Alkelda, the cleverest of my children, did well in the York shop. I think she was often sad at first, but the city life seemed to suit her. William ran away from his father around July of that year and came back to us when Dickon was four months old. He stayed with us, ever still my blessing, until, at fifteen, he found work on property owned by the Cistercians at Jervaulx. He came to visit when he could, and told me he was learning about the hives the monks kept. The bees and their mysterious, industrious ways fascinated him.
Will was inward, a quiet presence, although he and I could sit and visit the day away—all about nothing. Will would never have money put by like his dad, but I was pleased his heart was in the land.
My daughter Rosemary was as unlike my mother as I could imagine, ever shy and entirely ordinary. Despite this carriage, she had a quick wit and absorbed all I taught her. She liked to dream, yes—she and Will were a pair in that way—and I found I loved her more and more as she grew. Almost every day, I wished I’d been more patient with her when she’d been an anxious baby.
Up in Middleham, Bett and her Master Brown stayed together. Oliver was a charming joker who grew more handsome every day. Sadly, Bett told me when we met one market day, that he was unreliable. She saw his father in him, but tried to keep his feet on the honest path and hoped for the best. Her older boy, Jack, was steadier, shaping well under the guidance of the carpenter who held his indenture.
Robert O’Grove went for a soldier the year my Dickon turned two. Alban and I agreed it to be the best course, for he was like to get himself hanged if he stayed here, all the mischief he got up to. He traveled north, to Alnwick. Bobby left the pretty girls in Aysgarth grieving—and their parents praising God that he’d gone. Months later, word came from Hugh that they had met at Alnwick. The next year he wrote again, to say that Bobby had moved on with some young bloods bound for Germany, all of them intending to join a Company of St. George and fight on the continent. We never heard of our Bobby again.
* * *
Ash Wednesday of 1493 arrived. It was now eight years into the usurper’s reign, an April afternoon when the wind blew sharp from the east. I had my head against the back of a sheep which had just walked up the stand for milking. I suppose that is why I did not hear him come in. The cats were making a clamor, demanding their share as they always did. They knew that even in lean times I'd indulge them.
The top milk went into a jug for us. The dregs, with whatever might have dropped into it, I splashed into a bowl for my cats. After some head slapping and hissing, they sorted it out, the two queens and half grown kits which caught the mice and rats in our barn. I talked to them as I always did as “my lasses." They were just like me, solitary, their menfolk gone a’wanderin’ and fightin’.
"Ladies! Ladies! None o’ that! There’s plenty for all.” I stopped milking and turned to lift them around so that each busy tongue got a share.
"So—it's come to this, has it, Rose?"
There stood my husband, Hugh Fletcher, leaning against the shed door, watching me.
"Down to waiting on pussy cats, are ye?"
They scattered at the sound of his voice. Only a young orange Tom, devil-may-care, kept on lapping. I shot to my feet, heart pounding. There was a pitchfork nearby and I'd use it if I had to.
"What do you want, Hugh Fletcher?" My husband had occasionally sent money during the first two years, but the custom had soon died. For years I’d been managing without him and I was proud of it.
As he entered, I moved, toward the pitchfork. That was when I saw what had been hidden by shadows. Hugh only stood by the grace of crutches. Below his knees, there were no legs.
"I'm out of work. I came to see if I could make myself useful around here."
"Your lord will not employ a skilled Fletcher who has given his all in service?"
"I've had a belly full of lords, Rose."
For a long moment we stared at each other. I remembered George of Clarence, another of whom he'd had a "belly full." My husband’s face was yellow and gaunt, his cheeks hollow. The loose folds of his once great belly lay like an empty sack.
I heard Dickon enter. He’d just finished tossing hay to the white cow on the other side of the shed wall and must have heard our voices. I knew the red freckles across his long, pale face wouldn't hide his paternity from my husband.
"Who be this then?"
"Dickon Fletcher, sir." My son eyed the crippled stranger uncertainly.
"Dickon, eh?" Hugh did not look at me, only at my son. "And how came you by the name o' Richard, young fella?"
"I was taken to the font on St. Richard's day." Dickon’s voice stayed steady. He was small and thin—yes—but never afraid to speak.
To my relief, Hugh simply nodded. "Well, young fella, I am Hugh Fletcher, which, as it seems, makes me your mother's husband—and—your Dad. I've had some bad luck, as you can see and am come home at last."
The rage between us had burnt out. By claiming Dickon, Hugh had disarmed me, thrown himself upon my mercy, being first to sue for peace. Needless to say, my boy’s hazel eyes flooded with astonishment.
"It is as Master Fletcher says," I said to my son's wonder. "Come now. Let's go in to the fire. Master Fletcher has journeyed far in bad weather and is anxious to see Rosemary again."
Bowing to the fate those restless dale winds had blown in my door, I took my son's small hand and gave it a comforting squeeze. A boy needs a father in whatever guise he comes, even a crippled, broken-down soldier.
We sat before the fire. Hugh—what remained of him—slurped the pease and turnip soup I’d made earlier. After an initial look of hesitation and fear, Rosemary hugged him. Hugh shed tears too, breaking at the sight of her. In better light, he appeared even sorrier than he had in the barn. After the children had gone into the loft, we had a time by ourselves. I brought him the last of the porridge, which he set upon at once.
"A poor time of year to travel, husband."
"Yes, but I had to, after rallying. I've been sick a long time."
"What happened?"
"Around St. Martin’s day, a young lord rode his horse over me when I was out beating for a hunt. Broke my legs, rib or two and near finished me. Said it was my fault. I coughed blood for weeks. The legs had to go, or I'd now be serving my time in the ranks of hell." This last, spoken with his old humor, came near to my heart.
"No merry Christmas."
"None indeed."
"I am sorry." True, I was. My strong soldier had suffered the worst of fates, to live beyond his usefulness.
Hugh leaned down and set the bowl on the hearth stones. "I've come to ask forgiveness, Rose. I should have left your chastisement to the Almighty and remembered charity."
"Or remembered love."
"You might have remembered love. We were joined before God and for my part I did love you. Bad reason though it may be, love was the root of my anger.”
Inwardly, I shrugged. It was man’s oldest excuse.
“We’re eight years past that piece of bad road, aren't we, lass?"
I managed a nod. Still, even after so much time, memory of that night made my gut churn.
"I have left the service of all lords, Rose, except Him Above. I had hoped to die in harness, but it was not to be."
We were silent for a time, watching the fire. I knew he would speak more, and that silence was what would make it unfold. I could not trust my own tongue; that I knew.
He nodded at the pitiful stumps, "In spite of what is lacking, I can make myself useful."
I nodded again, but said no more. There were two children whose need for Hugh was far more immediate than mine. Rosemary had hardly left her father’s side since he’d come in the door. She, and Dickon, too, had silently served this apparition, bringing first a stool for a seat and then water for washing and a cloth to dry, giving, as I'd taught, attentive, silent hospitality to a stranger. I'd noted the way my son’s eyes continually dwelt upon Hugh. Dog-like attention had sprung from that single most important of words. “Dad” already used, set the seal upon my decision.
"Go on as you have begun. Be the boy’s father."
"He wants one, don't he?" Rheumy eyes studied me.
"All boys do."
I could tell that this was no decision made spur of the moment. My husband had decided to enter like this long before he'd come swinging on his arms into village. That made me glad, for it showed the man I had once been proud to be married to.
"Here," I said. "Let me draw more ale. We shall drink on it."
"Good ale, Rosie." Hugh said, after a long draught. "The best I've had in many a year. You brewed it?"
"It only takes a little care in doing. I wonder that folks hereabouts made it so poorly."
"You are the alewife?"
"I am," I said proudly. "Mother Ash taught me many things."
Hugh smiled. The sight still warmed, even though he was a jack-o-lantern.
"You always were a clever one."
We shared in silence my strong, rich ale and the heat of the fire. Outside, a noisy rain mixed with sleet began to drum on the sides of the house.
"St. Hugh of Grenoble's feast is but two days before the feast of St. Richard of Chichester." He’d spoken at last.
I might have said something—anything—but I only nodded.
"You never learned to lie, did you, Rosie?"
"Oh, I have learned. Since our Yorkshire King was slain, I have learned to lie and to steal, too, for that is how a peasant lives. Still, Fletcher, you are still my husband, to whom I at least owe honesty."
Wearily, he shook his head, but in his eyes I could see the man who'd once loved me, valuing straight talk. Raising his tankard briefly in my direction, he drained it to the dregs.
* * *
By his own choice, he slept that night on straw by the hearth, like any poor traveler to whom we'd offer hospitality. It wasn't until the next day, stripped, sitting in a chair, washing himself from a basin we'd arranged on the table, when the sight of his angry, mottled stumps reminded me of the spell I'd cast at Middleham all those years ago.
The knife, the firelight glinting upon it, as I'd sawed off the poppet's legs….
Such a chill washed over me! I might have been standing out of doors in January. Hard to believe it had worked, and that it had taken so long. Now, when my fury was almost burnt to ashes, I should see the outcome.
There was fear then, fear such as I had not felt since I'd made the draught for Aldygyth to give. I would to hell, certain! Then, I remembered what Ash had said as she lay dying.
“Don’t weep for me, Rose. We flow into a dark lake, are washed in deep waters. Then we sink down, down to the old roots of the world. We forget who we were and we shall be born into this world again. There is no hell, nor no heaven neither, just the great wheel on which we all turn.”
That memory comforted.
Then, I remembered the rest of the spell— how I'd dug out the eyes of the poppet—and shuddered. I sent a quick silent prayer that this would never come to pass.
Poor Hugh! There wasn’t much life left in the body that returned. He never asked for anything more than kindness from me and a roof over his head. I fed him and he helped about the place as he could, for he had bad weeks at a time. For my part, I nursed him, even, with Rosemary’s devoted help, cosseted him, for which he was grateful.
He taught Dickon about fletching and told him a thousand soldier’s stories, which they both enjoyed. The clever long fingers of my lad were quick to learn, and Hugh, and surprised by this, thoroughly praised him. None of his own children had been interested in their father’s birth trade.
Hugh Fletcher lived only for a year. One day, stubbornly off on his crutches on some errand of his own, he dropped dead. Alban found him on the winding road that passed his croft. Hugh was lying on his back, cold as a stone. The crows he chased away had already pecked out his eyes.