2

A few days later we were sent to collect kindling. Luckily, there’d been a high wind in the night that had shaken the trees, so the ground was strewn with dead leaves and gnarly grey twigs. It wasn’t long before our baskets were full. We were about to turn for home when Jem cried, ‘Tree down!’ and we saw first the upturned roots, then the trunk of an oak that’d fallen right across the path.

It was pretty early in the autumn for a storm to bring a whole tree down, though it was a young oak of middling height rather than the great old ones that grew along the boundary with the pasture beyond. That said, it was a usable piece of wood. And by the looks of things, we were the first to find it.

‘You know what this would be grand for, don’t you?’ I asked as we both stared at the tree.

‘The stove?’

‘This isn’t kindling, flea-brain!’ I was thinking fast. ‘This could be a boat.’

‘Who in Fair Maidens Lane needs one of those?’ Jem asked.

‘Anyone? Everyone?’ I threw my arms up, excited. ‘Think how useful a boat could be! People could go fishing in it or travel along the coast when the roads are bad in winter.’

Jem wrinkled his nose. It was a look I knew all too well, and it meant he was impressed. He’d obviously not forgotten Old Margaret’s scolding, either, and could see the potential in my plan.

‘We’d better hide it, then,’ he said. ‘Just in case anyone takes it for firewood.’

A fair bit of huffing and grunting, and it was obvious we weren’t strong enough to move the tree from the path. So we made do with heaping leaves over the top of it, and hoped that would be enough to keep it hidden until we could return.

We were back within the hour, having pleased Mother enough to be allowed a little time to ourselves. I’d smuggled the short axe from the woodpile up my sleeve, and Jem’s pocket bulged with his knife and a couple of razor-sharp flints. Together we set to work on our felled tree, first removing the roots and the upper branches, until we were left with the trunk itself. This alone was hard enough work, and soon we were too warm for jerkins and jackets, and sweating like a pair of pigs.

‘It’s going to be magic, isn’t it?’ Jem chattered on as we worked.

‘You could wager my life on it,’ I agreed. ‘Everyone’ll be amazed when they realise we’ve made a boat all by ourselves. The whole hamlet will want to use it.’

‘We shouldn’t tell anyone, though, should we? Not until it’s done.’

‘Definitely not.’

We spat on our palms and shook hands to seal the secret. Just as Jem started cutting again, his knife went still.

I sat back on my haunches. ‘What’s the …?’

He told me to shush. He’d seen something – somebody – straight ahead, coming out of Old Margaret’s cottage, the outline of which was just visible through the trees.

At first it was hard to see what was happening. There seemed to be two or maybe three men, all dressed in tall dark hats, their cloaks flapping about like wings. Old Margaret was in the midst of them – at least, I guessed the bare, white, kicking legs were hers. They were dragging her away, forcing her into the back of a cart. I couldn’t hear what she was saying, but it sounded shrill and angry, and I’d the sudden queasy feeling things weren’t right. I scrambled to my feet, thinking we should do something to help her.

It was then I saw the others: Leathery Gwen, the Redfern sisters, Abigail, all standing by, watching from the roadside. No one was interfering. Or speaking up. They were letting these men take Old Margaret away, which confused me even more.

The voice I heard next was our mother’s. Milking stool still under her arm, she came charging out of the yard after the cart, shouting at the top of her lungs.

‘Have pity!’ she cried. ‘Margaret Ford is an old woman! She is innocent of all your charges!’

Charges? I turned to Jem in amazement. ‘She’s not a criminal!’

Within moments, it was all over. Old Margaret was in the cart. One of the men, his hand flat on Mother’s chest, shoved her out of the way. The horses strained, the cartwheels rolled through the mud, and Old Margaret disappeared from the village. Everyone else went back to their houses.

We rushed home to find Mother already there, white-faced and dazed. Abigail was trying to make her sit down, which she was refusing to do.

‘Who were those men?’ I asked, then realised I knew the answer. ‘Oh Lord, they’re the ones who’ve been watching from the crossroads, aren’t they?’

‘You’d better tell her, Mother,’ Abigail muttered under her breath. ‘She’ll only keep on until you do.’

Mother swallowed, wincing as if her throat hurt. ‘A rival cheesemaker has made some accusations against Old Margaret, that’s what.’

I frowned. ‘Accusations?’

‘Of cursing his cheese, though the man’s a complete lubberwort for saying it. ’Tis his own doing if his rennet won’t set, not poor Margaret’s.’

‘It all goes back to King James himself, so I’ve heard,’ Abigail piped up. ‘And how his mind runs to witchcraft.’

‘Old Margaret’s not a witch!’ I was stunned.

‘She’s old and grumpy,’ Jem said. Mother glared at him. ‘Which wasn’t a crime last time I checked,’ he added hastily.

I expected Mother to tell us to stop gossiping, but all she did was give her face a weary rub.

‘It’s those landowners behind it,’ she admitted now. ‘They’ve always been suspicious of us. They’ve seen how well we live here, how quietly, and all they want is our land for themselves.’

‘But it’s Old Margaret’s land mostly,’ I said. When the nearby monastery was abandoned its lands were divided up. Old Margaret bought a share which included Fair Maidens Lane and ran all the way down to the sea. Everyone in our hamlet rented their furlongs direct from her. It was an unusual arrangement, not least because there were no men involved.

‘They can’t just take it off her,’ Jem pointed out.

‘They can if she’s broken the law – and believe me, they’ll think of something. They’ve been jumping at the chance to get their hands on our pasture,’ Mother replied.

‘Why can’t they leave us alone? We’ve done nothing wrong,’ I insisted.

‘We’re women thriving by ourselves – that’s what we’ve done wrong,’ Mother said, and fiercely. ‘If we want to survive, our life here is going to have to change.’

I was pretty certain it already had.