all over her. Might as well have sap in her veins, thought Margaret.
Margaret arrived back at her lodgings after dark. She had smelt the woodsmoke from a good half-mile away, and now went into the tavern in search of a warm fire, some cider, and maybe some hotpot, if she could sweet-talk the landlord. The bar was full and stank of sweat and beer, but it was warm and steamy. Smoke from the fire hung thick in the rafters under the thatched roof. The windows were stained yellow from tobacco.
Striking a bargain for a dinner, she promised the landlord she would look at his sons in the morning, and was given a plate of greyish meat and kale steaming in a greasy liquid that should have been gravy. Holding the platter in both hands, Margaret eased her bottom into a corner next to two women who were gossiping about a local landowner. Dunking her bread, Margaret ate steadily, letting herself be entertained by the tales of the women at her table.
‘Well, he has some disfigurement –’ the red-haired woman pointed between her legs and dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper–‘down there.’
Her friend’s watery eyes were round like a magpie’s. ‘What sort of disfigurement? Is it the pox, or what? Is it shaped like a parsnip?’ She bent her finger into a hook and guffawed, spluttering through the gaps in her teeth.
‘I don’t know. But my sister’s wedded to his manservant’s brother,’ the red-haired woman went on in a conspiratorial voice, ‘and he says, it’s withering away and His Lordship has all sorts of slimy poultices to try to stop the rot.’
‘That’s disgusting. Small wonder she looks down someone else’s breeches for her pleasure. Still–he should be able to keep control over his own wife. He don’t sound like much of a man to me.’
‘Ah, but Lady Emilia’s as sly as a fox. She had a goodly portion, you know. Her pa made a stack with his mines up at Keswick. She’s no better than the rest of us, but she’s got her head screwed on tight.’
Her companion raised her eyebrows, and leaned in to hear more.
‘He had the title, and she wanted it–Lord, how much she wanted it! She schemed for years to catch him in marriage. Her pa just about broke himself to give her a big fat dowry. That’s what keeps the Hall, and all his fancy servants.’ The red-haired woman nodded her head up and down, with her lips pursed.
‘She’ll be taking a big risk, then, having some other man. She’d lose all that.’ A pause. ‘And if she gets caught she could be hanged!’ She chortled with evident delight at this idea.
‘Nah, Audrey, there’s been no hangings for that, not since the king came back. Anyways, they’re all at it–king included. Nah, flogging and gaol’s more likely.’
‘Who is it, then, that she’s romping with?’
‘Nobody knows.’
‘Pfff.’ Audrey rolled her eyes in contempt and folded her arms, as if to dismiss it.
‘Ah, but secret letters come back and forth through her maidservant, Lizzie Pickering. Patterson’s seen them, all lovey-dovey. They’re not signed, though, or owt.’
‘Pah. Sounds like a lot of daft gossip to me.’ Then more brightly, ‘But if there’s to be a public cuckolding, I’m ready to join ye. It’s years since we had such sport. Village is ready for a bit of fun and games. It’s been right miserable, these past years, with that old nob Cromwell.’
Margaret slurped the last few mouthfuls of stew and wiped the platter with the bread. She latched onto the names that had been mentioned. It paid to be informed, in her experience. Lady Emilia was the wife of Sir Geoffrey Fisk, the gentleman to whom she had sent the potion for scaly skin. His wife’s infidelities could have a bearing on the problem. As for the potion, she had taken pains to get it right, for something in his letter made her feel a bleakness about him, a black void like an empty house.
She remembered mixing the sheep grease with chamomile and borage, and adding some chickweed to
Margaret arrived back at her lodgings after dark. She had smelt the woodsmoke from a good half-mile away, and now went into the tavern in search of a warm fire, some cider, and maybe some hotpot, if she could sweet-talk the landlord. The bar was full and stank of sweat and beer, but it was warm and steamy. Smoke from the fire hung thick in the rafters under the thatched roof. The windows were stained yellow from tobacco.
Striking a bargain for a dinner, she promised the landlord she would look at his sons in the morning, and was given a plate of greyish meat and kale steaming in a greasy liquid that should have been gravy. Holding the platter in both hands, Margaret eased her bottom into a corner next to two women who were gossiping about a local landowner. Dunking her bread, Margaret ate steadily, letting herself be entertained by the tales of the women at her table.
‘Well, he has some disfigurement –’ the red-haired woman pointed between her legs and dropped her voice to a hoarse whisper–‘down there.’
Her friend’s watery eyes were round like a magpie’s. ‘What sort of disfigurement? Is it the pox, or what? Is it shaped like a parsnip?’ She bent her finger into a hook and guffawed, spluttering through the gaps in her teeth.
‘I don’t know. But my sister’s wedded to his manservant’s brother,’ the red-haired woman went on in a conspiratorial voice, ‘and he says, it’s withering away and His Lordship has all sorts of slimy poultices to try to stop the rot.’
‘That’s disgusting. Small wonder she looks down someone else’s breeches for her pleasure. Still–he should be able to keep control over his own wife. He don’t sound like much of a man to me.’
‘Ah, but Lady Emilia’s as sly as a fox. She had a goodly portion, you know. Her pa made a stack with his mines up at Keswick. She’s no better than the rest of us, but she’s got her head screwed on tight.’
Her companion raised her eyebrows, and leaned in to hear more.
‘He had the title, and she wanted it–Lord, how much she wanted it! She schemed for years to catch him in marriage. Her pa just about broke himself to give her a big fat dowry. That’s what keeps the Hall, and all his fancy servants.’ The red-haired woman nodded her head up and down, with her lips pursed.
‘She’ll be taking a big risk, then, having some other man. She’d lose all that.’ A pause. ‘And if she gets caught she could be hanged!’ She chortled with evident delight at this idea.
‘Nah, Audrey, there’s been no hangings for that, not since the king came back. Anyways, they’re all at it–king included. Nah, flogging and gaol’s more likely.’
‘Who is it, then, that she’s romping with?’
‘Nobody knows.’
‘Pfff.’ Audrey rolled her eyes in contempt and folded her arms, as if to dismiss it.
‘Ah, but secret letters come back and forth through her maidservant, Lizzie Pickering. Patterson’s seen them, all lovey-dovey. They’re not signed, though, or owt.’
‘Pah. Sounds like a lot of daft gossip to me.’ Then more brightly, ‘But if there’s to be a public cuckolding, I’m ready to join ye. It’s years since we had such sport. Village is ready for a bit of fun and games. It’s been right miserable, these past years, with that old nob Cromwell.’
Margaret slurped the last few mouthfuls of stew and wiped the platter with the bread. She latched onto the names that had been mentioned. It paid to be informed, in her experience. Lady Emilia was the wife of Sir Geoffrey Fisk, the gentleman to whom she had sent the potion for scaly skin. His wife’s infidelities could have a bearing on the problem. As for the potion, she had taken pains to get it right, for something in his letter made her feel a bleakness about him, a black void like an empty house.
She remembered mixing the sheep grease with chamomile and borage, and adding some chickweed to
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