The Accusation Read online

  "Keep it." Fortune was still half blind with tears. "If I can't stay here, I'll not be able to carry everything away. The furniture - the bedding. But where will I go?"

  "We've taken the furniture," said brother Edmund, "and Mamma has the bedding. It would have been different if Jon had come back - but now -"

  "I must stay somewhere close, if I can find someone to take me in. My two little children are in the churchyard here. St. Michael's was my home too."

  Mother Mereworth sighed, patting her shoulder. "The new priest would make your life a misery, child. You'd be wise to leave for that reason if nothing else. I'll visit little Mary and Peter's graves on the proper days, and pray for their souls. I shall pray for you too my dear."

  "This house is too crowded already," said Jon's sister with a pout. "Go ask at the alms house."

  "I'm not a pauper. I'm the widow of a good cleric. We had - we owned -"

  "Nothing." Mister Mereworth shook his head. He stared through red raw eye sockets, and looked as though he had cried for a month. He knew his son's character and would have guessed the outcome from the start. "I'm sorry my child," he said, "but apart from the bedding and furniture, there was nothing left except a few clothes. The cottage belongs to the diocese. Everything else was sold to make up the funds we brought to you and Jon in gaol. And we - well, the church made sure I lost my living. Lord Bettersby's farm steward will no longer employ me. It is Edmund's small wage that keeps us all now."

  "And cannot stretch to more," Edmund interrupted.

  Fortune stood inside the little cottage that once welcomed her, ducked her head below the ceiling beams, and tried to explain to John's mother.

  "All those God fearing gentlemen, righteous nobility and decent folk gazing up at the fearful death of a good man. The approval of the priests and the blessing of the bishops. Can you call yourself a good Christian when you've danced around the pyre and clapped hands as a man burns alive, watching as his open mouth fills with flames? Can you think that will send you straight to heaven when you die? Once cinders flew out as I bent over the hearth to light the fire, burning my cheek. The soft pitted scorch mark festered and wept and left a scar I will always wear. I have burned my fingers when cooking. I have scalded my hands in the washing tub. It hurts so very much and yet that pain can have no comparison, cannot hold a glimmer to the agony inflicted on my husband. I weep for the hideous ruin of the hands that had caressed me, remembering those strong legs curled snug to mine in the warmth of our bed, those steadfast eyes, and the solid shoulders of a man born to farmers, who took up the Protestant faith his king demanded. Only to wake one morning and find the new queen calls you a heretic for those same beliefs. So the body which brought me so much comfort over the years, is now ashes. As mine should have been."

  "Few would dance around the pyre, my child. There are many good Catholics who still declare the burnings cruel. The hatred of the queen grows." John's father wiped his eyes, speaking softly and looking down to his roughly shod feet. "Those who believe in God's love more than His punishments, do not celebrate pain and suffering. Some do. Most do not agree that such brutality prepares a man for the blessings of heaven."

  John's mother glared through the dim interior and shook her head. "You speak heresy. If others hear, you could have us all arrested."

  "Who else could hear?"

  "You speak of John's body. And of ashes. You besmirch his sainted memory."

  With two silver pennies, a small cold pie and those few clothes tied up in a large kerchief, she left the next morning and walked back through the Kentish marshes to Canterbury city.

  It started to rain again as she passed the cathedral spires; Fortune held her breath. She had once knelt before Thomas Cranmer, Canterbury's archbishop, a man much admired under the previous reign. But the new queen accused him of heresy, and he had died for it. They said the wretched man recanted, just as Fortune had, accepting the tenants of the Church of Rome and confessing his previous beliefs as a sin. But, unlike others, he although he had not been pardoned. The queen hated him too much. Cranmer had been instrumental in old Henry's divorce, and the divorced wife's daughter would never forgive the man who enabled such humiliation. She honoured her father despite his sins, and blamed the servant instead. So Thomas Cranmer was burned alive, and recanted his recantation loudly as the flames took him.

  Not as large as London, not quite as soiled and dark, this was a pretty city in the sunshine. But for the past two years since Queen Mary had invoked the Act of Heresy and begun the burnings, the country rarely saw the sun again. Suffering from the great famine, men muttered at how the burnings were wrong, and how the smoke of the pyres rose all the way up to heaven and saddened the saints. There had been enough martyrs over the centuries, men said. England was a modern, civilised country and such misery had no place in such a green and pleasant land. But it made no difference. Even the Spanish Inquisition burned less than half the number of accused as the zealous queen. But the burnings continued, and so did the rain.

  Chapter Four

  Fortune slept in a barn that night, squeezing in beside the mice. The straw was sweet after city gutters, and she felt the farmer owed her a little shelter. It was where John's father worked until they threw him out for being the father of a heretic. So Fortune went around to the farmhouse kitchens in the morning and asked for scraps. Knowing her, they gave stale bread and porridge.

  For five days she wandered between the meadow pastures and the city streets, looking desperately for work. But with famine across the land as well as fear of the queen's black revenge, there was nothing to be found. None of the local farmers could take on more workers for the famine brought them pitifully close to ruin themselves and their crops lay blackened and mould spoiled in the soggy fields. Lord Bettersby's manor needed no more servants, while most of the cookhouses shut down, the little shops were struggling for business, and any busy household still able to pay for a maid or a nursery girl, had the choice of a dozen poor women begging for work.

  She continued sleeping in the barn, creeping in once the moon was up, but one mild night she slept in the cemetery, cradled by gravestones. Her own two lost children were in St. Michael's churchyard, but she was no longer frightened of ghosts. Mary had been just a few months old, Peter only six, both taken by the ague which had nearly taken John too. The marshes caused it, they said, and the thousand tiny whining biting insects that lived there. Not wishing to sacrifice anymore beloved children to marsh fever, Fortune shared John's bed and given comfort, but no more. John, never as fervent physically as religiously, did not object.

  But now, absurdly, this was what Fortune began to think about. Not loving so much, nor even comfort, as bedchamber coupling. She needed money for after saving herself from burning, she was facing starvation.

  The pain gnawed and clawed inside her until she felt that she was becoming crazed. Indeed, she knew she must be mad to consider such a thing, but she was aware that other respectable women had done the same. Wretched creatures sacrificing themselves to feed their children, their aged parents, and themselves. Fortune only had myself to feed, and so could work less. Even such a trade as that had fewer clients in bad times, but perhaps some men were still eager enough. She'd often been told she was pretty. So she plodded the back lanes of Canterbury, wondering if she could actually make herself do it.

  Jon's idea of bedchamber activity had been once a sennight at most, first a kiss and then heavy, sweat-hot, one heave, a grab at a breast through her chemise, three grunts, and off he rolled again leaving Fortune puzzled and sore. At least it was over quick, though afterwards, he was more affectionate when he didn't have passion on his mind.

  The thought of such intimacy with strangers disgusted her, and yet seemed in one way an easy solution. She might scrub floors for a week, and earn the same as one such brief contamination. Although the floor scrubbing would have included food and bed, whereas now she had no bed at all. She disgusted herself, even contemplating such a solution.
But the pain of many days' hunger is a powerful thing, and even more so the thought of that hunger increasing until she might fall, finally fainting, would curled in the gutter to die.

  It was said that many had been found that way. A whole family of five, found snuggled together in a barn, dead three days or more and all as wizened and thin as skeletons, even the children. Mice had nibbled at their toes and beetles and wormy things burrowed in their hair and mouths. Once the monasteries might have taken them in, given charity and offered the fish from their ponds and the salad greens from their gardens. But all the monasteries had been closed by old King Harry, and now the lords lived in them, and closed their doors to the poor.

  Still it rained, and Fortune had neither home nor shelter, no bedchamber and no bed. She did not understand how such a profession might be achieved without any of these things. She could not imagine a man willing to accept the straw barn where she usually slept herself and no idea if any such man would agree to take her to his own. Would she have to pay back the money he had given her? And would also be in his power. She learned of the cruelty of power. She knew of a brothel, a tall house in the oldest part of town. Naked Alley they called it, though there were also respectable homesteads nearby. By joining a brothel at least she would be told what to do, given a pallet and some protection. But they would also charge her and she knew she would risk losing most of whatever money she earned and be forced to work long hours. Heretic, whore, and sinner, she thought herself lost forever. Death by starvation could be preferable. But the day after deciding she could not, she then decided she would.

  Pain was the ultimate swing of the balance. In the past week she had begged the scraps from one rich man's kitchen and been given a small bowl of cabbage soup and half an oat cake. But there were so many determined beggars she was elbowed away, and the food snatched from her. Another time she went to the stables, since the kitchen doors were too crowded. There the grooms-boy gave two small turnips, and she ate them raw. The next day she stole a bread roll from the bakers but the baker's wife chased her down three streets and she never dared go there again. She scoured the forest paths for fallen crab apples, roots and herbs, but others knew better how to find such things and there was nothing left except leaves and grass and wildflowers. She ate the flowers.

  On the Friday she was given two fish heads by a fat woman at the market, and on Sunday she ate the mouthful of bread and consecrated wine at Mass. There had been nothing else. It was the Wednesday again and eight days of near starvation when she finally began to walk the streets.

  He came at her out of the shadows, grabbing at her arm from behind. He muttered, "How much, girl?" and his breath stank of garlic.

  She stopped breathing and gulped, "Sixpence," and all she could hear was her heartbeat pounding loud as church bells. She turned and held out her hand. "Sixpence - first."

  He nodded and pressed six bright pennies into the shivering cup of her palm. She closed her fingers tight over the coins and let herself breathe again.

  "Where?" he demanded.

  She shook her head wildly. "I don't - there's no -"

  "I'll have you here then," and he pushed her back against the brick wall. He had a thick beard and his clothes were soiled and the garlic on his breath was very strong. She just stood where he'd pushed her and her mind went blank. It was bitterly cold, the moon a thin silver sickle just over his head, and the rain a chilly drizzle like mist in the night air. She couldn't stop shivering, but from more than the cold. His mouth was against her ear, panting and puffing, and his short stubby fingers grabbing at her gown. Then he muttered, "Damn it, girl, what are you waiting for? Lift your skirts."

  It had not occurred to her that such a thing could be achieved standing up, and she was briefly relieved. His codpiece was already unhooked, and she could smell the sweat and desire as well as the garlic. Obeying quickly and, eyes still closed in shame and fear, she pulled up the hem of her gown. He wasn't clean but nor was she, and knew it. Sleeping in her clothes for nearly two months, with little opportunity to wash at all. She gritted her teeth and kept her eyes fiercely shut.

  He stuck two of his grubby thickset fingers inside her. She was horrified. Even Jon, in eight years of marriage, had never done anything so intrusive, and with hard brick at her back she couldn't even recoil. The man muttered, "You're too dry, girl. What's the matter with you?"

  It was obviously an accusation and Fortune was both confused and annoyed. She squirmed, hopelessly embarrassed, and snapped, "I'm certainly not. It's been raining for an hour."

  The man had the grace to chuckle, removed his fingers and pressed himself inside. It all took considerably longer than Fortune anticipated.

  He kept shoving, so that her head banged back against the wall and her shoulders and hips were ground into the damp brick. The man wasn't interested in breasts or kisses and at least kept his hands off her body but his repeated push and shove was making her wretchedly sore. She felt it would be unfair to him if she began to cry, so she bit her lip and stayed silent. Then at last, pressing hard and fast, he burst into a guttural moan and went suddenly limp. He stopped moving and his head flopped down on her shoulder, but after two deep breaths he straightened up and, stepping away a little, began to stuff himself back inside his codpiece and hooked it up. Fortune was weak, and pressed down her skirts with relief.

  He looked up, smiled showing two broken black teeth, and gently patted her cheek with one callused hand. "Well girl, a bit of a dead fish and not much of a fuck. But you're pretty enough. Good luck to you." And he strode off into the night, whistling between those two broken teeth.

  Having no idea what he meant, it didn't worry her. She was still clutching her pennies safe and was now more desperate to wash than anything else, but it was late and no tavern would open their doors to a woman in her condition at this time of night. A thorough wash, strong ale and hot food would all have to wait for the morning. She ran through the shadows, out into the countryside and back to the barn where she usually slept amongst the straw, the mice and the fleas. But she slept badly. The sense of being so utterly soiled was worse than the weight of hunger. She was also sore, and the knowledge of how she had become sore was as painful.

  She thought of Jon, and of how horrified he would be if he could peer down from purgatory - if purgatory was true indeed - and see his widow's shocking behaviour. Fortune missed him. She longed for his council, his smile, and his comforting arms. A crackle of straw made her think of the flames and the pain he must have suffered, and she howled and wept and sobbed until she felt ill, and finally, from absolute exhaustion, fell asleep.

  At dawn's first tinge she woke and scrambled up at once, brushing away the dust and prickles. Fortune felt entirely different.

  Although she had no memory of dreaming, it was as if someone comforted and advised her through the night, explaining those things she did not understand before. So she hurried off to the weedy courtyard where a well, the bucket unchained, served the farmhouse kitchens. She had to be early before the scullions and laundry girls got up and saw her, and still cold, she hauled up the icy water and used it to wash herself there on the flag stones. She did not dare disrobe, but took off her stockings and washed herself as thoroughly as she could. The freezing water was doubly cleansing. She ran back to the barn, pulled back her stockings and tightened the garters, carefully combed her hair with her fingers, and set off again for Canterbury.

  Chapter Five

  Charles called for his horse to be saddled. Having wasted three days talking to men he despised and a woman who disliked him, he was hoping to escape quickly to the open greenery beyond the city's mould-mossed walls.

  The sheriff and his officious assistant had stared at the hanging man with blank bewilderment, and asked Charles who the victim was.

  "That," Charles informed them, "is part of your job, I imagine. He is unknown to me and not a member of this household."

  "Well," muttered Master Franklin, the assistant, "without an identif
ied corpse, I don't know what you expect us to do, my lord."

  Charles stared. "Your duty, sir."

  Sherriff Mason interrupted. "Take the corpse down, Franklin. I'll arrange for someone to take a look at the injuries. Not sure what that will accomplish, but it ought to be done. After that - well, without a head, there's little we can do. You can't identify a man from his whatsits and cods."

  Gazing without expression, Charles regarded the two men in front of him. "Across the countryside, there blows the nauseas stench of burning flesh, and the screams of those tortured. Beyond these walls echo the tears of those dying from starvation, and the howling of hungry dogs, killed to fill the empty trenchers of their owners. No doubt one more beheaded soul will not over-tax the gravedigger. But the wretched creature does not belong here."

  "No, no, of course not, my lord." The sheriff stood on tiptoe and extended a tentative fingertip. "Not a clean cut. I doubt this man was beheaded by the royal axe."

  "There are plenty executed by royal decree," Charles said, "who do not benefit from a clean axe nor a clean cut." He turned, walking away, but said, "I expect the poor fellow to be removed within the hour, sir. And I am leaving the city tomorrow. If you need to contact me for any reason, the steward here has the necessary details and will send a message."

  "You realise, my lord," added Franklin the assistant, "that no doubt the culprit is someone living on these premises?"

  Charles sighed. "I see nothing of the sort. But you may make your own investigation, as long as you do not disrupt the household or accuse an innocent man." He nodded dismissal, and once again began to stride back to the house. But he turned once more. "This property is now the home of the Lady Katherine, daughter of the Countess Harrington, but now orphaned. I trust you will not distress her concerning this matter. At present, she has no idea what occurred."