The Hanging of Margaret Dickson Page 17

  ‘You’re pulling the blankets off me, it’s freezing in here,’ whines a high-pitched voice. A mass of curly golden hair sticks out from the end of the box-bed.

  Maggie suddenly sits up on the mattress, her mouth gaping open.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed. It is I, Margaret, the innkeeper’s daughter. We met last night.’

  ‘I’m sorry. Is this your bed?’

  ‘No. Father wants us to share. After what happened with the last lass and all that, well, I will explain later. You don’t mind do you?’ Margaret yawns and stretches. Her eyes are all puffy and creased.

  ‘I don’t mind sharing at all. Have we overslept?’

  ‘No. Mother wanted you to sleep late so that you’re rested. Wait until that miserable cow finds out.’

  ‘What miserable cow?’ Maggie’s eyes are still sticky with sleep. She squints at the girl with messy yellow hair and can’t help thinking that she looks like a furry farm animal.

  ‘You’ll find out,’ Margaret replies and climbs out from the bed. With both hands she pushes on a small glazed window, but the window is frozen shut.

  ‘What are you doing? It’s freezing out there. Is there still snow?’

  ‘Aye, and William’s supposed to come today.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘You’ll find out,’

  ‘Is that all you ever say – you’ll find out?’ Maggie laughs.

  Margaret smiles and dresses quickly, pulling on a double layer of stockings, a plaid and a shawl to keep her warm.

  Maggie wishes she had the luxury of two layers of clothes, but she’s only brought a few items for her journey.

  Down the stairs there are few people around. Who do I ask about chores? Maggie wonders and then Isobel appears from behind a door and nearly scares her to death.

  ‘Hello, Maggie. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘I am very well. I don’t normally sleep so late, sorry.’

  A number of labouring men loiter in the tavern, some of them chatting and others drinking. One of them winks at Maggie, looking her up and down until Isobel barks out some orders to them.

  ‘Lazy beggars they are, only supposed to be fixing a leak in the roof and shifting a few barrels and what do they do? Start supping the ale, that’s what! It’ll be a pie or some broth that they’ll want next, but they can go and boil their heads the lot of them. Anyway, how’s your foot today, lass? Any better?’

  ‘Much better.’

  ‘Good, good,’ smiles Isobel, guiding her across the room to a narrow corridor that leads to a large open door. ‘This is the scullery. Cook has already made oats, so sit yourself down and fill your belly. After that I’ll tell you what to do for the day, and don’t even contemplate going out-of-doors, there is still a blizzard outside.’

  A fat woman with a filthy apron leads Maggie to a huge table, a number of chairs surround it on the dirt floor. An enormous hearth dominates the room and several shiny pots and dangle spits flank its huge flaming mouth. For a while Maggie just stands there, watching the cook scurrying about, her fat arse wobbling as she waddles along. Eventually, the cook orders Maggie to sit, and her mouth waters as a large bowl of oats is placed in front of her.

  The room has a homely atmosphere and Maggie feels warm and comfortable as she eats her meal. Meanwhile Isobel talks to cook about food and recipes. At that moment a scraping noise cuts through the air, Maggie jumps in her seat and turns around. Near the end of the table, a big strapping lass pulls out a chair, crashing down onto the seat like a sack of turnips.

  ‘Where’s my oats?’ the sullen girl complains.

  Isobel’s usual cheery disposition floats from the room and her shoulders visibly sag. ‘It’ll be ready in a minute, patience …’

  ‘You’ve given mine to her, haven’t you? All bastard morning I’ve been working my fingers to the bone while others are idle.’

  ‘Hush, Helen.’

  Maggie lowers her eyes to the table top before sneaking a glance at the morose, dirt-faced lassie. She has the body and arms of a prize-fighter and a face to match. The girl exudes ill-feeling and hostility, and the air soon crackles with tension. Maggie crinkles up her eyes and wonders why Isobel and the cook hover around her, in an effort to placate her, because for the most part, Maggie can’t wait to get away from her. With her bowl empty she crosses the scullery to thank the cook, and to her utter dismay the cook feels obliged to introduce her to the detestable girl.

  ‘Well, aren’t you going to introduce yourself, Helen?’

  ‘Helen Richardson, serf to all. If you want a dirty job done, ask me.’ Helen does not offer her hand to the newcomer.

  ‘Don’t be horrible, Helen. Don’t mind her, Maggie. She’s always like that.’ Isobel shrugs and takes Maggie’s empty bowl.

  Not wanting to spend another moment with Helen, Maggie nods to the cook and exits the room. The sound of Isobel’s footsteps echo behind her as she enters a narrow corridor.

  ‘Why do you allow her to talk to you in that way?’ Maggie asks.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Helen.’

  ‘Don’t worry your head about her, she’s a distant relative, but more importantly she’s a good worker. Here, let us chat by the fire and I’ll try and sort a few chores for you to do. You’ve not changed your mind about staying, have you, lass?’

  Maggie sits by the fire, Isobel takes a seat opposite her and does not hesitate to take her hand, and Maggie notices a small ring upon her middle finger. The innkeeper’s wife has a kindly face and beautiful golden hair; she sighs and places both hands on her knees before glancing out of the distant window and wintery view. Maggie looks from the window to the woman before her.

  ‘No. I will stay for a while.’

  ‘Oh lass – you won’t be sorry.’

  ***

  In the tavern, there’s a sense of expectation in the air, not that anything grand or interesting is happening. The fact of the matter is – all is fresh and new. Maggie’s not displeased with her new surroundings, and the faces and activities fill her with much elation. In short, she’s happy as a drunk at a lock-in. Along with Helen and Margaret, she assists in the brewing of special ale, and a good deal of chores require much elbow-grease, of that Maggie has plenty. In no time at all she’s polished a number of brass objects; plates, ornaments and trinkets.

  After a small meal, Maggie offers to help Adam shift small kegs to the rear of the tavern. The kegs are heavy, but after shifting many a full creel, she’s brawny and tough, and so they work fast and finish in less than an hour. Before they return to the others Adam shows her the chicken coop, and clear of the coop is a pigsty packed with swine. Maggie holds a hand to her nose and hopes that they don’t ask her to do any of the mucking out, it reminds her too much of home.

  ‘Have you a husband, Maggie?’

  Maggie falters, unsure of what to say. ‘I don’t know where he is. The fisher folk think he’s in Newcastle, and so I hope to find him there.’

  He whistles. ‘I can’t believe any man would leave you.’ He glances around quickly to make sure his wife hasn’t heard him.

  ***

  The food is mouth-watering. Isobel and the cook seem to be in a constant competition to make the perfect dish. No wonder Adam has a pot belly, Maggie shakes her head. On the second night, Maggie puts on her tight fitting dress and hurries downstairs. The tavern’s busier than ever, and so she circulates the room, taking orders, handing out ale and laughing as they pat her on the bottom. Of course the banter’s harmless and she’s never affronted, and the men laugh at her and her smart retorts, and before the night is through they come to expect it and even encourage it.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind having you over a barrel, Maggie.’

  ‘Looks like you’ve drunk the barrel from the look of that stomach, Angus.’ Maggie points at Angus’s belly. ‘Looks like you’ll be dropping that soon. When’s it due?’

  ‘Maggie, will you take a walk with me to the riverside?’

  ‘Aye, if your wife can come t
oo.’

  Occasionally, a drunken advance goes too far, but all she has to do is glance in Adam Bell’s direction and he comes to the rescue. But to be truthful, by the end of the night most of the men are not fit for anything, and before long they’re staggering off home to the warmth of their beds.

  As the last customers disappear, Maggie walks over to her last table, and places her weight over it to scrub away sticky ale. But as she does so, all of a sudden something compels her to stop what she is doing and stare across the room. Maggie’s not one for magic and sorcery, but it is as though an invisible force guides her to the figure of an exceedingly tall man, stood with his back to the door. The hairs prickle on the back of her neck; she can feel the weight of his stare as he watches her. And for the life of her she can’t understand why he looks at her with amusement, and so she checks her person to see if she has food on her skirts or soot on her face.

  ‘We are closing,’ she says to him. Despite his good looks, he irks her for some reason, although she does not know why.

  ‘Already? And I was wondering if I could stay for the night – perhaps you could find me a bed?’

  ‘Well, you must ask the innkeeper about that,’ Maggie says with a half-smile.

  He walks over to her then, towering over her and using his extraordinary height to stare down at her breasts. Maggie feels the blood rise to her face and neck. When his eyes come back to meet hers, he smiles and is suddenly distracted. ‘I must apologise for keeping you from your chores.’

  Maggie opens her mouth to reply to him, but then the sound of Adam Bell’s voice booms from across the room. ‘William. Come and see your mother. She’s missed you.’

  Her cheeks burn, Maggie lowers her face and pushes down on the table with both hands, feeling quite foolish. So this is the innkeeper’s son, William – the apprentice tailor. He could have told her who he was! The noise of laughter fills the room as Maggie crosses the floor to clear a missed table. Before long her arms are laden with empty ale flagons and broth dishes destined for the scullery. Near a blistering hearth, she bumps into him again, a drink in his hand, smiling casually at her with laughter in his eyes, and for the second time that night she has the distinct feeling that she amuses him for some reason.

  Once their labour is done, they congregate near the fire, to rest aching feet and make conversation. Cook is a solitary character and prefers to stay in the scullery, sleeves rolled up, snoring like a pig next to the blistering hearth. From the corner of her eye Maggie glances at William. He’s young, no more than twenty or so with skin like a girl. His hair is thick and fair and he’s the tallest man she’s ever seen, and for one so young he carries himself well. Sour-faced Helen, the burly maidservant can’t get close enough to him as she edges closer and closer to him as he lounges in a classic male stance, legs wide open as though airing his masculine parts. But no matter what the lass does, be it complimenting him, fetching or carrying for him, the tailor pays Helen no heed. For the most part William moves away from her as if she’s a bad smell.

  William’s sister, Margaret is amused by Helen’s conduct and for just a moment Maggie feels inclined to feel sorry for the girl. But her empathy soon disappears when the lassie storms off slamming a door behind her.

  ‘All the lasses are like that with him.’ Margaret shakes her head.

  ‘They are? I wonder why?’

  ‘Are you blind? He’s the most handsome fellow, even I can see that and he’s my kin.’

  ‘He’s all right, I suppose. I prefer them more manly myself.’

  ‘Well, you would. You’re much older than he is.’

  Maggie chews on her lip and takes off her cap, shaking out her hair. ‘I’m not that old. How old is he?’

  ‘Nineteen. But he looks a little older, don’t you think?’

  ‘No, I don’t. Anyway how old do I look?’

  Margaret screws up her eyes. ‘Six and thirty?’

  ‘You saucy beggar. I am nearly six and twenty,’ Maggie glowers.

  Margaret clutches a hand to her stomach and laughs so hard, her eyes water with mirth. ‘I was jesting, Maggie. Anyway, one thing is for sure – that Helen hasn’t got a cat-in-hell’s chance.’

  ***

  It’s a fine morning and Maggie’s third day at the inn. From the chicken coop outside, a cockerel crows repeatedly, and the sound seems to bounce off the walls before floating away into the stale attic air. With sleepy eyes she watches Margaret tip-toe across the room, turning the key in its lock before letting her mother in, and to Maggie’s consternation, Isobel’s even noisier than the damned cockerel.

  ‘On your feet now. Up the pair of you. William’s downstairs. He’s here to alter the dress for you, Maggie. Hurry now, he hasn’t got all day. Put on the dress, girl.’ Isobel wags a finger in her daughter’s direction. ‘And Margaret, in the name of decency and decorum, stay in the room with them.’

  Maggie staggers out of bed, hair bedraggled from sleep. She holds up her arms to pull the dress over her sark, but it gets stuck over her shoulders in the process. The damned dress won’t dislodge and she’s trapped half-naked with her arms in the air. ‘Margaret, please help me.’

  A knock on the door startles them.

  ‘It is I, William.’

  ‘She’s not dressed. Wait there.’ Margaret giggles and shouts to her brother through the door.

  The innkeeper’s daughter shifts the dress over Maggie’s shoulders, tittering all the while as she fastens it at the back. ‘Your breasts are too big,’ she grins, grabbing both of them with her hands before opening the door. ‘You can come in now, William.’

  To Maggie’s mind, William looks distracted as he stoops to enter the room. There is briskness in his step, and his manner is cool and aloof. Straight away he begins to push Maggie around, turning her body this way and that to observe the cut of the dress. Maggie glances at him with indignation but he ignores her and places a pin in-between his teeth.

  ‘I need more pins. I really don’t have time for this,’ he says with an impatient voice. Quantities of coins jingle in his pockets as he plunges his hands into them. He looks at Maggie coldly as he rummages about, pulling out bits and pieces until finally, after the longest time; he produces a quantity of pins and a measuring tape.

  ‘What is that for?’ Maggie gasps, her eyes are suddenly drawn to his eyes and lips.

  ‘I need to measure you. Open your arms out wide and please be still,’ he replies. With a pin still between his lips he bends at the knee and curls his arms around her stomach, arranging the tape so that it spans her tiny waist.

  Maggie keeps her head high and her arms wide. His face is almost pressed into her side. Her heart pounds so hard she’s breathless and her knees are trembling.

  ‘Now the problem area,’ he points to her chest.

  ‘No one’s ever called it a problem before.’ Maggie gives him a sideways glance and fiddles with the front of her dress.

  ‘I imagine not. Now put your arms down by your side,’ he remarks before returning her gaze. His hands are perfectly steady, his touch delicate. The tape rests on her breasts as he mumbles a number. ‘Impressive! Only one of my customers has a bosom this big and she’s huge, like a great pig.’

  ‘How incredibly rude.’ Maggie’s black eyebrows twist and she grits her teeth. She throws back her hair from her face and blows out her cheeks.

  ‘Pay him no heed, Maggie. He’s teasing you,’ whines Margaret.

  ‘No I’m not,’ says William.

  He leaves the room without saying goodbye.

  ***

  Maggie and Margaret are late going down to the tavern; they prance around, throwing bodkins and ribbons at each other. In the midst of their foolery, they fuss with each other’s hair. As usual, Margaret’s head is a mass of unruly curls; no amount of her combing can tame it. So, Maggie takes pity on her and slowly and carefully tries to untangle it. However, the task is impossible, and therefore she ties it with a fillet.

  ‘So what have you to
tell me?’ enquires Margaret with baited breath, her eyes glitter as she snatches away the comb.

  Maggie ignores her. ‘Your mother and father will skin us alive if we’re much longer. Has William altered the dress?’

  ‘Aye, it’s over there, inside the chest. Oh Maggie, please tell me now. Have you decided to leave?’

  ‘Aye, I have to, Margaret. I must go to Newcastle. I’ll tell your folks in the morning.’

  ‘They’ll be sad to see you go, especially Mother,’ Margaret lowers her head.

  ‘Don’t be sorry. It is for the best. Fetch us the dress, will you.’

  Margaret helps her to dress. Maggie notices a few changes. The hem is shorter and no longer drags on the floor, and she’s room to breathe in it now.

  ‘How do I look?’

  ‘Very respectable. The neckline is quite high. Not a bosom in sight.’

  A thick band of lace conceals Maggie’s décolletage, and the material almost reaches her throat, a white flower sewn to the centre. With one hand Maggie tears away the flower and throws it to the ground.

  ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘I don’t mind your brother making me look like a prioress. But the white flower? Folk will think I’m a Jacobite!’

  ‘No, it’s white but not a rose.’

  ‘I care not,’ Maggie shouts. ‘I’m not taking the chance.’

  ***

  In the centre of the tavern, a group of men celebrate the birth of a baby or ‘wetting the baby’s head’ as they call it. It’s really just an excuse to get drunk, Maggie thinks wryly. Old Jack the chandler has his dog with him, and she chats to him for a while before changing a keg. The men are sinking down more than a few ales, and soon they’ll want feeding no doubt. Thus, for most of the night Maggie is back and forth from the scullery like a blue-arsed fly.