggestions from others as to how he should behave.”

“I have forgiven him,” the bishop declares graciously. “I think it probably does me good to experience life amongst the farther reaches of my wild and scattered flock. It has a most humbling effect.”

Verity widens her eyes at me, and I know that despite everything, she feels inclined to side with my father. She leads the bishop indoors, to soothe him with wine and cakes. James hesitates, preferring to stay with us, whom he knows, but when John catches hold of my arm and holds me back, James follows them indoors.

“What?” I respond to John’s anxious expression.

“There’s something else, Beatie. Your father – I think he is unwell.”

I stare at him in alarm. “In what way, John?”

“His colour is bad. It is most unwholesome looking, a very choleric purple in his cheeks and nose, and he seemed short of breath. I suggested to him that he needed a doctor, but the idea seemed to drive him into a further rage. I do think it would be wise for him to consult either a doctor or the Cockleshell Man, before the day is out.”

“Was my mother there?”

“No. Was she not at your aunt’s?”

“No.”

“Then she will be with Cedric.”

I glance at him. “Do you disapprove?” When he does not reply, I save him the embarrassment of having to, by adding, “I think I should go and take a look at my father. I will ask James if George and Martinus may accompany me.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“I think not, thank you John.”

When I explain my intention to Verity, she also insists on accompanying me. James, John and the bishop escort us up the valley to the edge of the clearing, and watch as Verity, the two henchmen and I go on alone. As we draw near to the barmkin I can see that Michael, the new henchman, is keeping watch on the battlements. We see him calling down to someone. A moment later the door of the pele tower flies open and my father rushes out.

Although there are four of us, we instinctively draw back. I see at once what John referred to. My father’s face is dark purple, and as he comes nearer, I hear his breath gurgling in his chest like water from a bottle.

“Daughters!” he shouts, and teeters to a halt. “Oh Daughters, have you come home to me?”

“Is he drunk?” Verity whispers.

I shake my head. “I don’t think so.” I take a step towards him. He staggers where he stands. “Father, let me help you back into the tower.”

Verity takes his other arm. She has not touched him since the day he tried to kill James. He bursts into tears. I feel close to tears myself. Between us we coax him up the slope and through the gatehouse, into the kitchen, closely followed by George and Martinus.

The kitchen is empty, but I can hear Kate singing somewhere in the cellars below. Father is struggling for coherence. The effort is plain on his face. “Daughters,” he attempts again, “dear, dear Daughters…”

We help him sit down on the settle. Martinus brings some water.

“Should’st be on watch, lad?” Father asks, peering at him with difficulty.

“You’re confused, Father,” I tell him. “Martinus doesn’t work here any more. Drink the water. Will you let the Cockleshell Man come to see you?”

Father drinks the water quickly. “Nay lass, whatever for?” He wipes a trickle from his chin. His colour is cooling a little. He sounds calmer and more articulate as he enquires, “Beatrice, what are they saying about you, lass? I cannot credit it. You cannot want yon poxy parson! You cannot. You cannot, lass. Come home. There’ll be no more locking in. I give you my oath. And we’ll forget about the window. I’ll not beat you for that.” He holds out his cup for more water, and Martinus hurries forward. I reflect how quickly he has fallen back into his old role of serving this familiar master. My father lays his hand on my arm and looks into my face, and I reflect how quickly I, too, have fallen back. He says quietly, “Beatrice, I’ve cared for you, have I not? It has been my pleasure to provide for you. Many girls in your position would have been married off at twelve. Yet I allowed you to learn. Did I not? Did you not have this privilege which most young women do not?”

I lower my eyes. “Yes, Father.”

“Yes. Well then.” He sits back. “Now I ask for you to return a little of what I have done for you. Come home. Resume your duties on the farm. All will be forgotten. I shall hold nothing against you.” He turns to Verity without giving me a chance to reply. “And you, Verity, naught shall be held against you, neither. Nor against your child. Your babe shall be the apple of my eye. I shall permit no one to call it bastard, and it shall, with your sister’s children, inherit all that I have. There’ll be no disgrace to you. The yokel violated you. I know that. All who know you know that. There’s no disgrace. Come home. Stay with me, Verity.”

Verity leans forward and takes his hand. “Father, dearest Father, you know how I love you. Never doubt it.”

He nods, and there are tears in his eyes. “Never doubt it,” he repeats under his breath.