Beyond the Plough

The old woman came to the house called Bryn Dwr late in the afternoon. Nobody observed her arrival. Siana found her seated on a stool outside the door, her face turned to the east, where the long shadows cast by the mountains reached towards the border.

It was old that face, her skin a lacework of lines, like cracked glaze on a piece of delicate antique porcelain. Her eyes were milky, her hair fine white strands escaping from under a white linen bonnet, topped by a high-crowned black beaver hat tied by a ribbon under her chin.

Her black gown, a lace collar its only decoration, hung slack on her wasted frame. Her boots were old and scuffed, but sturdy. Siana had worn worse.

‘Can you offer an old woman a glass of water?’ she said, her high fluting voice making the hairs on Siana’s arms stand on end.

Fetching her a cup of water, Siana took the stool beside her whilst she drank it, excitement churning in her, for she recognized herself in the old woman’s face. Finally, she said, ‘I bid you welcome, Great-grandmother Lewis.’

The woman’s hand touched against hers, her fingers as soft as a butterfly alighting on a flower petal. ‘How did my Megan name you, girl?’

Taking the cross from her neck, Siana placed it in the woman’s palm. Her crooked old fingers ran lightly over it and she smiled. ‘Siana, is it? She named you after me, then. I thought she would.’

‘Until they come for me . . . and they will, for by now they’ll know I have gone, and where. They’re unsettled, knowing you are here, for you remind them of their own sin.’

Siana made a small, angry sound in her throat. ‘I have the right to be here. My father, Gruffydd Evans, left me this house.’

The old woman spat on the ground. ‘Gruffydd Evans. Your father, is it? A way with words, that man, and a soul of blackness. The devil entered his soul in the womb and he was born with a flaming tongue and a dark caul. He is not worthy of this place and it rejected him. It is the Gwin Dwr, the place of the virgin souls.’

‘During the time of the border wars the men hid their young daughters from the marauding English soldiers. When the soldiers discovered their hiding place they dragged them out and used them for sport. Afterwards, their throats were cut and they were thrown into the hidden pool yonder. Their blood turned the water into wine.’

Marcus, seated on a log and whittling on a piece of wood, smiled to himself, for the red colour of the water was caused by iron oxides leaching from the rock.

Maryse had come from the house to listen. Staring at the women, her eyes intense, she asked her. ‘What’s the rest of the legend?’

Great-grandmother Lewis slanted her head towards Maryse. ‘Little one, only those who have been truly sinned against can drink of the Gwin Dwr. But they must have the courage to enter the pool too, so they can be cleansed of their sin inside and out. The water is bottomless and the spirit of the virgins will drag down those who are impure of mind.’

There was a moment of silence when the wind stopped its sigh, the hens their clucking and the stream its rill. There was a moment when the glow of the sky was dimmed and the world stopped. A great dread filled Siana, and all she could hear was the primitive beat of the earth in her ears, and the softer rhythm of her heart, frail in comparison.

Great-grandmother Lewis took Siana’s face between her hands and kissed her mouth. Her breath was scented with camomile flowers. ‘Do not fear now you’ve come face to face with the Welshness in you, Siana mine. The gods of the earth demand a reckoning for the favour they bestow. There will be a hard price exacted for the legacy Gruffydd Evans tried to give you, for nobody can own this place, and that he would deny.’

After the others had gone to their beds, they talked long into the night, the old woman in a comfortable chair and Siana seated at her knee. She told the old woman of her mother, Megan Lewis, and of her own life since she’d died. It was hard to remember Megan now as being a mother to her, alive and loving, though it was not so very long ago. The anger in her voice told of her rage for the manner of her mother’s passing. ‘Her life was one of degradation, and her end reflected it.’

‘So it was written in the smoke. But Megan’s at peace now and you have your own journey to make. The first man you married . . . did he satisfy the pagan side of you?’

When Siana gave a soft laugh, the old woman chuckled. ‘My own man had the wickedness in him to please a woman, too, for he knew of the secret desires a woman rarely reveals. It’s good when the body is satisfied as well as the heart.’

Siana felt the stirring of her own body. ‘And it’s hard to live without both.’

‘Pah! A woman need not follow the rules set down for her by men. She is the soul of the earth and can satisfy her desires as easily as a man. She just has to pick the right man and be careful not to involve her heart.’

A mixture of shock and excitement stirred in Siana. She couldn’t imagine ever being unfaithful to Francis. ‘How old are you, Grandmother?’

Her question was rewarded by a toothless smile. ‘As old as the earth is young. Now we’ve met, I can go to my rest. But you will see my face in every flower and blade of grass, reflected on the surface of the pond in summer and flying in the air with the wings of a butterfly.’ She reached out to caress Siana’s face, her fingertips silky upon her skin. ‘There’s bonny you are, cariad, just like your mam. There are sorrows for you to face, but you are possessed of a strong mind and heart.’ She hesitated for a moment, then said quietly. ‘Last night I dreamed of ripples widening on a pool.’

‘What is the meaning of the dream, Grandmother?’ The old woman gave a shiver. ‘I know not, cariad. We shall talk about this no more.’ Folding her hands into her sleeves, her head nodded forward and she fell asleep. ‘You’re lying; you do know,’ Siana whispered to her as she tucked a blanket around her, but she received no answer.

They came for the old woman the next morning, an upright man of weathered appearance and a thin, dried-up stick of a woman, who stared at Siana with both curiosity and dislike in her eyes.

She didn’t deserve such hostility from a stranger, family or not. Siana calmly held the woman’s gaze until it was turned aside.

‘Your authority is not recognized by me, Grandfather, for even though I was not born at the time, you lost my respect when you cast my mother from your hearth.’

‘And you’re a hypocrite, for you do not practise that which you preach. My mother and I would have died from cold and hunger if another hadn’t taken us in.’

He was a hard man, but she wouldn’t yield to his bullying ways. ‘I will stay here until I’m ready to leave. I have a pistol inside. If you come here spouting your threats again, I’ll shoot you through your miserable black heart. Now, get off my property and don’t come back.’

Her lie must have sounded convincing, for his face paled and he took a step backwards. The old woman spat angry words at him in their native tongue and he remained quiet.

Siana exchanged a hug with her great-grandmother. Tears fell from her eyes. ‘I’m so glad we’ve met. You’ll always live in my heart.’

The woman gently touched her wet cheeks with her finger. ‘Walk with my love, cariad. Stay strong.’ As she turned away, they both knew they’d never meet again.

As the trio walked off down the hill, the mist poured down over the mountain from above, shrouding the land in a clammy whiteness which hid them from Siana’s sight. Shivering, she returned to the house.

The three women were comfortable living in Bryn Dwr. Marcus shared the meals they cooked. He brought firewood, helped carry water for their baths, and spent time in their company.

Sometimes, he disappeared into the hills above them for a day or two, coming back with a leg of pork, a flitch of bacon or a side of mutton.

Often, he sat with them in the evening, conversing on many subjects, for he was a learned man. He drew Maryse out of herself, making her laugh, all the while keeping his hands occupied as he carved an intricate design of twisted ribbons, hearts and flowers into a piece of wood.

He found repairs to carry out, too. A wall from which the stones had tumbled, a hinge hanging on a door, a slate or two misplaced by the wind on the roof.

The women shared the work of the house between them. Maryse seemed to enjoy the simple domestic chores that fell her way. She learned to pluck and dress a chicken, milk the cow, skin a rabbit, cook a stew and bake a loaf of bread. It was a time of waiting, of companionship. She and Siana worked together in the vegetable plot. As their friendship deepened, so their hands grew dirty and rough. Neither of them cared.

Maryse never mentioned the child she was carrying, nor complained about the burden her body had become. But one night the girl woke Siana from slumber. ‘My time has come, I think,’ she said, her voice unemotional

And that time had come early. The girl’s stoicism during her ordeal surprised Siana. Hardly a sound passed her lips, though the labour went on for a day and a night. It was as if she was doing penance for her sins. Perspiration flooded her body, which was too rigid with the effort to lend itself to a comfortable birth. She gave a low, wild moan of painful release as she finally expelled the infant from her body.

The boy hardly made a noise as he entered the world, just gave a little whimper as if he’d resigned himself to his rejection in the womb. As he closed his eyes and slept, Siana’s heart went out to him. He was a handsome, robust child. To be abandoned by his mother with an uncertain future to face and with no name to call his own, seemed too cruel a fate. Yet she couldn’t blame Maryse, who’d suffered so much that it wasn’t her fault that she could never love her child.

The girl wouldn’t look at her infant, but turned her exhausted face away and murmured. ‘I don’t want to know anything about it, what it is, or where it goes. I must face the future as if this had never happened, but I can never become any man’s wife, now. To do so would be to deceive him.’

Siana knew she couldn’t farm the boy out without satisfying herself that he’d be cared for adequately. She told the lie she’d prepared, but even to herself it sounded false. ‘The infant is dead, Maryse. He was too small to survive for long.’

Maryse said nothing, but Siana knew she’d swallowed the lie, because she’d wanted to.

She signalled her intention to Rosie before the child could wake and make his presence known. Rosie nodded. Wrapping the child in a square of linen, Siana took him outside.

Something about him reminded her of Francis; the set of his mouth, perhaps. He opened his eyes. They were marbled with the Matheson grey. His hair was a sparse, dark patch as he automatically turned his head this way and that, trying to nuzzle against her breast like a puppy.

Her breasts, ready with their bounty for her own infant, sensed the call of him. They throbbed and wept milky tears as he sucked against the flimsy barrier of her bodice. The unbearable contentment of the sensation was hard to stand when the future of this innocent was uncertain.

She blinked her tears away when Marcus came down the hill, an enquiry in his eyes.

‘The infant is a boy. I have told Maryse that he died. If he’s to survive, I must take him to where he will be raised, at once.’

‘You cannot walk all that way when the birth of your own infant is so near.’

She smiled a little at that. ‘The farmhouse is ten miles this side of Monmouth. I have the endurance to walk there and back, and my baby is not due for another two weeks.’

Marcus sighed. ‘I cannot let you go alone, you might fall or lose your way.’

‘I’d appreciate your company, then. Hold the boy whilst I pack us some food to eat on the way.’

The day was fair, the way downhill was easy. She swapped their food for the child and, wrapping the infant in her mother’s shawl, tied him against her chest. She tried to fight the feeling of pity the thought of his future kept raising in her, especially when she caught sight of their destination, a grim-looking stone farmhouse in the distance. His life would be hard there, if he survived his childhood.

Then the farmhouse was obscured as they descended into a line of rowan and wild cherry trees. She stopped as a sudden thought occurred to her. There were lots of unscrupulous people about. Would his foster parents allow him to die of starvation once they had the purse?

She eased her back with her hands, letting Marcus go on ahead. It had started to ache from the exercise. She would stop for a short rest when they emerged from the wooded area. She was carrying her child low, so it was not really a cumbersome burden, but she’d not walked this far for a long time.

They’d reached the slope down into the valley and were about to emerge from the trees, when, without warning, the water cradling her own child came rushing from between her thighs to soak her skirts. Immediately, the pressure of the infant’s imminent birth became apparent to her.

He came back at a run, gazed at her soaked skirts. ‘I’ll fetch help from the farmhouse.’

‘There won’t be time.’ He took the boy from her, placing him, still asleep, gently on the ground in his shawl.

Siana fell to her hands and knees, her stomach muscles convulsing with the urgent need to expel the infant. Fifteen minutes later her daughter slid from her, complete with the afterbirth. The child was stillborn, her body floppy and mottled blue. She’d been strangled in the womb by her own umbilical cord. Nothing Siana could do could revive her. Distressed, she cuddled the infant against her heart.

‘Breathe for me,’ she cried out, her heart set to break as she called her the name she’d chosen for a daughter. ‘Live for me, sweet Elen.’

She gave a small, keening cry when Marcus took the tiny, limp body from her and placed it to one side – though she knew it must be done.

‘You must look after the living,’ he said gently, filling her empty arms with the boy.

The other one opened his eyes and seemed to stare at her, then a small, frustrated whimper came from his mouth as he nudged against her breast.

Her eyes filled with tears. But she didn’t protest when Marcus loosened her bodice and placed the boy’s mouth against her swollen breast. A miracle happened as his mouth closed around her. The love she’d held in store for the child of Francis, was suddenly and inexplicably transferred to his grandson. Yes, she could raise this child as her own, and nobody need ever know.

The infant was strong in his desire to feed, his suck one of desperation, as if he knew he needed to bond to the source of her love, as well as sup of her mother’s milk, if he was to survive. Instinct gave him the need to reassure himself that he was wanted.

‘You greedy little piglet,’ she scolded, torn between laughter and tears when he belched loudly. She knew she would give him everything he needed then, and so did he, for he fell into a contented sleep.

Marcus buried the baby girl in the protective shadow of a wild cherry tree, placing stones over her grave. ‘Do you need to say words over her?’ he asked, as they stood looking down on it. Above them, a lark began to sing, as if her infant’s soul had become a bird.

‘May the womb of the earth goddess nurture my daughter, Elen,’ Siana murmured, trying not to cry. It was sad that the result of her love for Francis must be left in such a lonely grave. But her daughter’s tiny, peaceful face would remain a precious memory she’d hold close to her heart.

‘And may the daffodils and lilies celebrate her resting place and reflect her purity every spring,’ Marcus whispered.

‘Not always.’ He gazed down at the sleeping boy child, his eyes bleak. ‘Did Miss Matheson tell you the name of the man who assaulted her?’

‘There were two of them. Itinerant labourers. She could only recall their first names, but I looked them up in the estate ledgers. One was called Silas Barton, the other, Henry Ruddle.’

Alarmed, she gazed at him. This man held the happiness of the people she loved in his hands. ‘For Maryse’s sake, promise me you will never mention this to anyone. You mustn’t go after them – but those men will be made to pay for their sin one day.’

‘They most certainly will.’ When Marcus gave a tiny sliver of a smile Siana shivered, for there was something slightly chilling about it. ‘I understand your fears. But you can trust me, absolutely. I would die myself, rather than do or say anything to upset you or your stepdaughter. Are you recovered enough to walk?’

‘I will need to attend to myself first. Perhaps you would allow me a few moments of privacy whilst I go to the stream.’

The stillborn child had been delivered easily and cleanly. Siana washed herself, then tore some strips of linen from her chemise. Filling it with the spongy moss that grew along the bank of the stream, she folded the linen over, fashioning a sling to secure it firmly between her legs and round her waist. It would absorb any moisture and keep her comfortable.

Afterwards, they ate the bread, cheese and apples they’d brought with them, and headed slowly back up the slope towards Bryn Dwr. The path was stony and steep, as if the hills had already begun to reject her. But she must stay another two weeks, at least, so she and Maryse could both recover from the birth of their children.

Then she would depart, and she would never willingly come back here again. The travellers could have the place. Eventually, the mountains would reclaim it. Welsh by ancestry she might be, and the pull of the place was strong, but these dark and mysterious mountains had no hold on her heart. The soft green landscape of Dorset did. The sooner she could sit at her own hearth again, the safer she would feel, and the better she would like it.

Two weeks later they were ready to depart. Marcus disappeared down the hill, to reappear the next day with the man leading the string of Welsh ponies.

Marcus smiled in reassurance. ‘I think I know where she is. I’ll go and fetch her.’

The cave of Gwin Dwr was reached by an opening of two boulders half buried in the hill and leaning against each other.

Maryse shivered as her eyes adjusted to the dim light. Beneath her, roughly hewn steps circled down to a pool of dark water. Shrugging from her clothes, she left them in a heap and, clad only in her chemise, carefully made her way to the bottom.

She found herself on a flat rock. Cupping her hands, she bore the water to her mouth and drank it down. It was a rusty brown rather than red, with a sharp, salty taste to it, like blood when she sucked a pricked finger. Remembering the legend, she shuddered.

The pool was bottomless, the old woman had said. She stared at the still surface, imagining herself clean and free of sin. But she must not be afraid. She sat on the edge of the rock and, finding her courage, slid off it into deep water. It was bitterly cold against her warm body, as if the source of the pool truly was the tears of the virgins, released from the frozen heart of the mountains above her.

Under she went, floating down and down into numbing darkness. Then something brushed against her ankles, as if caressing fingers had tangled in her chemise. They held her fast.

She tried not to panic and fight it, though her chest burned from holding her breath in. Her head and ears began to throb, and she prayed the Gwin Dwr would let her live. Finally she could hold her breath no more. It broke from her mouth and nose in a stream of silver bubbles and floated up into the gloom.

Suddenly she floated free. She began to drift upwards, until through the water she could see a faint light. As she emerged through the surface into the cave she sucked a deep, harsh breath into her lungs.

He was waiting on the rock for her, the man with eyes of darkness who could see into her soul. Even in the dim light she could see the anger in their depths.

‘You needn’t have worried,’ she said, light-headed with the relief of her survival. She took the hand he offered, rising from the water when he turned his head away, her chemise clinging to her shivering body.

‘I was watching the bubbles rise. I thought I might have to dive in and rescue you. There are tree roots that can trap you under the water.’

‘Terrified.’ Smiling now, he handed over her clothing, then turned his back to her whilst she dressed herself. Afterwards, he braided her damp hair, his fingers swift and sure. When he followed her up the steps and into the sunshine, it struck her as odd that she hadn’t felt embarrassed by his closeness.

She turned her face up to the warmth of the sun for a few seconds, sighing with pleasure. ‘The Gwin Dwr was so cold.’

He chuckled. ‘No doubt I have gathered more to me since then, and will do so again.’ He held out the carving he’d been working on. ‘It’s time for us to leave, but before we join the others, I want to offer you this gift.’

‘It’s exquisite,’ she said, her finger running over the intricate work. ‘What does it represent?’

‘It’s a Welsh custom, a love spoon. The man carves it for his sweetheart when he calls on her, as a token of his esteem.’

Her heart leaped, then crashed. The bowl of the spoon was heart shaped. Two hearts, their initials carved on them, were caught by a twisting ribbon threaded with flowers in the talons of an eagle. She blushed and averted her eyes, holding it back out to him. ‘You know I cannot accept such a gift.’

‘You’ve been in the Gwin Dwr. That took a great deal of courage, for you offered yourself to the mountain to be cleansed, when it might have claimed you.’

‘It’s only a legend.’ But she remembered the gentle fingers holding her captive under the water for a short time, and she shivered.

It was the first time he’d called her by her first name. It tripped softly and tenderly from his tongue, making her afraid again. ‘I’m not worthy of it.’

She tried to retreat behind formality. ‘I regret, I cannot allow myself to accept your offer, Mr Ibsen. Though I do believe I could have enjoyed the nomadic life you lead.’

Laughter glittered over the dark surface of his eyes. ‘One day, when you are a little older, I’ll appear before you in a different guise. Perhaps you’ll be dazzled by me. Do not discard me so easily, Maryse. Keep the token as a symbol of our friendship. I hope you will think of me now and then, and remember me as a man who holds you in the highest esteem.’

‘Thank you for that.’ Taking her hand in his, he placed a kiss in the palm before leading her down the hill to where the others waited.

Rosie looked slightly sour, as if she’d like to have told her off for delaying them. Siana was smiling down at her new son, who was wrapped in her mother’s old shawl and snuggled as close to her heart as he could be. Her smile widened when she looked up and saw Maryse. Although she struggled against it, Maryse experienced a small moment of regret for her own lost infant.

But though she might never experience motherhood, she could be a good and loving sister. The new member of the family was a dear little thing. His only resemblance to Siana that she could see was his sparse patch of dark hair. The Matheson look was strong in him.

She placed a kiss on his forehead and laughed when his skin wrinkled into a frown. ‘My brother looks so much like dear Papa, especially when he frowns. When will he be given a name?’

Siana exchanged a quick glance with Marcus before she answered her. ‘I thought, perhaps, that you’d like to choose one for him before we leave.’

Feeling honoured, Maryse gazed up at the house. ‘I think he should be called Bryn, after the house, because he was born here. And Francis after Papa, who will be so proud of him when he returns.’

Maryse’s hand closed over the spoon in her pocket and she slid a shy, wondering glance at Marcus, who had turned away to check the luggage. He was making sure it was evenly balanced and comfortably placed on the ponies.

Was it possible this man could show an interest in her, knowing what he did? Or was he just trying to make her feel better about herself?

As they descended from the hills, she decided it was the latter. She was pleased to think he didn’t truly love her, because he was a good man who deserved someone better.

As they’d returned early, Josh wouldn’t be waiting for them at the appointed place. Instead, they secured seats on one of the fast mail coaches out of Bristol.

Glancing past her to Maryse, he gave a little smile. ‘My intention is to visit you in the future, for my heart remains with your stepdaughter.’

Lightly touching his cheek with her fingertip, Siana whispered, ‘Then I will try and keep you alive in her memory.’

The door was fastened, the whip cracked over the horses’ heads and they set off, their speed becoming a cracking pace when they cleared the city.

A few hours later they were passing through Cheverton Estate. Siana gazed with dismay at the corn fields. It was a poor crop this year, the wheat ears looked sparse, and the field should have been much higher.

There were two months to go before the harvesting started, but unless the summer lingered into September it would not bring in any profit.

But she couldn’t worry about it now, for she was longing to see her home and family again.

It was nearly dark when they reached Poole, just in time to hire a carriage to take them up the hill. Home had never looked so dear to her.

Ashley and Susannah were both asleep. Siana gazed down at them, wanting to sit and watch them sleep until morning. They remained blissfully unaware when she kissed their flushed cheeks.

Daisy and Goldie were almost asleep, but they shed their sleepiness as soon as they saw her.

‘Mamma,’ Daisy whispered, and the pair raced across the room together, hurling themselves into her waiting arms.

‘I’ve missed you so much.’ She hugged them close, then after a few moments led them through to her bedroom to introduce them to Bryn.

Being made comfortable by Rosie, Bryn was red in the face, punching at the air and giving impatient cries, for it was way past his feeding time.

Bryn started to yell, and the argument ceased when the two girls gazed at each other and grimaced.

They went, united in a common cause, Daisy stating, ‘I’m not going to have any babies when I grow up.’

‘Nor me. They’re too noisy. Mamma must have got him from Wales.’ Goldie’s voice dropped. ‘He has a tail, like Ashley.’

‘That’s ’cause he’s a boy. All boys have tails, like puppy dogs. Anyway, we’re not supposed to talk about it. Miss Edgar said it’s not nice.’

Bryn stopped squawking when Siana placed him against her breast to suckle. She was exhausted from the journey. By the time she’d finished feeding him, Rosie had taken the dust sheet off the cradle she’d left ready. Bryn was full to the brim, and already asleep when she tucked him into it.

Rosie took a letter from her pocket, handing it to her. ‘The maid gave me this letter for you. It’s from the Earl of Kylchester. She said the servant told her to give it to you as soon as you returned.’

It was addressed to The Hon. Mrs Francis Matheson, and affixed with a seal. She smiled at the formality of the aristocrats.

Dear Madam,

It is my unpleasant duty to inform you that the Adriana, the ship on which your husband took passage to Van Diemen’s Land, sank with the loss of all crew and passengers on—

The letter fluttering from her hand, Siana gave a cry of anguish, buckled at the knees and slid to the floor . . .

14