Silent on the Moor

THE FIFTH CHAPTER

My flocks feed not, my ewes breed not,

My rams speed not, all is amiss.

—William Shakespeare

“The Passionate Pilgrim XVII”

We passed into a garden, or rather, what had once been a garden. Sheltered by high stone walls, it was a peaceful place that had clearly once been a productive one as well. Gnarled old fruit trees sprawled against the walls, but it was easy to see the bones of where they had once been espaliered. Beds, edged in crumbling brick, were thick with weeds and overgrown bushes, and just at the edge, sheltered in the recess of a wall, a set of beehives stood quiet and empty. A small plot was still in cultivation, but it had been planted with an eye to industry rather than beauty. It bore none of the traces of elegance that lingered yet in the rest of the garden.

Miss Allenby saw my interest and the faintest of blushes tinged her cheeks. “The gardens of Grimsgrave were once renowned for their beauty. Even the kitchen garden was lovely. It has been many years since we have had gardeners to tend them. Godwin does what little he can with this plot, and Mama still has a tiny garden for her flowers.” She gestured toward a sunny spot where a listless bunch of daffodils struggled limply out of the dark, peaty soil. “Most of our vegetables are delivered by folk who used to be our tenant farmers,” she added, her tone edged with emotion—nostalgia perhaps?

She motioned toward the far end of the garden where a rotting wooden door sagged in the stone wall. I turned back, eager to see Grimsgrave Hall in the clear light of day. It was almost as forbidding as it had been by moonlight. The native gritstone, once handsome no doubt, had weathered to blackness, giving the entire façade a gloomy cast. The ruined wing put me in mind of a skeleton, its flesh rotted away from the bones. But the structure itself, Jacobean in design, was elegant if old-fashioned. Properly rebuilt and with thoughtful landscaping, it might still be redeemed.

“It would take a miracle from God and more money than I will ever see in my lifetime to rebuild it,” Miss Allenby commented, intuiting my thoughts.

“It is a handsome place,” I offered, following slowly as she led the way to the wooden door.

“Handsome, but rotten through and through. I have a model of the house, as it used to be. It is a doll’s house really, but it was built by an architect who came to make a study of the house. He presented it to my grandmama when she was still in the nursery, and eventually it was given to me to play with. It is a lovely thing, but it makes me quite sad sometimes to see how it used to be. Mind your step here, my lady. A bit of stone has come loose,” she warned.

I followed her into a pleasure garden, this one derelict as well. It had been well-planned and probably well-executed, but little that was recognisable remained. Woody old vines choked a statue of an ancient king, and here and there a few scattered bits of stone spoke of ornaments long since destroyed.

“That is King Alfred,” Miss Allenby informed me, gesturing toward the decrepit old king. “He is an ancestor of the Allenbys. We are of ancient Anglo-Saxon stock,” she said proudly. Her chin was tipped high, and I could well see the resemblance to old royalty in her profile. I had read long before that the athelings, the children of Saxon royalty, had been reckoned by the conquering Normans to be the handsomest people they had ever seen. It was not so difficult to believe Miss Allenby was of this tribe. I said as much to her and she laughed, clearly pleased.

“There is an old tale that Pope Gregory once saw a group of Angle children for sale in the Roman slave market at Deira. He was so struck with their beauty, he asked who they were. He was told they were Angles, and he replied, ‘Non Angli, sed angeli.’”

“‘Not Angles, but angels,’” I translated.

“Precisely.”

We passed through the pleasure garden and beyond another crumbling door. As soon as we crossed the threshold, I gasped, for stretching before me was the moor, vast and rolling, empty and endless as the sea. It was beautiful, and yet inhospitable as well.

Miss Allenby stood next to me. “When I was a little girl, I was frightened of the moor. The way the wind always rises, keening like a human voice. The local folk call it a speaking wind. One is never entirely alone on the moor. That wind always blows, and that voice is always there.”

“I can well imagine it,” I murmured.

“But it can be a great comfort as well,” she said, turning aside. Her expression had not changed, but I noted the black of her gown and remembered the brother whose death had necessitated the loss of her home. Did she mourn him still?

A narrow path wound its way through the moor grasses, here quite straight, there bending a little to skirt a bit of rock or a boggy patch. There was just enough room to walk abreast and we did so. I had thought the moor empty, but as we moved farther from the Hall, I noticed the occasional bird, beating its wings to rise above the grasses, or heard the bleating of sheep carried on the wind.

She pointed out the dark, peaty waters that swirled and sucked in boggy places, ready to close over the unsuspecting. She warned me sternly against straying from the path, and lifted her arm to point out a shimmering expanse of black water in the distance.

“Grimswater. It is an ancient place, that lake—full of magic. They say the god who lives there gave this moor its name.”

“Really? I should have thought the name Grimsgrave quite appropriate in any event.”

Miss Allenby gave a quick, light laugh. “The moor is not so sinister as that. Grim was a Saxon god, and grave merely means pit or shaft. This moor was mined in ancient times, even through the Roman occupation. Silver and lead run deep under these lands.”

She nodded toward the surging waters of Grimswater. “They say there was once a town there, where the waters now stand. It was a rich place, with fine houses and proud people. One day a poor man searched the town for shelter and food, but none would offer him succour. Only the poorest farmer would give him a crust and a bed. When he had taken the farmer’s hospitality, the poor man, who was a god in disguise, raised his hand and cursed the town.”

Miss Allenby paused a moment, her eyes closed. Then she opened them, spread her arms and intoned,

“Grimswater rise, Grimswater sink,

And swallow all the town save this little house

Where they gave me food and drink.”

Her voice was commanding as a priestess’ and I shuddered a little. It was too easy to imagine her, clad in the robes of a pagan witch, conjuring spirits to do her bidding.

She smiled then, and the effect was lost. “It is atmospheric, isn’t it? They say the waters rose at once and covered the town, drowning everyone. The Saxons used to throw sacrifices into the lake to keep the gods happy. Even now, when the wind is coming off the waters, you can hear a bell tolling under the lake. It is said to presage a death in my family,” she finished softly.

“The moor is full of old legends, isn’t it?” I asked faintly. There was something quite otherworldly and a little unsettling about Ailith Allenby. Talking to her was rather like conversing with a faery or a unicorn.

“Oh, yes. There are soft places where the souls of those who have been sucked into the bogs cry for help.”

“Is that all?” I demanded. “They don’t drag folk down into the bog with them or carry off one’s children?”

“No,” she said, her tone edged with peevishness. “I think you are making sport.”

“Not a bit,” I told her truthfully. “We have the most useless ghosts at my father’s house. I always think if one is going to be haunted, it’s rather nicer to be haunted by something useful, don’t you think? Your tolling bell, for example. Quite helpful indeed. An Allenby would hear that and know he ought to change his ways or at the very least make a proper confession if he is to die soon.”

She turned wordlessly and led the way across the moor. I realised my tongue had run away with me and thought to make amends, but the wind rose and rendered conversation impossible. We trudged along, here and there helping each other over the muddiest bits, until we reached a crossroads in the path. A direction board pointed out the proper way to the village, but Miss Allenby struck out toward the left, taking a smaller path that wound higher up on the moor. I followed now, struggling to catch my breath as Miss Allenby led the way, unruffled as ever. If my flippancy had offended her, she had decided to overlook it, and I relaxed a bit, enjoying the glorious fresh air and the spectacular views.

After a few minutes, we came over a rise and I saw, sheltered just below us, a cottage sitting beside another crossroads. It was a tumbledown little place of faery-tale proportions, with a high-peaked roof that sagged in the middle and a profusion of roses twining about the doorway, although the flowers themselves would not bloom for another two months. The cottage was set apart from the path by a low stone wall, and within its shelter lay the most enchanting garden I had ever seen.

In spite of the cold and the mud there was a profusion of green, a whole world yearning toward the sunlight and spring. Set into the stone wall was a little wicket gate, and Miss Allenby pushed through, scattering a few fat, speckled chickens as she walked. They clucked at her but continued to scratch at the ground contentedly. A fragrant plume of smoke issued from the chimney, and welcoming lights glowed at the leaded windows.

Before Miss Allenby even raised her hand to knock, the door was thrown back.

“Miss Ailith!” cried the woman on the threshold in welcome. “You have brought me a visitor,” she said, stepping forward and taking my hand in her own. She was an extraordinary creature. Her colouring, like most Gypsies of my acquaintance, was dark, all olive skin and striking black eyes. Her black hair was loose, curling to her waist and threaded thickly with silver. Gold coins hung at her wrists and ears, and long chains of them were wrapped around her neck. A single thin band of gold circled her marriage finger. She wore several skirts, each more colourful than the last, and a becoming blouse with a deep ruffle at the elbow. Her hand was warm over mine, and her smile was genuine.

“You are Lady Julia,” she pronounced in tones of great import.

I gave her a cool, deliberate smile. “It is no great feat of clairvoyance to listen to neighbourhood gossip,” I said blandly.

She laughed at this, displaying beautiful white teeth. “Come in, lady. I am Rosalie Smith. Come along, Miss Ailith.”

She ushered us into the cottage. It was as charming within as without. A single room, it was comfortably furnished for any possible use. A cheerful fire burned on a wide brick hearth, an assortment of pots and pans ranged around it on iron hooks. Bundles of herbs and flowers hung from the rafters well away from the fire, their fragrances mingling to something spicy and delicious in the warm room. There was a scrubbed table, large enough to seat four, and comfortable chairs with freshly-woven rush seats and gaily patterned cushions. A snug bed had been pushed under the window and tucked neatly with a spread of patchworked cottons and velvets edged in bright taffeta. A black cupboard, beautifully painted with pastoral scenes, stood in the corner, and next to it stood a small table with a violin and a sheaf of music.

The Gypsy woman held out her hands for my wraps. “Come and warm yourself by the fire. I will make a tisane for you. Something to warm the blood.”

I struggled out of the blue shawl and various other bits and pieces and took a chair, grateful to be out of the wind. Miss Allenby rested her basket on the stone-flagged floor at her feet while our hostess busied herself with cups and saucers and little pots.

At length she joined us at the table. “Miss Ailith, black tea with a bit of raspberry leaf,” she said, passing her a tiny teapot. “Lady Julia, a tisane of borage.” I peeked into the pot and was enchanted to find a pale green decoction, spotted with just a few tiny, starry blue flowers.

“How lovely,” I said. Rosalie Smith gave me an enigmatic smile.

“All herbs have their purpose, lady. They can heal or kill, but one must know their secrets.”

The conversation seemed mildly sinister to me, and I glanced sharply at my harmless-looking tisane before changing the subject.

“I confess, Mrs. Smith, I am surprised to find a Romany living so settled a life. You are far removed from the road up here, are you not?”

Another might have taken offence at the question, but not Mrs. Smith. She merely gave me one of her inscrutable smiles and poured out her own cup of tea. Very strong and black, she took it with no sugar, straining the leaves through her teeth as I had so often seen the women of her people do.

“I am here because it suits me, lady,” she said, her tone friendly. “I have a purpose here. When it is served, I will rejoin my own folk.”

“A purpose?” I sipped at the borage tisane. It was delicious. The flavour was light and reminded me of tea, but greener somehow, with a thread of something I could not quite place.

“Cucumber?” Mrs. Smith hazarded, watching me.

“Yes! It is quite refreshing,” I told her. She smiled again, clearly gratified.

“I make many tisanes, for many ailments. The villagers and farmers have learned to come to me for their troubles.”

“Are there no doctors? Not even in the village?”

Mrs. Smith shrugged, and Miss Allenby put down her cup. “There is one, but he is quite elderly. His hands tremble, and he is very often the worse for drink.”

“Besides,” put in Mrs. Smith, “the old ways are often the best, do you not agree, Lady Julia?”

I shrugged, thinking of Val’s enthusiasm for the latest advances. “They can be. I think there is much to be said for modern medicine as well.”

Mrs. Smith laughed. “You are a complicated woman, I think. You look with one eye to the past and another to a future you cannot yet see.”

“Doesn’t everyone?” I asked coolly. I was well-accustomed to the Gypsy tendency to make mystical pronouncements.

Mrs. Smith turned to Ailith Allenby. “How does your lady mother?”

“Better, thank you. She asked me to fetch more of the ointment for her joints and more of the meadowsweet and liquorice tea. Her hands have been troubling her of late.”

Mrs. Smith nodded. “I will send along some quince jelly as well. Tell her to take a spoonful every day. And you will take her some fresh peppermint from the garden. Steep a handful in hot water and tell her to sip it slowly. It will stimulate the appetite.” She cast an eye over Ailith’s slender figure. “Drink a cup yourself. You will not last out another winter if you do not put meat upon those bones.”

To my surprise, Miss Allenby did not seem to resent the observation. She merely smiled and sipped at her tea. Just then there was a scratching at the door and a low, pitiful moan. I started, but Mrs. Smith waved me to my chair with a laugh.

“‘Tis only Rook,” she said, opening the door to admit a white lurcher. He was thin, with sorrowful eyes and a clutch of long, pretty feathers in his mouth.

“What have you brought me, little one? A fat pheasant for the pot?”

He dropped it and gave her a worshipful stare. She patted him and waved him toward the fire. He stretched out before the hearth, giving a contented sigh as he settled onto the warm stones.

Mrs. Smith put her prise into a basin and laid it aside.

“I will clean it later. Perhaps your ladyship would like the feathers for a hat?” she added hopefully.

They were lovely feathers, and I knew she would haggle tirelessly over the price.

“That’s quite illegal, you know,” Miss Allenby commented, nodding toward the basin. “That dog is a poacher.”

Mrs. Smith roared with laughter, holding a hand to her side. “Bless you, lady, of course he is! All Gypsy dogs know the value of a fat bird. He was of no use to my husband because he is white, but he suits me well enough.”

I had heard before that the Roma never kept white dogs as they were too easily detected when they were thieving, but I was more interested in the other little titbit Mrs. Smith had revealed.

“Your husband? Does he travel then?”

“Aye, lady. He travels with our family, but I keep a place for him here when the caravans come this way. That is his violin,” she said, nodding toward the instrument on the little table. “And the bed is wide enough for two.”

She roared with laughter again while Miss Allenby and I looked politely away. Had it not been for Miss Allenby’s company, I might have joined in her laughter. I had always had an affinity for such women—comfortable and at ease in their own skin—and I had known a few of them. My father’s particular friend, Madame de Bellefleur, and Minna’s own mother, Mrs. Birch, came to mind. But Miss Allenby was cool to the point of primness and I did not like to shock her.