BONE HOUSE (8 page)

“I’ve come in search of Long Boy,” I tell her.

“But he is ill with fever,” she says.

I shake my head. “He has gone.”

She frowns a little. “We’ve not seen him here this night.”

“Could you ask about?” I say, nodding toward the other room. She pauses a moment, then lifts her great girth and disappears again. I cross to the door and watch her move about the room, collecting empty tankards and pausing now and then to make
inquiries. One by one I see them frown and shake their heads, and she turns to me with a shrug of her shoulders, then moves to fill the empty mugs behind the counter. I remain frozen in the doorway for a moment, unsure what course of action I should take, until I realize the painter is looking at me from across the room. He gives an almost imperceptible nod, then looks down at something in his lap, and I see that he is sketching quickly with coal, his hands flying about the paper. Curious to see, I make my way slowly across the room, but just as I draw near he quickly turns the page, and begins drawing anew. His action seems a little like a reprimand and causes me to halt. Instead I turn and make for the doorway, where I pause to wave good-bye to Mary. But before I can open the door, I am nearly knocked aside by someone entering from without. It is Samuell, Mary’s husband, and his broad, weatherbeaten face is filled with alarm. Once inside he pauses for breath, his chest heaving and his eyes watery with cold.

“She has gone,” he declares loudly, in a voice thick with panic. “They’ve opened the grave and taken her.” For a second there is silence, as it dawns on us who he is speaking of. And in the next moment half the room has risen to its feet, and I find myself swept along in a tide of drunken anger as we all move out the door.

The graveyard lies on the outskirts of the village, just prior to the boundaries of the Great House. Two of the men have managed to grab torches and the light bounces eerily off the frost-laden trees, our feet crunching the frozen dirt below us as we hurry along the road. When we draw near a small crowd has already gathered around the grave: some yeoman farmers, a few old women who live nearby and must have heard their cries, and standing off to one side, Long Boy. I rush to him and take his arm, and he turns to me with a look of complete bewilderment, as if I am a total stranger.

“Are you all right?” I ask. He stares at me with a glazed look in his eye, then turns back to the grave, now a shallow hole in the
ground. The crude wooden coffin she was buried in lies open at the bottom of the hole, its lid cast to one side, iron nails still jutting from the wood. The men begin to argue among themselves, alcohol fueling their excitement, and before long their voices rise to shouts and someone throws a punch. A fight ensues between two young farmers, and for a moment no one moves, our attention drawn by the spectacle of violence. Just then Mary arrives at a trot, hands beneath her belly, her breath coming hard. Without a thought she steps right into the fray, shouting at the top of her lungs. Her voice stops them dead, and they pause, chests heaving, regarding her in the midnight air.

“There’ll be no more fighting this night,” says Mary with authority. “Go on home, the lot of you, and put your fists to bed.” The men slowly start to move, bend down to fetch their fallen caps, rub their hands against their faces, and shuffle down the lane.

We stand silently watching them depart through a veil of bitter cold: myself and Long Boy, Mary and Samuell. And then I see the painter, standing several paces away in the shadow of some trees. He must have followed us here, though it surprises me, as I would not have taken him for the curious sort. He takes a step back, disappearing into the darkness, just as Mary speaks.

“Even in death, they cannot let her be,” she says with a sigh. I turn to Long Boy and he remains motionless, his eyes fixed to the hole.

“Come,” I tell him gently. “It is time to return.” He does not even turn his head, and I shoot a questioning glance at Mary, who shrugs her shoulders slightly in response. Samuell bends down and hoists the cover of the coffin back into place atop the wooden box at the bottom of the hole. He kicks some dirt into the hole with his feet, enough to cover the lid loosely with earth. There is something obscene about the sight of the empty box, and once he is done we are all relieved.

“Long Boy, we must go,” I say again, a little more forcefully. And then I take his arm and gently give a tug. He allows me to lead him away, and as our feet hit the path I see that the painter has vanished from his place beneath the trees. Mary must have seen him too, as she glances at the spot and then at me, raising her eyebrows. She and Samuell accompany us back to Long Boy’s door, where I turn to them and nod my thanks.

“Do you want me to stay?” she asks quietly.

“There is no need,” I tell her. She nods, and taking Samuell’s arm, heads off in the direction of the alehouse. Once inside, Long Boy sinks down onto his bed, overcome with exhaustion. He is blue with cold and I move quickly to build up the fire, which has dwindled again in my absence. Once this is done I heat some broth my mother has left and bring it to him in a wooden mug.

“Drink this,” I order, and he does, taking great gulps of the steaming liquid, just as my mistress does. His eyes wander to the bread on the table and I bring him some, smeared with butter. He tears at it hungrily with his teeth, like a wolf. I sit at the table watching him eat, and as I do I remember the purse of gold stowed beneath my skirts, forgotten in the course of the evening’s events. I reach beneath my clothes and retrieve it, open the purse by its drawstring, and empty the money onto the table. Long Boy watches me, still chewing, but his face remains a mask of disinterest. I could be chopping vegetables or kneading bread and his reaction would be much the same. I wait until he has finished, then point to the money.

“Long Boy, this is yours,” I say. He looks at me and blinks. “It is from my master,” I continue. And then, thinking I should offer some explanation: “It is a gift.” Still there is no reaction from the boy. I lean forward to him, my voice rising a little.

“It is a great deal of money,” I tell him. “He wishes you to have it.”

“Why?” he says.

“Because we all have need of money,” I reply.

And then he stands and crosses to the middle of the room, a few feet from where I am sitting at the table. He stoops to the floor and fiddles for a moment with a wooden plank, which he pries up and lifts to one side, throwing the loose board down with a clatter. Beneath it is a hole, and in the hole is a sack of hempcloth which he lifts. It is the size of an infant’s skull and he deposits it with a thud on the table in front of me. I pause a moment and he looks at me expectantly, so I lean forward and peer inside, where I see more coins than I can count, enough to make me draw a sharp breath. I look at him.

“This was your mother’s?” I ask.

He nods solemnly.

“Where did it come from?”

“From them,” he says simply.

I grope for words. “She . . . earned this?”

Again, he nods.

I stare at the sack of hemp, incredulous. The men of the village collectively do not have this much money: she must have spent a lifetime amassing it. I cannot help but wonder for what purpose. I glance up at the boy, whose face remains blank. He has no understanding of money and its value; it is merely something to be concealed beneath the floor.

“Does anyone else know of this?” I ask after a moment.

“Only me,” he says, a hint of pride creeping into his voice.

“The men who came here?” I ask.

He shakes his head no.

“You are sure?” I press him further.

“Yes,” he says.

I stare at the money for several moments, and cannot help but wonder whether she died for it. I turn to him again. “Long Boy, I fear you are not safe.”

“Why?” he says.

I nod toward the money. He stares at me with complete incomprehension. He is a simple boy.

I am afraid to leave the money here, but I can think of nowhere else to hide it. Something tells me that he would object if I tried to remove it, not because of its value, but because it was hers. In the end I place my master’s purse within the larger sack of hemp and stow both beneath the floor. When the board has been relaid, I am relieved to see that it is indistinguishable from the rest.

“The money will be of use to you,” I tell him. “It will help you to buy food and provisions, until you are old enough to work,” I say. He frowns then, his eyes narrowing with pain.

“She bought the food,” he says quietly. “My mother.”

It is the first time I have ever heard him use this word, and a lump rises in my throat. I turn to him and he trembles, then begins to shake all over, uncontrollably. In an instant I move to him, cradle his enormous frame as best I can, comfort him the way a mother does. But no matter how hard I hold him, my arms cannot quell the shaking. I lay him gently in his bed, cover him with quilts, smooth his hair against his head, smooth his trembling shoulders.

“We will buy your food,” I tell him. “My mother and I.”

I stay with him until he has fallen into deepest slumber, his gangly arms and knees drawn inward, like a child.

That night she visits me in my dreams, and I can see her clearly, for she is standing by the foot of my bed. She wears her death-dress, the one she was buried in, and she is as real to me as she ever was in life. She stands by the tiny window in my room, staring out of it into the night, never once glancing in my direction. Slowly I raise myself up, edge closer to her, terrified that she will flee, or simply vanish. Finally she turns to me, and I see her eyes fill and brim with tears. I have never seen her cry before, and the sight of it moves me beyond words. I pause then, see her blink, and as she does the first tears drop upon her snow white dress. They fall as blood—and we both stare as great drops of crimson bloom upon her skirts. I stare at her for several moments, unable to speak. And
then she turns and swiftly crosses to the door, pulling it closed behind her, leaving me alone once again.

And then I wake, the moon’s rays streaming through my tiny window, a column of unearthly light splitting the floor. The house is deathly still, and I hear only my own labored breathing, together with the wild beat of my heart. I close my eyes, hoping that sleep will take me quickly, for I do not wish to be alone with the troubled images of my mind.

T
he next morning word has already spread to the Great House that Dora’s grave has been robbed. At breakfast there is much speculation among the servants as to the motive, but the sight of her in her death-dress remains frozen in my mind, and when I overhear their banter it sickens me. I move to the kitchen so as to avoid their talk, and take only a small draught of ale, drawing disapproving looks from Cook. Afterward I go to prepare my mistress for her morning sitting with the painter.

Today we are more practiced and we complete her transformation in almost half the time. When I am through she looks at her reflection in the mirror and sighs a little wistfully.

“What a triumph to be desired even as a corpse,” she says.

Her comment startles me in its boldness. I frown, cannot quell the thought that Dora has not been taken for this reason, but for some other. Perhaps an even darker one.

“She may yet be found,” I stammer. My mistress responds with the trace of a knowing smile.

“In the arms of the devil, my dear.”

Just then the painter arrives outside her chamber and she bids him enter. When he does, his eyes dart quickly to mine, then he bows and greets her formally.

“I trust you’ve passed an easy night?” she inquires.

“I have.”

“And that you’ve heard the news,” she continues. “Our little village is not so small as to be completely devoid of entertainment.”

The painter pauses. Her comment is intended to provoke him: a challenge of sorts, though admirably he does not take it up.

“In my country, the thieving of a grave is not thought of in this way,” he says.

My mistress frowns. “You misunderstand me,” she says coldly. “It was merely a figure of speech.”

He nods politely. “Shall we begin?” he says.

“As you wish,” she replies, waving me away with a hand.

Once again I go below to the kitchen, but as I descend the steps leading to the great hall, I meet my master just entering from the cold. He stops short when he sees me, and his face is pinched and white, his hair completely awry. A fit of coughing overcomes him and he reaches out a hand to steady himself against the railing of the stairway. I take a step forward.

“Sir, are you all right?” I ask. After a moment, the cough subsides, leaving him gasping for breath, which comes in great, raspy draws. Finally he regains himself and raises his head, his eyes now red and watery.

“I have been to see her,” he says in a voice that is barely more than a whisper.

I stare at him, unable to respond. “The grave,” he says. “I had to see it for myself.” His eyes are wild with anger now. “Who would do such a thing?” he says urgently.

“I do not know, sir,” I reply. He pauses for a moment, regaining his composure.

“How is the boy?” he asks. “He is recovered?” I think of Long Boy and his vacant stare. How does one recover from such a thing?

“A little better,” I say slowly. “He was grateful for your gift,” I add untruthfully. My master nods, waves one hand, does not wish to speak of it: the dirt of money.

“May God take pity on her soul,” he mumbles, more to him
self than me. I nod and curtsy and he stumbles forward up the stairs with difficulty, grasping the rail as if it is a lifeline.

When I reach the kitchen, Cook hands me a freshly baked scone. “You must eat,” she says sternly, and I do, for I find that I am suddenly famished. I eat one and then another, watching her movements, until she stops suddenly and turns to me.

“The rising of the dead,” she says, shaking her head slowly. “It is a sign from God. A warning.” She regards me closely and I stop chewing, my mouth filled with bread. Cook is prone to superstition but her fears are not without cause. She crosses herself, then raises her eyes again to mine.

“It is an omen, an ill one, to be sure,” she says.

I stay with her until the others return: their presence seems to have a calming effect, and she continues about her work as if no talk has passed between us. After a few minutes I slip away unseen, hoping to check on Long Boy, wondering if my mother has returned. When I reach the cottage, to my great relief I find him there. He seems to know me this morning, though his cheeks are unusually bright and there is an excited spark in his eye. As soon as I enter, he crosses to me eagerly and grabs my hand.

“I have seen her,” he says. “I have seen her in the night, and she will come for me.”

I take a deep breath, reach a hand to feel his brow. His temperature has risen again, no doubt a result of his night wanderings.

“Your fever has returned. You must lie down.” I take his arm and gently ease him back onto his bed, covering him loosely with the bedclothes. But as I do something catches my eye beneath his blankets: a small, worn volume bound in cloth of deepest crimson, its threads fraying round the edge. The boy reaches for it and in one smooth motion draws it beneath his pillow, his hand remaining hidden.

“Long Boy, what is this?” I ask, leaning forward.

He watches me distrustfully, then slowly withdraws the volume from beneath the bedclothes.

“Was it your mother’s?”

He nods, then opens it, turning it round for me to see. It is a diary of sorts, but not a recent one, for the pages are yellowed with age and the ink has faded over time. I reach a hand out but he flinches.

“The language is some other. Is it your mother’s tongue?”

Again he nods, nervously fingering the pages.

“Can you read it?”

My question irritates him, for he shakes his head no, snaps the cover shut, and slides it back to its hiding place.

“Perhaps we could find someone to read it to you,” I venture.

“It is mine,” he says emphatically.

“Of course. I only thought that it might contain a message for you from your mother.”

“I have seen her,” he says again. “And she will come for me.” And with that he clutches the diary to his breast and turns his face to the wall.

I have no choice but to leave the volume with him, even though its contents might well shed some light on Dora’s death. But even if he were willing to part with it, I do not know that I could find a translator, for to my knowledge there is no one in the village who shared her tongue.

I stoke the fire and prepare some bread and broth, which I leave on the stool by his bed, for he remains turned to the wall.

“You must eat,” I say. “And rest. I’ll come again this evening.” I turn to go but his voice stops me.

“I will wait for her,” he says fervently.

I leave, hoping my mother will return soon, though what she will make of his wild talk I do not know.

Cook has prepared a ray with some refreshment for my mistress and the painter. When I enter her outer chamber I can see that the
effort of sitting for him has already left her tired. She rises and excuses herself. I remain behind and offer ale to the painter, who appears oblivious to her fatigue, perhaps willingly so. He takes it but places the cup to one side so as to carry on with his work. The canvas is covered now with a wash of gray and salmon, and the outline of my mistress can be discerned. After a moment, he lays aside his brush and takes up the cup.

“The woman whose body was taken,” he says after a moment. “Who was she?” His directness catches me off guard, and for a moment I cannot think how to answer him. It is not an easy question, for she was both a mother and a whore, but these two things do not begin to describe her.

“She lived here,” I say evasively. “In the village.”

“But she was not from here,” he says. He has clearly overheard talk in the village, probably at the alehouse.

“No. She came across the water many years ago. When I was a child. But she was one of us,” I add quickly. He smiles a little.

“Is such a thing possible?”

“What do you mean?” I ask.

He pauses, considering his response. “To be foreign. This is not a skin one loses easily,” he says.

“I do not know.”

“But I do,” he replies. “How did she die?”

“She fell,” I say. “It was an accident. She was . . . unlucky.” He stares at me closely, as if he can read my doubts, and I am forced to look away. He takes up his brush and dabs at the canvas.

“The thieving of bodies . . . does this happen often here?” he asks.

I shake my head slowly. “No. Never before.”

He raises an eyebrow. “Was she buried with her possessions?”

“No,” I say, my mind reaching back to the money in the hole beneath her floor.

“Then it is very strange,” he says, with a frown.

“You did not know her,” I say quietly.

“Did you?” he asks.

“We all did.”

“You knew her well?”

I nod my head slowly up and down, imagine she is here listening to my answers, as if it were a test of my loyalty.

“I was very fond of her,” I say finally, and my voice is thin with grief. The painter frowns.

“I am sorry,” he says quietly. “I did not know.”

I stare at him. Perhaps I did not either, for we do not feel our thirst until the water has run dry.

At supper that evening there is talk of a search party. A group of men from the village, those that could be spared, spent much of the day combing the forests and fields, but to no avail. No one has a clue to her whereabouts, nor to who has taken her.

“They found nought,” says Rafe, chewing earnestly, his long, black curls bobbing up and down. “No sign nor trail, though with the ground frozen solid, there’d be none to follow.”

“ ’Tis a heavy load. Whoever it was could not have got far without the help of a horse or pack animal,” says Josias.

“Perhaps there were two of them, or even more,” ventures Alice. There is silence for a moment. Our village is small: how could a group of men engage in such a task without the knowledge of others? Josias frowns and shakes his head.

“Perhaps they came from somewhere else,” he says. “Outsiders.”

“Aye,” says Rafe. “It is possible, for she was known throughout the county. I met a man in Chepton once who spoke of her as if she were the queen.” He pauses, smiles a little, and for a moment we are swallowed by her memory. It is Lydia who finally breaks the silence.

“Perhaps she was not truly dead,” she says tentatively. We raise our heads, regard each other; it is a thought that has passed through all of us like a silver thread. Rafe shrugs and Josias gives
a little cough. Indeed, it would not be the first time such a thing has happened. There was a celebrated case not two years earlier in a neighboring county of a yeoman farmer who dropped dead plowing a field. During the course of his own funeral shouts were heard, much to the amazement of the onlookers, and when the coffin lid was pried open, he sat up and cursed those who’d put him there. The man lived for several months more and then died of drink when he collapsed in a ditch and drowned.

But the great-bellied woman would have needed the strength of an ox to raise herself from below the ground.

“No woman is strong enough for such a task,” says Rafe after a moment. “No man either.”

Cook enters then, carrying a large bowl of hot broth that she proceeds to serve. She has clearly overheard the talk and her mouth is pressed tightly in a grim line. When she serves out the last bowl she finally speaks.

“We’ve not seen the last of her,” she says. Then she picks up the serving vessel and disappears into the kitchen, leaving the rest of us wide-eyed.

After supper I slip away to Long Boy’s cottage but even as I approach the smell of fresh-made stew tells me that my mother has returned. When I open the door she is there in the darkness, kneading pastry of some sort. She pauses and looks at me, then raises a finger to her lips, for the boy lies sleeping in his corner bed. Once again, she looks tired and drawn, her face a pool of weary lines.

“When did you return?” I ask.

“This afternoon,” she says. “I came directly here.”

“How is he?”

“A little feverish, but it does not seem serious,” she says.

“Did he speak?” I ask tentatively. She looks at me.

“Of her?” she asks, then nods with a sigh. “I told him she is dead.”

I pause, unsure how to break the news, when she reads my mind.

“I have seen Mary,” she says grimly.

“She told you?”

“Aye.” She stares down at the lump of dough. “May God take pity on her soul,” she adds quietly. I frown.

“Is it possible she is alive?”

My mother glances up at me with a sharp, scornful look. “She was dead,” she says flatly. “I laid her out myself.”

I nod, take a seat beside her. It would be unwise to press her further. She is not given to speculation: she sees only the lay of things before her, never what they might have been. Just then the boy stirs and moans a little in his sleep, and in an instant my mother is at his side, her hand upon his brow. Satisfied, she returns to the table and resumes her kneading.

“How went the birth?” I ask quietly.

She appears not to hear me: she carries on with the punch and slap of dough, her jaw rigid.