Chapter 8
Tatscombe Hall, Wealdshire. 1517
Swinging her cloth-wrapped bundle as she walked, Sarah Cooper emerged from the forest and stopped for a moment to survey the large house which awaited her return. Built of bricks, Tatscombe Hall was far more roomy and comfortable than either the tiny wooden cottage in which she had been born or the tiny house where she had spent most of the day. A plume of smoke curled lazily upwards from one of the eight octagonal chimneys. Usually, Sarah would have smiled at the sight of the smoke as it came from the kitchen. On Sarah's day off, Annie the cook always made Sarah her favourite treat — cinnamon pastries. Today, though, not even the thought of a tasty titbit and a gossip with Annie could raise her spirits.
Despite the bright sunshine, the clear blue sky, and the joyful spring songs of the woodland birds, Sarah shivered at the thought that it would be another week before she could next enjoy a whole day away from the house. She sighed and continued the last leg of her homeward journey, but with not quite the same lightness of step with which she had traversed The Great Wood. She had no complaints about her employers, for Sir James Houghton and Lady Jane treated their servants well. Nor could she find fault with Mistress Elizabeth, the daughter, as she was a warm and loving young lady who would not harm a fly. The cause of Sarah's misery was Master Simon. In the eyes of his parents he could do no wrong — but they did not know him as Sarah did.
'Please, God, let my path not cross his this day,' she whispered to herself as she entered the gate and followed the path to the back of the house. As far as she was concerned, Simon Houghton was an oaf with manners no better than those of a vagabond. At every opportunity he would hiss rude remarks in her ear, laugh at the way she carried out her duties or, when he had been drinking, try to persuade her to grant him a kiss. She would have liked to have been able to say, 'I would rather kiss a pig's rump than your ugly face,' but, having experienced Simon's foul temper on more than one occasion, she always managed to say something less inflammatory such as, 'I beg you, Master Simon. Pray let me be.'
Perhaps I should have asked Aunt Alice for a charm, Sarah considered. A charm to ward off evil. I know not if Simon is truly evil, but he does oft behave like the very devil himself.
Every week, Sarah spent her rest day at her aunt's humble abode. It was a quaint little cottage sited in a small clearing in The Great Wood. Alice was a healer. Whatever the nature of an ailment, whether in the body, the mind, or even the heart, Alice was able to provide or suggest a remedy. Sarah loved helping the old woman to prepare herbs and spices. The whole cottage was permeated by strange and exotic perfumes given off by the various plants which were hanging up to dry, simmered in pots on the fire, or had already been made into pills and potions and liniments and lotions. On this day, Sarah had made headache pills. Using a pestle, she had ground some stems and leaves of feverfew into a paste. This she then mixed with beeswax and honey before taking small quantities of the sticky mixture and rolling them into balls. Before she left, Alice had given her a jar tied in a cloth. It contained an ointment made from yarrow, marigold, elderflowers and cinquefoil which was wonderful for healing cuts and wounds of all kinds. Whenever anyone at Tatscombe Hall nicked, pricked or gashed themselves, they could always count on Sarah to provide them with a dab of the healing ointment.
Keeping a watchful eye open, Sarah ran the last few steps around the back of the house to the kitchen door. She was in luck — her tormentor was nowhere to be seen. She lifted the latch, pushed the heavy door open, stepped inside, and breathed in the sweet and savoury smells of Annie's cooking. Standing at the roughly-hewn wooden table, Annie was busily preparing a pheasant for supper. She glanced up as Sarah entered but there was no welcoming smile.
'I'm safe,' Sarah said, a little breathlessly. 'Simple Simon must be away pestering someone else.'
'Hush girl, lest someone hear you,' she warned gravely. 'You think you are safe, do you? I doubt any of us are safe while the master is raging.'
'Why? What has happened?' demanded Sarah, her relief at returning safely quickly turning to alarm.
'A silver goblet is missing. The master bade us spend the whole day hunting high and low for it. I know not where it is but the master thinks that one of us knows its whereabouts.'
'He thinks someone has stolen it?' Sarah asked, unable to believe that any of the servants would stoop to theft.
'He has not said as much yet, but I fear he will make an accusation afore long.'
Sarah looked horrified — she had enough to worry about in this household. 'Oh no! But who could have taken it?'
Before Annie could make a reply, the door to the hall was pushed open with such force that it banged hard against the wall and made both women jump. Sarah's face fell when she saw Simon standing in the doorway, his face bearing a sickly grin.
'I see the wanderer hath returned. And how fares the old witch, my pretty?'
'My aunt is in good health, thank you sir. She has refreshed my store of ointment so, if you should take another tumble whilst out riding —'
Sarah suddenly stopped when she saw Annie making a face that made it quite plain that she thought Sarah had said enough. Everyone knew that Simon often fell from his horse when he had been to the alehouse, and Annie knew that he would not welcome being reminded of the fact. Unfortunately, her warning came a little too late.
'You impudent wench! If you wish to stay in my father's house — perhaps you should ask that old witch of an aunt to cook up some concoction to cure a nag of clumsiness!'
Sarah wondered how he could possibly expect anyone to believe that his horse was the cause of his frequent accidents, but her musing was interrupted as Simon spoke again, his voice still full of venom. 'Make haste, girl! My father is in his solar and wishes to speak with you immediately.'
As Sarah squeezed past Simon to make her way to Sir James's private room, she felt a cruel hand grasp her shoulder, the fingers digging painfully into her flesh. She felt hot breath on her neck as Simon bent down to whisper loudly in in her ear. 'If I find that the old sorceress is mixing magic potions in a silver goblet — I will take great pleasure in dragging you by the hair to see the Sheriff.'
Despite the pain in her shoulder, Sarah managed to lift her head high and say, 'I know not what you mean Master Simon.'