nothing more happened she relaxed a little, and continued her work. Later, she took out a pail of warm mash to the hens, flinching at the shock of cold air as she opened the kitchen door. The wind was from the north and had flecks of snow in it. She saw that the water in the horse trough was covered in a film of ice.
“You can take a walk to the glover’s for me before it gets dark,” Mistress Tyrrell said. She showed Alice a pair of well-worn leather gloves, split at the seams, the thumb coming away on the right-hand glove. “See what can be done. And call in at the butcher’s – Crockford’s, not Loosley’s – and tell Master Crockford I’d like a dozen more of those pies he sent last week, to be delivered on Saturday.”
Alice took the gloves, put on her red cloak and a hood, and went out. The King’s Arms was at the edge of the village, the glover’s and butcher’s a five-minute walk away along a road lined with cottages and shops. The cold wind stung her eyes as she set off.
She had not gone more than a few yards when a cramp made her double over. She looked around. People scurried by, heads down against the wind, unaware of her. She walked on, but almost at once the pain came again, and she felt a gush of blood.
Not here, she thought in panic. It can’t happen here, in the street. The shops ahead were busy with customers going in and out. She imagined collapsing there, on someone’s doorstep; the shame of it; the news reaching the inn.
She had to find somewhere private. A road went off to her left – a deserted road that led past a paddock into woodland. Those woods, she knew, belonged to Weston Hall, the place where the officers had expected to stay. Between the trees, which were now almost leafless, she could see its tall, decorated chimneys.
The house was some way off, and already dusk was gathering in the shady places under the trees. She turned aside onto the road and hurried, hunched over, afraid that at any moment events would overwhelm her.
When she reached the woods, she plunged in among the trees and bushes without waiting to look for a path. The cramps were coming regularly now, and the urge to hide was powerful.
Even here the wind bit like a blade. She dropped to her knees beside a tree in the shelter of a holly bush. A pain came like a band of iron tightening around her back and belly, and she cried out and squatted, bundling her clothes out of the way.
The pain gripped her again, and now she pushed and felt something pass, something substantial; and she knew this was the child, hers and Robin’s, and she had lost it. Warm blood flowed. Another pain came, followed by more loss. And then her body relaxed. It was over. She waited a few moments, then tried to stand, but at once black specks gathered in front of her eyes, and she sank down again. She felt weak and nauseous, and extraordinarily tired. I’ll rest a bit, she decided. When she tried to move away, to a cleaner place, the faintness came again, so she simply leaned back against the tree and closed her eyes.
Eleven
Sounds roused her: barking, and then snuffling, breathing; wet muzzles pushing against her legs and face. Dogs! Three or four of them. They were all around her. Alice yelped in fright; and at the same moment, a female voice called out, “Keeper! Jewel! Here, here!” And she looked up and saw the dogs running towards a woman who had emerged on horseback from a woodland path, accompanied by a young groom.
“Thank the Lord!” said the woman. “I feared you were a corpse!”
Alice remained crouching and lowered her gaze, overcome with shame at being found in such a condition. She heard the woman draw nearer, and saw, on the snowy ground in front of her, a pair of feet in high-sided brown leather shoes and the hem of a dark skirt brushing them. The shoes and skirt – polished leather and soft heavy wool – told her that this was no servant, but a woman of quality, perhaps one of the gentry who owned the house.
“You can take a walk to the glover’s for me before it gets dark,” Mistress Tyrrell said. She showed Alice a pair of well-worn leather gloves, split at the seams, the thumb coming away on the right-hand glove. “See what can be done. And call in at the butcher’s – Crockford’s, not Loosley’s – and tell Master Crockford I’d like a dozen more of those pies he sent last week, to be delivered on Saturday.”
Alice took the gloves, put on her red cloak and a hood, and went out. The King’s Arms was at the edge of the village, the glover’s and butcher’s a five-minute walk away along a road lined with cottages and shops. The cold wind stung her eyes as she set off.
She had not gone more than a few yards when a cramp made her double over. She looked around. People scurried by, heads down against the wind, unaware of her. She walked on, but almost at once the pain came again, and she felt a gush of blood.
Not here, she thought in panic. It can’t happen here, in the street. The shops ahead were busy with customers going in and out. She imagined collapsing there, on someone’s doorstep; the shame of it; the news reaching the inn.
She had to find somewhere private. A road went off to her left – a deserted road that led past a paddock into woodland. Those woods, she knew, belonged to Weston Hall, the place where the officers had expected to stay. Between the trees, which were now almost leafless, she could see its tall, decorated chimneys.
The house was some way off, and already dusk was gathering in the shady places under the trees. She turned aside onto the road and hurried, hunched over, afraid that at any moment events would overwhelm her.
When she reached the woods, she plunged in among the trees and bushes without waiting to look for a path. The cramps were coming regularly now, and the urge to hide was powerful.
Even here the wind bit like a blade. She dropped to her knees beside a tree in the shelter of a holly bush. A pain came like a band of iron tightening around her back and belly, and she cried out and squatted, bundling her clothes out of the way.
The pain gripped her again, and now she pushed and felt something pass, something substantial; and she knew this was the child, hers and Robin’s, and she had lost it. Warm blood flowed. Another pain came, followed by more loss. And then her body relaxed. It was over. She waited a few moments, then tried to stand, but at once black specks gathered in front of her eyes, and she sank down again. She felt weak and nauseous, and extraordinarily tired. I’ll rest a bit, she decided. When she tried to move away, to a cleaner place, the faintness came again, so she simply leaned back against the tree and closed her eyes.
Eleven
Sounds roused her: barking, and then snuffling, breathing; wet muzzles pushing against her legs and face. Dogs! Three or four of them. They were all around her. Alice yelped in fright; and at the same moment, a female voice called out, “Keeper! Jewel! Here, here!” And she looked up and saw the dogs running towards a woman who had emerged on horseback from a woodland path, accompanied by a young groom.
“Thank the Lord!” said the woman. “I feared you were a corpse!”
Alice remained crouching and lowered her gaze, overcome with shame at being found in such a condition. She heard the woman draw nearer, and saw, on the snowy ground in front of her, a pair of feet in high-sided brown leather shoes and the hem of a dark skirt brushing them. The shoes and skirt – polished leather and soft heavy wool – told her that this was no servant, but a woman of quality, perhaps one of the gentry who owned the house.
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