Shakespeare's Witch

By Jodee Steffensen

In a world of treacherous glory, three friends must test their loyalty. One is destined to lead his country, one to battle for England's soul, and one to preserve its magic. Beatrice, accused of witchcraft, escapes fiery death with the help of a handsome stranger, the Earl of Southampton. Can she keep him from betraying their friend, William Shakespeare, the leader of the Papist revolt? Can a friendship endure when both men are in love with the same woman? Based on researched historical events and Shakespeare's works, this story weaves a great romance with the critical religious conflict that underscored England during the Elizabethan period.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jodee Steffensen
• Release date: Sep 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311171979

Jodee Steffensen

Jodee Steffensen has been a story teller all her life, regaling siblings with stories of mythical beings on stormy afternoons. She was also notorious for forcing her parents to watch endless plays in the living room. She is particularly drawn to the slightly quirky in all things, especially in books and movies. She spent nine years as a Special Education teacher, which taught her to appreciate life outside of the box.She has lived in California, New York, Oklahoma, Washington, Idaho and Utah. She adores her two sons. She has recently remarried and her new husband brought with him ten more children and forty-six grandchildren! After an intense period of adjustment, she's decided her life is now rich beyond measure.She loves anything outdoors including swimming, biking, hiking, and gardening. She pursues acting as well as writing and is in the process of narrating her own audio books. She would love to travel the world, but is also happy cuddled up in front of a fire on a cold day.

Book preview

PART I

Never Quenching Fire

That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire.

W.S.

Never-Quenching Fire

Behold a great and ancient, noble land,

where fires consume dear relics of sacred thought.

Now ripped in twain by royal mother’s hand,

its sons and daughters in vengeful plots are caught.

Then see two daughters born of noble kin,

one snatched from home into an icy night,

And hidden, lost to all she might have been,

preserved to serve an undetermined fight.

A player makes his entrance on the stage

as trapped as she in fate’s mischievous schemes.

Deceit and danger trained, he must engage,

thus proving naught in life is as it seems.

A kingdom falls when those who rule contend.

Intolerance breeds hate we cannot mend.

i-Attacked

Edge of the ancient Forest of Arden,

Village of Addleton,

Warwickshire, England,

May, 1590

WITCH!

At first Beatrice Vernon didn’t hear the word. She was caught up with worry in her rush to reach Lady Russell.

Witch! The child-voices grew louder. Witch! Witch! Witch.

The rhythmic chanting jarred Beatrice to awareness. A knot formed in her stomach and her shoulders tensed. She hunched lower as she continued forward, quickening her pace and making her way around the bend. Agatha had warned her to ignore them when this happened again. Don’t turn around. Don’t encourage them.

Witch! Witch! Witch, they continued and they sped to keep up with her.

They’d never chased her before. She imagined what they might do if they caught her. At seventeen, Beatrice was a girl of average stature and the two older boys were tall for their twelve years, enough to tower over her.

Beatrice felt her face grow hot with humiliating fear. A chilling gust caught her hood and whipped it from her face. She snatched the edges and pulled them close as the wind tugged on her dark frayed cloak. In her haste, she nearly slipped on the muddy ice. Why don’t they stop? Why do they tease me?

Beatrice felt the sharp pain of impact as a stone slammed against her hip. She sucked in a breath, twisted round and blasted her assailants with a glare. The smallest of the three was lame and panicked, stumbling into a deep rut in the road. His two companions laughed with triumph and turned to run, but tripped over their fallen brother. All three scrambled to regain their footing as the ground began to shake.

The rumbling charged Beatrice with urgent strength and she raised her arms, holding the edges of her cape like a huge bat preparing to take flight. She screamed a high, harsh shriek that surprised both her and the fleeing boys.

The two boys successfully reached the other side of the road, leaving behind the lame one, who couldn’t gather his feet quickly enough to lift him from the danger.

Beatrice lunged forward, flapping and screeching until terror propelled the lame boy away from her. He pulled himself up and over the edge of the rut, then off the road just as Beatrice stepped back.

A carriage thundered past, pulled by two wide-eyed, heavily panting horses. The driver whipped the terrified animals frantically. As soon as it passed, the ground quaked again under the impact of a second set of pounding hooves. Two pursuing riders sped past.

Beatrice shielded herself against the flying mud as she turned away from the deafening noise.

As quickly as the chase was upon them, it passed, leaving a silence as profound as the crashing hooves.

The three boys gaped at Beatrice, who straightened to face them on the opposite side of the road. All four breathed in unison, their chests heaving as they stared at each other, sending misty puffs into the frigid air. Beatrice was sure her heart was pounding loudly enough for the three boys to hear. No one moved.

Then the grey clouds parted and the sun warmed her face with a single ray of light. She heard melting droplets of snow drip to the ground behind her, but she dared not move her eyes from the boys who still stood gaping at her.

It was impossible to tell whether the terror on their faces was from the near death of being crushed under the raging carriage or the unexpected charge of the girl who stood before them.

I’ll surely be known as a witch now. But what could she have done? Beatrice never ignored a premonition.

The hesitation ended. The two eldest boys yanked the youngest off his damaged leg and pulled him into the forest, leaving his fading screams behind.

Beatrice put her hand to her chest, and took a deep, deliberate breath to calm her trembling frame.

Are you a’right, Beatrice? called another girl standing at the bend of the road.

Beatrice hadn’t noticed her approach. She smiled and waved. All’s well. There’s no damage done. Her attempted laugh caught in her throat.

You could ‘a been killed! chastened the other as she walked toward Beatrice. Beatrice smiled at the sound of concern in her voice.

I’m fine, Katherine. Beatrice shrugged and picked her way through icy patches toward her, hoisting a soggy skirt above the muddy puddles as she went. ’Tis only the Jennings boys, she said lightly. She had midwifed with Grandmother at the youngest boy’s birth when she was aged twelve. Was that just five years ago? Fresh images came to her mind of cleaning bloody mucus off the squirming baby. Then she had swaddled him tightly to sooth his cries. She tried to suppress the memory of disposing of another sibling who hadn’t lived long enough to cry.

Katherine stopped a few paces away and stood looking at her oddly.

They’re only children, continued Beatrice, rubbing her hip gingerly. There would surely be a bruise. ‘Tis innocent fun, no doubt.

If word got round to the parents of the boys bullying, there might be retaliation. Best to keep it quiet.

How did you do it?

Beatrice looked at her questioningly. Do what?

The carriage. I didn’t see it come round the bend. How did you know?

I felt the ground, Beatrice replied, and I heard the sound of the hooves. She couldn’t share the dream that foretold the event. It was best to keep such things secret. You didn’t hear it coming?

Katherine looked at her silently, then broke her gaze and carefully stepped around her. They’d best be home, ‘tis sure, she said brusquely, helping to make ready for the journey.

Journey?

I heard the Jennings are evicted this week.

They must be devastated, Beatrice mused, half to herself. Another family forced to abandon life in the village. I wonder where they’ll go."

And aren’t we all devastated? returned Katherine without looking back as she continued her journey.

Beatrice hesitated to answer. Why did it feel so awkward to speak with a dear, childhood friend? She had the distinct feeling Katherine was leaving something important unsaid.

Are you well, Kath? she asked, hoping to prolong the conversation.

Better, answered Katherine. Thank you for asking, but I’ve chores to attend. She tossed the words off over her shoulder and Beatrice saw her hasten her stride.

I’ll be by tomorrow, Beatrice said. Her friend pulled her shawl tight, and trudged on around the bend.

Fare you well until then, called Beatrice, but the unheeded words faded in the crisp air. The growing knot in her stomach squeezed bile up her throat. She swallowed hard, shaking off the hurt and confusion as Katherine disappeared from sight.

There was no time to follow her and discover what was wrong. Lady Russell needed help and the afternoon was waning. Beatrice adjusted her hood, turned back toward her destination, and began again to find her steps through the slush-crusted ruts of the road. Addleton Manor was ahead at the edge of the forest.

Would Lord Russell pay her today? The shilling had been accrued over months of care. Lord Russell had promised it upon the Lady’s recovery, as if payment would increase Beatrice’s concern for her friend and benefactor.

A slight breeze brushed her cheek. She was grateful it lacked the bite of yesterday’s wind. Perhaps it would break the unexpected cold and finally loosen winter’s grip. The sun would soon begin its descent and Lady Russell would be in discomfort. Beatrice quickened her step, aggravating the sting from the stone’s blow to her hip. Winter’s desolation and the uncomfortable encounter with Katherine slipped from her mind as the huge manor loomed into view.

A full four stories high, the house towered above the ten foot stone wall that surrounded it. The prominent cross gables were worn with time, recalling a lost age of religious piety. The steep timber roof was covered over with moss, now thin and winter brown. A dozen chimneys rose to let loose the smoke from burning fires, tended by as many chambermaids to provide the wealthy with the luxury of constant heat. Many of the exterior walls gleamed with fresh white plaster.

Sir Russell was in the fifth year of renovation, slowly reclaiming a structure of grace and grandeur. Word in the village was that he hoped it would also secure his place among Britain’s noble circles. No one dared scoff at the idea that new money could buy status. But if it could, surely Sir Russell would have it, along with the coat-of-arms he’d applied for.

The graveled lane crunched under her feet as Beatrice passed through the massive iron gate. It stood open and rusting, the need for protection long passed. Beatrice proceeded to walk by the dormant gardens until she reached the courtyard where a single servant stood ready to guide visiting horses to the stables. He yawned, waved at her and smiled. It lifted Beatrice’s mood. Perhaps today would be the day of Lady Russell’s recovery.

The door opened in expectation and Beatrice entered the grand hall. She no longer needed to be guided past the family solar where Sir Russell kept his collection of swords and sabers. She climbed the stairs to the private chambers over the buttery where Lady Russell was now quartered. Though not as elaborately decorated as much of the house, the room boasted a huge window that overlooked the side gardens. Lady Russell preferred to rest in an imported Danish lounge chair and listen to the few birds chirping in the trees outside.

But she hadn’t had the strength to sit in the chair for days.

Beatrice entered and felt the nagging queasiness grip her insides again. Lady Russell’s maid, who rose from her vigil, avoided meeting Beatrice’s eyes. Instead, she motioned for the chamber maid, who gave the fire a final stir, then both servants slipped out of the room. The pitcher and washing bowl were already placed on the table near the bed. Beatrice curtseyed quickly and set down her pouch.

My Lady, she said softly, stroking the Lady’s placid face. I’m here.

The Lady murmured something indiscernible, but managed a weak smile encouraging Beatrice to begin. Sitting on the edge of the bed, Beatrice carefully wiped away the white paste from the ravaged skin.

I wish you wouldn’t paint, Lady, she said soothingly. Lady Russell winced from the pressure of her touch as Beatrice began the brutal scraping. The thick white paste, made popular by Queen Elizabeth, hardened throughout the day to become a cracking mask. The devoted maid servant that applied the makeup was never present to witness the prolonged process of removal. Only Beatrice knew the damage the expensive ceruse paint caused its wearer.

‘Tis expected, said Lady Russell. My Lord demands I follow fashion. She looked into Beatrice’s eyes. I dare not let him see me without the paint, Beatrice. My beauty is gone and I cannot bear to destroy the image he still carries of me.

But it pains you so when I remove it. Beatrice began applying the softened scented soap she’d made especially for this purpose, carefully blended during the summer when fresh herbs were plentiful. Its fragrance was a mixture of healing comfrey, soothing lavender oil, and yarrow to stop infection. The soap was cured for several months until it was smooth and mild. It was the only cleanser Lady Russell could tolerate.

Lady Russell hissed slightly as the scrubbing began, exposing her blackened teeth. Beatrice turned her head as the foul breath dissipated into the air. The process was agonizingly slow. When the skin was free of the last of the paint, Beatrice reached for the jar of cream. The Lady’s hand came up in protest, but she was unable to close her fingers around Beatrice’s wrist and instead batted at her arm.

Who are you? Stop hurting me! she whimpered.

I’m nearly done, Lady. Beatrice’s voice was barely above a whisper. ’Tis the balm you love." In spite of all of Beatrice’s new concoctions, the mysterious sickness had raged through Lady Russell’s body eventually attacking her mind. Lately, the Lady slipped away and didn’t recognize those closest to her.

Beatrice admired her benefactor. In the beginning of her decline, Lady Russell had managed to dress and paint daily, maintaining the image of beauty. Gradually, wigs covered her balding head, high fashions hid a withering body, and only Beatrice and selected servants witnessed the grayed and wrinkled woman who increasingly feared the evening’s dismantling.

The balm contained olive oil, aloe, mashed horse chestnuts, green walnut hulls and oil of rose. Its sweet aroma filled the air and relief smoothed the Lady’s tortured face as Beatrice tenderly massaged the ointment into her sensitive skin. Normally, when she was done, Beatrice sat quietly with Lady Russell until she fell into a deep sleep.

But not so on this night. The door burst open and Sir Russell barged in, his massive girth filling the room ominously, his face flush with determination and anger. He was closely followed by a tall, thin man dressed in a long black robe. Both men glowered at Beatrice, who instinctively shrank away as they approached.

Be gone, hag, Sir Russell growled. Your services are no longer needed.

=^-^=

A mile away, in a remote part of the ancient Forest of Arden, a cat slipped silently through the brush toward the strange commotion ahead. Bounding up an evergreen, he quickly found a high vantage point and settled on a comfortable perch far above his point of interest. A crow quietly joined on another branch, its eyes fixed on the noise and confusion below. Silently, both observed what was surely the most interesting event in the woods that day.

=^-^=

Henry Southampton lunged forward through the heavy brush of the forest floor. Sharp spears of broken tree limbs slashed at his leggings and sleeves. Bright red gashes and smeared blood soaked cream Parisian silk, but he forced himself to keep moving. The road to Addleton had to be up ahead. Surely he could get beyond the trees and progress would be easier.

Yet the road also presented danger. He stopped, clutching his head as another wave of pain seized him. The weight of it forced him to his knees, where he gasped for breath, trying to focus.

The girl. How long to the girl? The carriage would have found her within the hour, well before dusk. Henry prayed she was safe, her identity still hidden, his mission intact and his chance to prove himself still available. He struggled to his feet and stepped forward on the thawing ground. A branch caught his arm and pulled at the gaping shoulder wound. Infection would set in if he couldn’t dress it soon. He jammed his bare toe into a sharp rock and cursed the thieves that had made off with all of his weapons, purse and baggage. They’d even taken his boots. With no means to protect himself, or money for another carriage, it would be a long and treacherous walk to London. But that wasn’t the worst of it.

Conners! He called and winced as pain shot through his tightening chest. Conners, where are you, man? The vast forest was eerily silent but for his heavy breathing, devoid of any sign of his beloved manservant. He squinted, trying to sharpen his eyesight as he studied the narrow gaps between the trees.

Already they were swaying menacingly in the growing wind. Dark clouds hid any warming rays of sun and blackness threatened to overtake him. The huge monstrous shapes of lashing limbs whispered as if conspiring to whip his failing courage into submission. Henry hated the remoteness of the woods and its untamed nature.

As expected by those of his gender, Henry fought to control the internal wars threatening to consume him. Forced to choose between fear and anger, he preferred to let rage take hold. The attack was unexpected and unjust. It had cost him dearly in possessions and more in personal pain. Connor’s last words echoed through his head. How dare they treat the old man so brutally?!

The afternoon light was nearly extinguished. The search seemed hopeless. The late spring frost exposed him to further danger and his flimsy silk shirt offered little protection. He let the fury consume the pain and panic that threatened to claim him as he pushed through the impeding brush.

=^-^=

Beatrice groped her way down the long hall of the manor home and out into the brisk embrace of the twilight. Lord Russell’s words swarmed through her head like agitated wasps, too quick to catch, their relentless stinging overtaking all other thought. She didn’t react to the maid servant who dropped a feather duster as Beatrice charged past, nor the gardener that turned to watch her dart by. She was barely aware of the horse and carriage that stood waiting to transport the important doctor to some well-appointed lodge when his work with Lady Russell was completed. The driver dozed in the seat above the snorting horse.

There was no carriage waiting for Beatrice.

Beatrice’s mind replayed the previous few minutes repeatedly until it etched the awful scene into a memory sharp enough to cause her physical pain. The words came again, unbidden, quickly said and final. It didn’t help Beatrice to know they came from the agony of grief Sir Russell felt seeing his wife’s exposed and ravaged face. Lady Russell was dying. He’d suspected it for days and the vision of her withered face had obviously confirmed it. But it surprised Beatrice to learn he’d already arranged for the services of this doctor called Lopez.

Mr. Lopez will care for Lady Russell without further interference.

Please, my Lord, the Lady’s voice protested weakly. I need her.

My dear, he answered her, gently stroking her limp hand. I have procured a highly trained physician from London to heal you. He is just arrived and his abilities are known throughout England.

Beatrice remembered the haunted look on Lady Russell’s face as she peered up at the doctor, who stood lurking behind her husband. Her face twisted in panic and she searched the room for Beatrice. Please, Husband, she sobbed. Let Beatrice stay.

Beloved, I only want the best for you. I have gone to a great deal of trouble to convince Mr. Lopez to journey here.

Sir, Beatrice recalled offering him the jar of precious cream, I’ve prepared this balm especially for...

My Lady Russell, Mr. Lopez interrupted in a soft, silky voice. He pushed Beatrice’s extended arm aside. ‘Tis already very late to begin your treatment. I fear any delay may cost you dearly. Beatrice recalled hearing an accent she couldn’t identify.

Sir, please. Again, she put forth the jar.

I shall provide her with what she needs, he hissed sharply, stepping toward Beatrice. She stepped back until she stood cowering against the doorway. She managed to slip the cream into her skirt pocket. Mr. Lopez towered over her. His black cape exaggerated the intensity of his dark eyes and thick brows. For the sake of Lady Russell’s health, you are forthwith discharged. Please leave. His words betrayed a forced calm that terrified Beatrice with its assumed authority. He was a trained doctor. She was the village hag.

For the sake of Lady Russell’s health... The words replayed in her head as she rushed into the darkening night. Beatrice smeared away the tears clouding her sight. Her feet found the road at the end of the lane, but Beatrice turned away and chose, instead, a small path that led straight into the shelter of the thick forest.

The huge trees encircled her with outstretched limbs, protecting her from the growing wind. Their fading shadows hid her from prying eyes as the fragrance of moss covered pine and damp earth gave comfort, helping her sort through encroaching fears. Gaining strength in the embrace of her beloved woods, Beatrice moved forward with sureness. The growing storm reflected her churning thoughts, revealing to the world the conflict that raged inside her, as if drawing strength from her writhing passions while depleting the threatening shame she felt. The winds swirled round and about her, whispering words of courage, even as doubts pricked her conscience.

Was she the reason for Lady Russell’s pitiable decline?

ii-Lost

The high boughs twisted and crashed into each other, forcing the cat to descend. His claws gripped each limb as he carefully lowered his sleek body to the ground. The crow had already abandoned the show. Unfortunately, the stranger below had made little progress. Toward the bottom, the cat leaped gracefully to the soft forest floor. Other duties called him away.

=^-^=

Alone in complete darkness, he cursed the endless line of trees and eternal mass of snagging brush. His lungs burned and his breath came in short gasps. Henry stopped to reach out for the surface of the steep slope. He dragged a foot toward it, feeling for clearance, pulled his aching body forward and reached again. Thorned devil’s claw shredded the last of his stockings, leaving his feet naked and bleeding.

Henry fought to free himself of bracken and fern, then lunged toward an enormous trunk, clutching its rough bark to stabilize his position on the edge. Painfully working himself around it, he reached again for another handhold. It was impossible to move more than a foot ahead without becoming entangled. But stopping invited death in the frosty cold of the oncoming night.

The birds had long stopped their song and settled in to wait out the storm. Even the owls had given up their nightly reports. Henry heard the alarming howls of wolves calling out to each other. What other wild beasts filled these woods? Smeared with blood as he was, Henry knew enough of hunting to realize he was attractive bait. How could he protect himself? How could he continue forward in such blackness?

Henry pressed ahead until he caught a toe and fell to his knees. Drained of strength, he slumped to the ground admitting defeat. He could go no further until morning. Desperate, he scraped sharp pine needles into a heap until his hands were numbed and bleeding. In agony, he rolled his body onto the pile and shoveled what he could over his aching feet. A few fallen pine boughs provided cover against the storm.

A wilted ruff covered the nape of his neck but offered little warmth. The oozing blood soon cooled and robbed him of body heat. He crossed his arms and burrowed further into the decaying debris of the forest floor. The thought occurred to him that the scent of pine and dirt might mask the smell of blood and sweat that would draw wild animals. It also occurred to him that, if he was discovered, death would at least come quickly.

It was essential he stay alert in case an attack occurred and so he battled against sleep. And though he never chose to surrender to unconsciousness, ultimately he was forced to slip into it, wet, cold and exhausted.

=^-^=

Beatrice continued her journey down the familiar path, pulling her cloak tightly around her. The growing intensity of the winds promised to deliver another storm, but Beatrice could feel the promise of returning spring in the quickening air. Tonight would be warmer.

The doctor’s words and the nagging worry of responsibility for Lady Russell’s condition combined with the realization that Sir Russell’s shilling was lost. Any chance of purchasing food and supplies was also lost. She and grandfather were facing starvation, assuming Grandfather was still alive. He’d been alone for most of the day. The fire would be gone and their small hut cold.

She needed to hurry.

Night had claimed the forest. No longer able to see her way, Beatrice stopped at a great oak that hugged the path. She pressed her back into its trunk, clasped the crystal at her neck, closed her eyes and took a deep breath of the turbulent air. When she could feel the shape of the trees around her, hear the sounds of the wind echo from their trunks, she let herself move again.

Have I done something to offend God? The thoughts pounded through her mind. Is this a sign of punishment? Are my talents taken away? What was the offense? A missed prayer? A neglected offering?

Beatrice arrived at the door, out of breath and anxious. She shoved it open, filled her lungs and stepped into the tiny room. She’d never gotten used to the foul stench of urine soaked linens and it confirmed her worst fears. She’d been away too long. Grandfather needed immediate care.

The old man slept in a simple cot pulled as close to the fire pit as possible. A black and white cat nestled against his neck. He meowed in greeting as he watched Beatrice feel the damp cold sheets. After briefly patting the cat’s head, she began her routine.

Her first duty was to kindle the fire so she could warm the water. She pushed aside the racks of cloth drying near the hearth. She tossed a handful of dry moss onto the slightly glowing embers. It caught quickly and she nurtured the first sign of flame with twigs and pine cones until the fire was strong enough to support the weight of larger chunks of wood. A delicious heat filled the room. She pushed the iron rod forward until the pot hung directly over the reddest coals.

Next, Beatrice turned toward her patient. Thank you for keeping him warm, she said as she lifted the cat from its place. Gently rolling the old man to his side, she removed the thin, wet sheet beneath him. Using the warming water, she carefully wiped and dried his frail body and then replaced the sheet with fresh linen pulled from the drying rack. Careful to adjust his position, she pulled the rough blanket to his chin.

A second pot contained a bit of pottage left over from the morning meal. Beatrice held a spoonful to Grandfather’s lips, which refused to part and the soup liquid dribbled down his chin. Sighing, Beatrice replaced the spoon and wiped his face, searching his features for signs of life. His breathing was barely discernible.

The cat rose from his place on the floor, yawned as he stretched, and hopped onto the bed. Beatrice scratched his ear lovingly and he circled. He pressed his lean body against her fingers each time he passed until, purring, he dropped onto the old man’s shoulder.

Beatrice sat with them on the cot and felt the ache of exhaustion overwhelm her. The wood needed to be replenished, the dried clothes folded and stored, and the wet bedding put outside for tomorrow’s wash. But most of her chores would wait. Grandfather’s condition remained hopeless, and the day’s events haunted her. She dropped her head onto the pillow and lifted her weary legs to rest against the silent figure while stroking the cat’s soft fur.

I’ve been forbidden to see Lady Russell, Alfred, she confided to the animal. Her words hung in the air and, having at last been released, pressed her with the reality of the event. The vision of Lady Russell’s pleading eyes teased out her despair and tears fell freely to the pillow. She stretched her arms to encircle both the old man and her pet, letting the pain escape in wrenching sobs. The cat rested his paw on her shoulder.

They brought in a trained doctor. Her voice emphasized the word ‘trained’ and Alfred pitched his ears forward curiously. They called me witch and hit me with a rock. The final words erupted with a soft keening wail. Her body convulsed slightly and she forced out a long lamenting groan as she brought a hand to cover her face.

The cat listened as his mistress sobbed.

In time Beatrice sniffled and wiped her nose with her sleeve. Her eyes and face felt wet and raw and her head pulsated from the release of anguish. She rested for a moment in silence.

Listening.

Waiting.

Thinking.

How many books must you read before you’re ‘trained’? She reached for a volume of poetry that rested on the floor next to the cot and thumbed through its worn pages. Is university the only source for learning?

As if to answer, the animal purred more loudly. Beatrice set the book aside and pulled him into her arms where she could scratch behind his ears. The tears had helped. Her mind was as drained as she felt.

In time, Beatrice rose to stir the coals and toss in the last of the kindling to encourage the flame. There’s knowledge that books don’t contain, she continued, stoking the fires of her self-worth with the logic of her argument. What makes formal schooling superior to the knowledge my grandparents or Agatha spent years giving me?

She sighed and held her hands toward the strengthening firelight. Her voice lowered to a whisper. Lady Russell promised to take me to London, dress me in fine clothes and present me to the Queen.

She looked at her worn fingers. Before her death, Grandmother would chide Beatrice, insisting she keep her hands soft, her voice and demeanor gentle. Together they practiced the high social arts. Grandmother also promised Beatrice they would one day rejoin society and claim a wealthy husband for her, one who would call her beautiful and love her truly. All that seemed wasteful now.

Silly dream, wasn’t it, pet? she said, freeing her hair from the wrap. Silly me for thinking I might become a fine lady. But, oh how I will miss the dream. She massaged her scalp and fluffed her hair. And I will miss the beautiful Lady Russell.

The sound of spent wood falling onto the bed of glowing coals called her attention. The temperature outside was warmer than last night, but still cold enough to require a fire that would last while they slept.

We need more wood, she said, reluctantly reaching for her cape. She lifted the latch, and the force of the wind pushed the door toward her. Alfred jumped up and burst through the opening before Beatrice could stop him. She groaned.

Alfred, come back! It’s too cold, she shouted as she stepped out, pulling the door shut behind her.

The moon was large and full as it climbed above the tree line. Tenderly, Beatrice removed her beads and laid them carefully on a stone rock by the door. Then she quickly gathered wood from the pile. Alfred!

She stared into the empty blackness as she fumbled with as much wood as she could carry. Disappointment turned to irritation as she pulled the latch and held the door open longer than was prudent. Where did he go? He usually did as she asked.

The hut was losing heat. Don’t stay out too late! You’ll freeze. She searched the dark, bracing herself against the storm. I’ll freeze, she murmured and stepped back to close the door.

She dropped the pile of wood next to the fire and tossed in two good sized pieces.

She laid down her cape and tugged at her bodice ties to make ready for bed. Soon she was free of all but her shift and, barely able to move, she tumbled onto the cot. The worn quilt provided some protection as she held Grandfather against her body, but she wished Alfred were there to warm them. She wished she could heal Lady Russell, set the day right and return the lost dream of hope. She wished Grandfather would recover. She wished …

Before the thought could form in her brain, she drifted to sleep. That night, Beatrice dreamt of cold and wet, and raging storms, of trees that swayed and crashed against each other, of cold that penetrated to the bone and of oozing blood smeared on cream colored silk.

iii-Search

The first thing Henry felt was his aching body. His hips twisted over something hard that pressed into his back. His limbs were numb and he felt agonizing cold - except for something soft and warm on his chest. The comforting heat of it reminded him of the fur edged cape he’d purchased from Belgium last month. He reached for an edge to pull it to his shoulder. But as he moved, it moved. And then it stretched. And then it inserted a claw into his neck just below his ear.

He screamed and pushed it away, scrambling to rise, but tumbling onto his rear. He stared at the black and white creature before him as his chest heaved.

Where was he? He looked around. Oh yes, the blasted forest. Memories flooded back. The animal hissed, arched its back, and stared at him with strangely expectant copper eyes. Where was Conners? The memory of yesterday’s attack exploded into his head.

Shoooo! Henry bolted upright and waved at it as he clambered unsteadily to his feet. His legs tingled and refused to support him, forcing him to reach for a limb. Precariously balanced, he looked around. Predawn light was morphing the dark shapes of the forest into verdant green. Trees stretched as far as he could see and there was no sign of the road.

The cat turned and sauntered away, tail held straight up and its black tip curled.

As he watched it, Henry considered his options. He could remain in place and eventually die of starvation. He could continue his aimless course through uncertain territory and probably eventually die of starvation. Or he could follow the animal. He reasoned that if it belonged to someone, it might lead him out of the endless woods, perhaps lead him to someone who could provide him with breakfast. Following the thing was probably his best hope and so he stepped forward carefully, trying not to irritate yesterday’s wounds to his feet. The growls coming from his empty belly equaled the pounding throb of his shoulder’s gash.

Conners! Can you hear me? He called out. The animal glanced back at him, as if irritated by the disturbance. It leaped over the top of a fallen log. Cursing the thieves that had jeopardized his mission, the woman upon whom it depended, and now this new impediment, Henry pulled himself slowly up the slimy wood, then fell in a heap on the other side.

He landed on a trail, distinct and clear. The cat was sitting just ahead as if waiting patiently. As he walked through the forest, the movement warmed him and lessened the pain. If only the dizziness would subside.

A single bird began to sing. Another answered and a third joined. Their song marked the progress of the growing light. Henry would normally have considered it a merry sound. But on this morning he listened grimly, still hoping to isolate sounds of his lost man.

For the next while, the cat seemed content to walk ahead at a leisurely pace, allowing Henry to follow. Then its gait changed abruptly and it dashed out of sight, leaving him suddenly alone. The bird song stopped, except for a single crow disturbing the air with its caw. Henry pondered his situation. Will the trail never end? Am I heading out of the forest or further into it?

Eventually, the path faded against a steep incline. Henry braced himself and threw himself against the bank. Hoping to use his momentum to carry him up, he scrambled up against the sagging soil, digging his bare feet into the chilled earth, searching for purchase against occasional clumps of rooted ferns. At last, he pulled himself to the top and stood.

The road stretched out before him.

=^-^=

Beatrice woke up with a start. It took a second to orient herself in the aftermath of a very strange dream. What was it about? Blood drenched silk? The thing fluttered out of her head before she could capture more than a wisp of memory. She recalled running, sliding, and endless forest - and Alfred. Familiar things, all, but unsettling. Her eyes focused on the room and the cracks of light shooting between the wall boards. She’d overslept.

Where was Alfred?

She rubbed the throbbing ache in between her neck and shoulder. Only a few coals remained in the fire pit. Grandfather slept peacefully beside her, unchanged from last night. She forced herself out of bed and tucked the blanket around the still sleeping body. Carefully she scooped old ashes from the pit and added them to the ash pot next to the hearth. Pleased to see how much ash she’d collected over the frigid winter, she hoped the weather would warm enough so she could begin leeching lye for her spring soap. Perhaps she’d make enough money to purchase a goat this year. She tossed more kindling onto the fire, then another log, and poked the coals until flame appeared. She swung the cauldron over the fire to begin heating leftover pottage.

Grandfather’s hands felt icy. A shiver went through her as she pulled them to her lips, warming them with her breath until a thump at the door drew her attention. She rose and threw open the latch. Alfred charged in.

Where were you all night? Beatrice demanded, reaching for her beads on the stone outside the door. The cat meowed and paced in a circle around the room. There’s nothing you’d like this morning, pet. You’ll have to fend for yourself. Alfred preferred meat to the root vegetables that would break her fast. In truth, Beatrice could do with a little meat, too. But it wasn’t available.

As if to chastise her, the cat meowed loudly. He turned indifferently, holding his tail straight up, and hopped onto his spot by Grandfather’s shoulder. As he settled in, Beatrice shook her head, wondering what caused his odd behavior.

When she checked Grandfather more closely, she realized the bedding wasn’t as wet as it should be. It meant less work that morning, but it also meant Grandfather was dying. Of that she was sure. She’d seen enough of death to know it. Her grandfather’s death would be the end of her past. Her thoughts returned to Lady Russell, whose death would be the end of her future.

I can’t dwell on that now.

The morning’s routine continued with replenishing the fire. Grandfather remained motionless. He was typically unable to eat or drink early in the morning. Instead, she changed his bedding, tunic and her own nightgown. She was always glad to strip herself of the damp garment. Then she hauled water from the tributary several rods from the house and built a fire in the outdoor pit to make ready for the wash. Linen was precious and they’d not been able to afford much of a supply in the last year or two. That meant she had to wash the soiled laundry each morning to be sure Grandfather had enough. Whenever possible, she kept the fire blazing inside to dry the cloth through the day. Then she transferred several coals outdoors where she began a second fire.

After several trips to the stream Beatrice had the larger cauldron filled and ready for the wash. She carefully sliced soap into the boiling water, wondering where she would find enough fat to replenish her dwindling supply. The chunks of soap slowly melted and