tallow candles and took out his plain ebony cross from the dresser drawer and put it on the mantel. Without even taking the time to light a fire, he knelt on the rag rug and bowed his head to pray the Lord’s Prayer. ‘Our Father, who art in heaven…’ Then he continued, ‘Thou seest me, thy servant, Richard Wheeler. Today I felt thy peace with me, and maybe thou hast work for me to do. If thou wilt, send me a sign by which I might know thee, and advise me what I should under take in thy name.’ Here he paused, aware of his own voice echoing oddly in the empty room.
He continued to kneel in silence for some while, but everything remained as it was. The cold ashes in the grate, the spitting of the wicks on the candles and the slight draught from under the door. He began to feel a little foolish. What had he expected, he asked himself, a bolt from above? He stood up, wishing he could have a bottle of ale. But it was something the Quakers did not hold with, and though he missed it, he had seen enough drunks to understand their reasoning. Instead, he picked up a pipe and stuffed it with tobacco. This too was forbidden. But he had never seen anyone staggering under the influence of tobacco, so he often allowed himself a pipe in private in the evening.
He had hoped for a simple, peaceful life, but today more than ever he longed for the life he had before, one with fewer questions. He thought back to the time when servants did his bidding, he slept in his fine feather bed and he could enjoy a day of hunting followed by a game of cards with a bet on the side. What’s more, he could have been married by now, with children running in the hall, but of course it had been naive to hope that Frances would ever have stood for this life.
He must get outside, do something. He flung on his coat and walked out, down the path to the wood, breathing in the damp smell of the undergrowth. He lit his pipe and sucked hard, savouring the sweet woody smoke in his mouth and lungs. Immediately he felt more relaxed. He looked over to the clearing where the lady’s slipper orchid had been growing, before it was uprooted from its place. The woods were dark, despite the new moon, and the air damp. Fog hung in skeins over the ground making the path disappear, as if the earth itself were shifting. A movement caught his eye–a white fluttering in the trees. A white dove was hovering over the clearing. Its wings were outstretched, beating silently as if it was momentarily frozen in space. The image etched itself into Richard’s mind like a white-hot brand. A white dove–the sign of the Holy Spirit.
Chapter 9
Margaret Poulter had lied to Alice. She was not exactly lodging at the Anchor. She could not afford to pay for a room. But the landlord turned a blind eye to the fact that she slept in the hayloft above the stables, and tolerated her peculiar comings and goings in exchange for remedies for his children. He had five children, all of whom suffered from one malady or another–mostly coughs and lice, from what Margaret could see.
After Margaret left Alice in Netherbarrow, she took her time returning to the inn. This was her gathering time, like her mother and her grandmother before her. The world was one big apothecary’s shop to Margaret, and the source of a good living. She was stocking up, for in times of good health and plentiful harvests like these she was often poor and hungry, whereas at times of war or plague, or when harvests were thin, her draughts and remedies were needed. Then Margaret grew fat and comfortable whilst others suffered famine and disease.
Daylight hours were for scouting along the hedgerows looking for anything useful, and watching out for signs or omens or shifts in the weather. The underlying web on which the world was hung might be moving or shifting. This was her way–to find out how the land lay–and she did this quite literally, through her senses, sniffing, poking, tasting and fingering with her nut-brown
He continued to kneel in silence for some while, but everything remained as it was. The cold ashes in the grate, the spitting of the wicks on the candles and the slight draught from under the door. He began to feel a little foolish. What had he expected, he asked himself, a bolt from above? He stood up, wishing he could have a bottle of ale. But it was something the Quakers did not hold with, and though he missed it, he had seen enough drunks to understand their reasoning. Instead, he picked up a pipe and stuffed it with tobacco. This too was forbidden. But he had never seen anyone staggering under the influence of tobacco, so he often allowed himself a pipe in private in the evening.
He had hoped for a simple, peaceful life, but today more than ever he longed for the life he had before, one with fewer questions. He thought back to the time when servants did his bidding, he slept in his fine feather bed and he could enjoy a day of hunting followed by a game of cards with a bet on the side. What’s more, he could have been married by now, with children running in the hall, but of course it had been naive to hope that Frances would ever have stood for this life.
He must get outside, do something. He flung on his coat and walked out, down the path to the wood, breathing in the damp smell of the undergrowth. He lit his pipe and sucked hard, savouring the sweet woody smoke in his mouth and lungs. Immediately he felt more relaxed. He looked over to the clearing where the lady’s slipper orchid had been growing, before it was uprooted from its place. The woods were dark, despite the new moon, and the air damp. Fog hung in skeins over the ground making the path disappear, as if the earth itself were shifting. A movement caught his eye–a white fluttering in the trees. A white dove was hovering over the clearing. Its wings were outstretched, beating silently as if it was momentarily frozen in space. The image etched itself into Richard’s mind like a white-hot brand. A white dove–the sign of the Holy Spirit.
Chapter 9
Margaret Poulter had lied to Alice. She was not exactly lodging at the Anchor. She could not afford to pay for a room. But the landlord turned a blind eye to the fact that she slept in the hayloft above the stables, and tolerated her peculiar comings and goings in exchange for remedies for his children. He had five children, all of whom suffered from one malady or another–mostly coughs and lice, from what Margaret could see.
After Margaret left Alice in Netherbarrow, she took her time returning to the inn. This was her gathering time, like her mother and her grandmother before her. The world was one big apothecary’s shop to Margaret, and the source of a good living. She was stocking up, for in times of good health and plentiful harvests like these she was often poor and hungry, whereas at times of war or plague, or when harvests were thin, her draughts and remedies were needed. Then Margaret grew fat and comfortable whilst others suffered famine and disease.
Daylight hours were for scouting along the hedgerows looking for anything useful, and watching out for signs or omens or shifts in the weather. The underlying web on which the world was hung might be moving or shifting. This was her way–to find out how the land lay–and she did this quite literally, through her senses, sniffing, poking, tasting and fingering with her nut-brown
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