Haunted Ground (32 page)

Christmas Day

December 1650

The room was chilly, the window lightly frosted with snow as the cold rays of winter sunshine tried in vain to dispel the gloom created by the partially closed shutters.  It had snowed the night before, and the trees outside were covered in a fine layer of snow that was merrily sparkling in the weak winter sunshine.  Squeals of happy children could be heard from outside as they threw snowballs at each other and tried to make a snowman.  The brightness hurt Rowan’s eyes, so she turned away from the window and pulled the coverlet up to her ears, desperate to get away from the sounds of gaiety.  She’d barely gotten out of bed the past seven weeks, her desire to live extinguished the minute she found out about Brendan’s death.

Aunt Joan forced her to wash and take some broth and milk, since that’s all she could manage to swallow, but Rowan only went through the motions, oblivious to the life around her.  Not a day went by that she didn’t wish that Uncle Caleb and Aunt Joan hadn’t come in time and let her just die as she was meant to.  Had it not rained a few days before, the hemp in the rope might not have been damp, and choked the life out of her before they had a chance to cut her down.  The scar around Rowan’s throat was ropey and angry-looking, and she was scarecrow-thin, but she no longer cared.  She hadn’t looked in the mirror since that day
—
the day that was to be the true beginning of their life together.

Stephen came to see her a few times, but Rowan had refused to see him, unable to bear his kindness.  She only wanted to be left alone in the hope that she would just float away quietly without making any fuss.  Even the notion of meeting Brendan in Heaven had been snatched from her.  He’d killed himself when he saw her hanging there, damning his soul to eternal torment and ensuring that they would never meet again. At least if he had been killed by Sexby his soul would not be damned for eternity.

Rowan closed her eyes in the hope that Aunt Joan would think her asleep, but the older woman wasn’t fooled.  She came in and set down the bowl of beef tea next to Rowan’s bed, smoothing away a stray lock of hair and smiling kindly at her niece.

“Come now, my girl.  Sit up and take some broth.  I won’t leave until you do, so it’s no use pretending you’re asleep.”  Rowan put her hand over Joan’s in a silent thank you for all her care, and forced herself to sit up and swallow a spoonful of hot broth.  It soothed her raw throat and warmed her from the inside, although physical comforts no longer mattered.  She’d tried to speak once she was sufficiently recovered, but all that came out was a hiss, or a whisper at best, so she reverted back to silence.  What was there to say anyway?

“Rowan…” Joan began hesitantly, “there’s something I must ask you.”  She averted her eyes for a moment and focused on spooning more broth into Rowan’s mouth, clearly thinking of how to phrase her question best.  “Have you, eh, lain with Brendan?” she asked at last.

Rowan pointed to the ring finger of her left hand.  She’d tried to make them understand that they’d been married, but no one seemed interested.  So, she just nodded.

Joan sighed and set the plate down before finally making eye contact again.  “Rowan, I can’t help noticing that you haven’t bled since early October.  Are you with child?”

Rowan just stared at her aunt.  The thought never even occurred to her, but then again, she hadn’t been paying any attention to anything other than her grief, wallowing in self-pity and wishing for death.  Could she really be pregnant?  Rowan gingerly put her hands over her stomach, caressing the warm skin.  She’d lost a lot of weight, but her belly was slightly rounded and firm to the touch, and her breasts had been a little tender.  She hadn’t had her courses since early October as Aunt Joan mentioned. 

“Rowan, if you are with child, there’s no time to lose.  You must be married.”

Rowan stared at her aunt.  She was already married.  She pointed to her finger again.

“I believe you when you say you married Brendan, but Brendan is gone, and so is Reverend Pole.  He never entered the marriage in the parish register, so there’s no way to prove that it ever took place.  Rowan, you must think of your child.  If you are indeed pregnant, it will be born a bastard and have to live with that stigma for the rest of its life.  Is that what you want?”

Rowan shook her head, tears beginning to slide down her cheeks.  She wanted her child to be born to happy, loving parents, who were eagerly awaiting its arrival, not to a heartbroken mother and a father whose soul was rattling around in Hell. What did Joan expect her to do and who was she supposed to marry?

“You must marry Stephen as soon as possible.  We can say that the baby came early.  Stephen has been to see you nearly every day.  He loves you and wants to help.”

“No,” Rowan whispered, horrified by the thought.  How could she marry Stephen if she were carrying Brendan’s baby?  What would he think if he ever found out the truth?

“Rowan, no one must ever know what happened.  People think that you and Reverend Pole were attacked by ruffians.  No one knows that Brendan was there or that you two were married.  You must marry Stephen for the sake of your baby, and you must do it very soon.  The banns need to be read, so you won’t be able to marry for a month after, but you must seduce him and lie with him, so he thinks the child is his.”

The thought of lying with Stephen left Rowan sick inside.  How could she do with him what she’d done with Brendan?  She’d given herself to him in love, and now she’d have to play the whore in order to cheat an honest and decent man.  Rowan wiped her runny nose with the back of her hand and hung her head in misery.  The whole scheme was abhorrent to her, but if she could protect Brendan’s baby, if she could keep it safe and give it a legitimate future, it had to be done. 

“Listen to me, girl.  You need to get washed up, brush your hair, get some color into those cheeks and go visit Stephen under the pretense of wishing him a happy Christmas.  Kiss him, lean against him, touch him.  He’ll take care of the rest.  Just let him know that you’re willing.  Can you do that?”

She’d have to, wouldn’t she, and she’d have to do it today.

February 1651

England

Meg smoothed back Mary’s hair and kissed her on the forehead in a sisterly gesture before scooping up the bloody rags and tossing them into the red-tinged water in the basin.  She averted her eyes from the bloody lump that rested at the bottom of the basin; a lump that would have been her niece or nephew come summer.  Mary was crying quietly.  Her face was swollen from the latest beating, and there were angry bruises just above her breasts and on her arms.  Meg knew there were more just like it on her belly and thighs.  Jasper had beaten her savagely, causing her to lose her baby.  And now he was drunk as usual, sleeping it off in the barn. 

A few months ago, she’d felt a burning hatred toward her brother, especially after the two men had come back, bearing the news that Brendan was dead.  They’d hanged a reverend and an innocent young girl just to draw him out, and they laughed loudly when they recounted how they didn’t even have to bother killing him since he’d done the job himself.  It seemed Oliver Cromwell had wanted Brendan brought back for trial, but this outcome was just as satisfying.  The men drank with Jasper and spent the night, before setting out on their way back to rejoin Cromwell’s forces.  Meg thought her heart would break when she heard the news, but Jasper forbade her to speak of Brendan or even mourn him.  Well, he couldn’t do that.  She prayed for Brendan’s soul every single day, hoping against hope that he wasn’t in Hell.  At least had the men killed him, his soul would have gone to Heaven, and he would have gotten a proper burial, instead God only knew where his remains were; likely, his bones were picked over by beasts in the forest. 

Meg disposed of the sad remains and washed her hands before making her way to the barn.  Jasper was laid out like a king on a bed of straw; snoring loudly, his chest rumbling like thunder.  His breeches bore a wet stain since he’d obviously pissed himself.  Meg wrinkled her nose in disgust as she led the two horses and the donkey out of the barn to graze before returning.  Meg just stood still for a moment, looking at her brother.  Whatever love she’d ever felt for him was replaced by a hatred so deep, it shook her to the core. 

She hadn’t liked Mary or wanted Mary to be Jasper’s wife, but no woman deserved what that poor girl had suffered since their wedding.  And Meg was partially to blame.  Well, she would undo the wrong she’d done to Mary and her unborn child.  She would avenge Brendan and their father, and she would set herself free to seek her own future and make her own life.  Meg took the tinder box and flint from the pocket of her apron, and set about starting a fire close to the doors.  A tiny flame leapt into life and Meg blew on it cautiously until the straw caught, and the fire began to spread and crackle as it devoured the straw and began to lick the beams of the barn. 

Meg calmly walked out of the barn and barred the doors behind her before walking some distance to the tree by the paddock.  She wrapped her shawl tighter around her body, shivering with cold, but her eyes never left the barn.  It took about a quarter of an hour for the little fire to turn into a conflagration as the barn went up in flames, the dry wood crackling and shooting sparks into the colorless February sky.  Meg heard a great roar, but she wasn’t sure if it was the fire or Jasper, nor did she care.  She continued to watch, transfixed as the fire devoured the barn with Jasper inside it. 

Two hours later, there wasn’t much left but a few blackened beams and a column of smoke rising from the ashes.  Meg finally detached herself from the tree and walked back to the house.  She never looked at the charred remains of her brother as she passed, nor did she bother to say a prayer for his soul.  She had no right.  Soon enough she would join Brendan in Hell, for now she was a murderer.

July 1651

England

Stephen Aldrich tried to arrange his face into an expression of joy as he gingerly entered the room, his eyes glued to Rowan’s blissful expression.  What he wouldn’t give to have her look at him like that, if only just once, but this was the first time since she’d come to him last Christmas that he saw anything even resembling happiness.  Rowan ignored him as she continued to devour the baby in her arms with a look of such naked love that Stephen nearly choked on the bile that rose in his throat. 

Over the past seven months he’d hoped and wished that Rowan would lose the baby, or have a stillborn.  He wasn’t proud of himself for such unworthy thoughts and never voiced them out loud, but he secretly prayed that he would be spared raising another man’s bastard.  He supposed this was his penance for the role he played in the events of All Hallows’ Eve that were still on everyone’s lips.  No one knew for certain what had happened or why, since Reverend Pole was gone, Rowan refused to speak of it, and the Frains kept their counsel as well. The men who’d been looking for Brendan Carr vanished that night, possibly ashamed of how far they’d gone to capture a man who managed to elude them. 

Till this day, Stephen had no idea what happened to Carr, but he suspected he was dead.  Why else would Rowan give herself to Stephen in an act of such heart-wrenching desperation that it nearly broke his heart?  Of course, he’d known what she was about when she came to him that night, just as he’d known that although it wasn’t him she wanted, he had to play along to give her peace of mind.  He’d been solely responsible for what happened to Rowan that night, and he would love her and care for her till the day he died, not only because he wanted to, but because he felt it was his duty to her. 

Stephen sat on the side of the bed and accepted the small bundle that stared back at him with complete indifference.  The little face was red and wrinkled, the dark fuzz plastered to the skull, and one fist poking out of the wrappings as if wagging at him and promising vengeance for the death of its father.  Stephen forced himself to smile as he looked at Rowan, who was watching him expectantly.

“Anne, I think, after my mother,” Stephen said.  Calling the girl after his mother would no more make her his than giving her his own name, but he felt he had to make some claim to her, if only for Rowan’s sake.  He would make a show of loving this child and cherishing her as if she were his own, but what he felt deep inside was a different matter altogether. 

Stephen handed the baby back to Rowan.  “I’ll call the children, shall I?  They’re desperate to meet their new sister, especially Lizzie.  Tim would have liked a brother, but there’s time,” he added, “there’s time.” 

Rowan watched as Stephen stepped from the room. There were days when she was sure he knew the truth, but she couldn’t afford to dwell on her suspicions.  She’d made her bed, literally, and now she had to lie in it, and lie in it with Stephen.  Not a day went by that she didn’t mourn Brendan, her heart contracting painfully every time she remembered his face as he looked at her those last couple of days when they were on the threshold of their life together.  The pregnancy had been a double-edged sword, soothing her aching heart with the knowledge that something of Brendan was left behind, and simultaneously breaking it with the certainty that Brendan would never see his child and its paternity would have to be kept a secret. 

Despite Uncle Caleb’s warnings, Rowan made a weekly pilgrimage to Reverend Pole’s house.  The new reverend had chosen to live in the village, closer to his church and parishioners, so the house stood empty, its windows staring blindly at the scene of the murder.  Rowan laid a small bouquet of flowers beneath the tree every week, partially for the memory of Reverend Pole, but mostly for Brendan.  She didn’t believe that his soul was in Hell, nor did she believe that he was gone forever.  She couldn’t see him or speak to him, but she could feel him in the babe moving in her womb, and in the acute pain she felt every time she thought of him.  He would always be with her, and she would always guard his resting place, albeit it was known to only three people. 

From the day she discovered she was pregnant, she’d made it her purpose in life to protect the tiny life growing inside her, and she would do everything in her power to give her daughter a happy, safe life.  Stephen was a good man who cared for her deeply despite her own lukewarm feelings toward him, but she would try to make him happy and be a good wife to him, if only for the sake of her baby daughter. 

Rowan gently caressed the chubby cheek with her finger and bent her face close to the baby.  “In my heart, you will always be Brenda, after your father,” she whispered, and kissed the baby’s forehead in benediction.  This was the first day of a new life.