The Phantom Tree. Nicola CornickЧитать онлайн книгу.
that my mother had been a well-educated woman and I felt in some obscure way that I would be letting her down if I were to abandon my lessons. The second was more practical. I knew that time spent in study was time not spent washing, cleaning and pickling fruit, which I liked even less than book learning.
Going to the market in Marlborough was our treat. It was not permitted often, which made it all the more exciting. We had no need for the eggs, butter and cheese on sale there since we made our own, but Dame Margery would purchase meat and fish to augment our stocks and we would browse the stalls selling leather purses and belts, nails, knives, dead pigeons and coneys.
The day would start with the long cart ride into town, jolting over the rutted forest tracks. Dickon escorted us. He had fought alongside the late Sir John Seymour, Edward’s grandfather, many years ago. On bad days, when his bones pained him, he would grumble that all he was fit for now was acting as nursemaid to a parcel of women. On good days, when the sun shone and the birds sang, he would whistle tunelessly as he rode beside us.
I loved the market for the noise and colour, the gossip and drinking, the smells and the sense of a bigger world beyond the brick walls of Wolf Hall. It mattered not to me that the cobbles of Marlborough ran with blood from the carcasses that hung on the pegs on the stalls, or that the sweet sickly smell of them mingled with the scent of ale and burning until Alison pressed her pomander to her nose and threatened to retch. When Dame Margery took her eyes off us I would slip away between the booths. The shouts and calls of the traders crashed like waves above my head as I wriggled between chickens in their cages.
‘Good day, Lady Mary.’ It was the barber surgeon, pausing in the removal of a tooth to greet me.
‘Hold still,’ he instructed the groaning man in the chair. ‘Take some more spirit to dull the ache.’
The scent of cloves, the heat of a fire, the man screaming in pain: that was the world of Marlborough market as I remembered it. After a few hours, Dame Margery would round us up like sheep and take us back to the cart, where Dickon lounged with a flagon of ale, and we would jolt our way home. Dame Margery would be mellow and smell of meat pasties. I would doze as she regaled Alison with the gossip from the town.
One trip was different though. It was a hot summer day, too drowsy to do much except sleep. None of us wanted to exchange the cool shadows of the forest and the scented gardens of Wolf Hall for the rotting smells and flyblown stalls of the market. Dame Margery insisted, however. She was in a bad mood and was determined the rest of us would be unhappy too and so we took to the rutted roads, the journey almost shaking the cart apart, and arrived in town in the blazing heat of midday.
It was curiously quiet. There was no business for the barber surgeon, no business for anyone save the stalls selling ale. Dame Margery and Alison disappeared off to buy some gold and silver thread to embroider a shirt for Cousin Edward. He was due to visit Wolf Hall soon, a rare occurrence, and there was much excitement at the prospect. I wandered listlessly between the stalls where the vendors did not even trouble to glance my way. Some snored in the sun, others were drinking, everything was muted and still, and over the top of it all was the smell of the dung and the meat and the rot, strong enough to make my head spin.
I stumbled out of the crush of stalls and found myself a few paces down from the White Hart Inn. And there was Alison, poised in the tavern doorway, looking as though she were about to run inside. She was clad in a cloak of orange tawny, and her fair hair was dark with rain and I realised that I could feel the water on my face too. I was soaked to the skin and shivering, and the sky was dark grey and the wind was cold. I called her name and then I felt a touch on my arm. Her face swam into focus; she was shaking me.
‘Hush! What is the matter with you? You sound crazed!’
The sun was burning hot and the sweat was running down my face, splashing on my gown. I blinked it out of my eyes. There was no orange cloak and no rain. People were staring. Alison looked furious.
‘I swear you are a simpleton, Mary Seymour,’ she hissed, dragging me away, towards the cart.
‘I saw you,’ I said. ‘At the inn. In an orange cloak.’
‘She is taking another of her fevers.’ Dame Margery was on my other side and between them they half lifted, half pushed me up so that I rolled across the floor of the cart like an ungainly barrel. ‘Either that or she is bewitched.’
She made the sign of the cross.
‘More likely she is a fool than a witch,’ Alison said, but she was looking at me very thoughtfully indeed.
*
‘Darrell.’
I reached out to him that night, tired, lost and lonely, but there was no response. I knew he always came back. But I needed him now and I sent the thoughts out through the dark, but received nothing back but a faint, lost echo.
*
I was in my twelfth summer when Alison started to disappear. One night I woke to discover that she was missing. Assuming that she had merely gone to the privy, I rolled over and fell asleep almost immediately. It happened again a few days later, and then again, and this time I forced myself to stay awake to see how long she was gone. I lost track of time; the moonlight crept across the ceiling, the floorboards creaked and settled, the mice scratched and I fell asleep waiting. In the morning Alison was asleep in bed beside me and made no reference to her absence the night before.
How long we might have gone on in this vein, I do not know, for Alison never explained herself and I never asked. I was not even sure she knew that I knew. One night, though, about a month in, the pretence unravelled. My curiosity had got the better of sleep at last and when I heard the sound of murmured voices outside I slipped out of bed and tiptoed across to the window.
It was high summer and the casement was wide, letting in soft air and starlight. Down on the terrace I could see two shadows merging. I heard a sigh, and laughter, quickly hushed. One figure broke away then and the other disappeared into the darkness of the garden. A door closed softly below; the dogs did not bark. I made a dash for the bed, bumping into the table and knocking the china jug to the floor in the process. It fell with a clatter that broke like thunder through the quiet house and rolled across the floorboards to smash against the wall. The dogs began barking then.
The chamber door flew open. Alison stood there, fear in her eyes. She cast a hunted look over her shoulder for behind her there was a babble of voices and the sound of footsteps. She was about to be discovered.
‘Quick!’ I hissed. ‘Into the bed!’
She leaped fully clothed and shod under the covers and pulled them up to her chin. When Dame Margery appeared, candle in hand, grey braids trailing, Alison was doing a creditable imitation of someone who had just been woken from sleep.
‘What in the name of all that is holy is going on here?’ Dame Margery looked like a terrier, brindled and growling.
I dropped a submissive curtsey. ‘Your pardon, Dame Margery. I knocked over the jug on my way back from the privy.’
Dame Margery looked suspiciously from the pieces of broken china in my hand to the dark corners of the room, as though she expected to see some devil lurking. Again I saw her making the sign of the cross in my direction, a hasty and furtive guard against witchcraft.
I bit my tongue hard. I was no witch; I did not choose my gift and wanted none of it. It scared and angered me that she labelled me so. But my position at Wolf Hall was precarious beneath the veneer of my fame and status. I could not afford to anger Dame Margery.
‘You may tidy it in the morning.’ She was brusque with me. ‘Back to bed now, and try not to cause any more trouble.’
The door closed. The light was doused. I climbed back into bed.
‘Why did you do that?’ Alison’s hissed whisper reached me out of the dark. ‘Why did you help me?’ She sounded annoyed rather than grateful.
I decided to take it literally. ‘If I had not you would have been found out.’
She