Chapter Eight

England, 1897

A aron is reluctant to push his horse in the heat. This duty he has imposed on himself has waited a decade. A few hours further delay count for nothing, except now he is on his way he wishes to be done, finished. Whatever the outcome.

He has covered the few miles from home to return through Shrewsbury. Traffic filling the Welsh bridge slowed his pace across the river, and Aaron avoided any glances into the water, shutting his ears to siren songs. He has had enough of veiled words, whether spoken by river nymphs or old women whose milky eyes see too much of what may or may not be.

Fields of late green wheat, barley the colour of ripe limes, and the low thick leaves of potatoes lie beyond the hedges lining the road. Meadows where clouds of insects hover and butterflies glitter in the sun break the green-gold with yellow, purple, blue and red wildflowers.

Aaron travelled this country in his early journeys with Marianne, for it was here they began their wanderings seeking to use the skills Mother Lovell taught them – to cure a cough with tea brewed from dried dull-gold verbascum flowers, or to ease the pain of boils with a mush of the leaves. To offer willow bark as relief to the dying. Or, when asked, a potion of Lady’s Mantle to tempt a new love, or a muslin bag of dried feverfew to give inner strength and protection from the vagaries of fate. Hester wears such a charm, a new one every two or three years since the first Aaron gave her in the days she studied lore with him in the crumbling cottage above the river. She is due a new one soon. Aaron will make three, giving Ellen and Rose their own small protections.

To his left, the ivy and bramble-strangled ruin of Haughmond Abbey, surrounded by yellow stalks of wheat, warms its ancient bones. The soaring triangle of a great arch stretches for the heavens above the tangled growth, robust despite three hundred years of assault. The monks who prayed and studied there tended the sick with remedies distilled from nature, as Aaron and Marianne did. As he and Hester do. The monks doubtless prayed for inspiration and called on God to heal their patients. Aaron well appreciates the value of spirituality in this calling.

The sun has risen high enough in an azure sky to no longer cause him to squint into its glare. The heat seeps into his hat to warm his head, and soon he will need to rest, water himself and the horse, eat before moving on.

He counts himself fortunate to have the horse. He and Marianne had walked from village to village, Aaron carrying his Gladstone bag carefully packed with phials and small jars, stoppered and labelled, while Marianne bore their few clothes in a carpetbag. Farm labourers, herdsmen, cottagers subsisting on meagre plots, milkmaids and the like were their patients. They never ventured into cities, where the growing number of poor they might have helped was accompanied by a matching growth in scepticism in the old ways. Besides, Marianne complained of the stench of raw sewage running in open drains between the hastily built, crowded terraces, and Aaron had to agree. Their work was in the countryside.

Ahead, a handful of cottages with their Union Jack flags hanging limply bask in the sun behind a sign indicating this is Ercall Magna, population fifteen hundred souls. A substantial village, quiet in the midday heat except for the clang of the blacksmith’s hammer on his anvil. The blacksmith pauses at Aaron’s passing to glance through the open doorway. Aaron tips his hat, an acknowledgement. The man is stripped to the waist, his muscled chest and arms and his bearded face shiny with sweat. Not a good day to ply his trade.

Stone homes squat in gardens grown luxuriant in the season’s warmth. Glimpses of sun-bleached washing hang on lines behind them. To Aaron’s right, a square-towered church rests at the edge of the village, distanced from the humdrum of the houses and such commerce as exists.

A church is of no use to Aaron today. He is more interested in the inn sign hanging out over the road. Riding through an archway leading to an inner courtyard and stables, Aaron tugs gently at the reins and dismounts. A stable lad ambles from a shady corner holding a heel of bread. Aaron has disturbed the boy at his noon meal. A penny smooths the transaction, and the horse is led away to be watered.

Aaron makes his way to the back entrance, walks along a narrow flagged passage and into a wooden-floored room set with mismatched tables and chairs and an unlit fireplace wide enough to hold a small tree.

Two farm labourers occupy a table. Empty plates rest before them, along with tall clay mugs. They briefly note Aaron’s entrance and ignore him.

The shadowed coolness is welcome after the hot glare of the road, and Aaron sinks into a chair to await his host, who shortly bustles in. His round face is as shiny red with sweat as the blacksmith’s, but more animated. He is full of apologies for keeping Aaron waiting, other things on his mind, the menu is limited today, cold foods, his wife the cook being occupied elsewhere – said with a frown towards a closed door near the main entrance to the inn. Bread and ham with a wedge of cheese is what is on offer, and what would sir wish to drink on this baking day? All the time his dark eyes flick to the door.

Aaron insists the humble offering is perfectly satisfactory. Hunger and thirst prevent him asking what worries his host, for anxiety radiates from the man as surely as heat from the midsummer sun.

The door which the innkeeper constantly observes bangs open with a ferocity which has the four men startle and stare towards it. A woman stumbles into the room and runs to the innkeeper, hands clasped to her chest, mouth quivering and eyes glistening. Her slim body trembles. The pins in her hair have largely lost their battle to keep her thick brown locks in place.

Aaron rises from his chair, the legs grating loudly on the floorboards. He observes the woman’s distress with a professional calm.

‘He is dying, husband,’ the woman cries. ‘My child lies dying and there is no doctor to be found …’ She pushes into the innkeeper and sobs.

The man, unembarrassed, holds her. ‘Hush, hush,’ he murmurs into the lush nest of her hair. ‘We have guests.’ He sends a quick, pleading glance Aaron’s way. ‘Go back to the boy,’ he tells his wife. ‘I’ll come shortly.’ Holding her from him, the innkeeper frowns into her red, crumpled face. ‘Don’t give up, my love. Pray to God to let this pass, to restore our child. There is nothing else we can do.’ His voice catches on the last word.

The labourers clasp their mugs and eye each other mournfully.

‘I’m sorry to intrude,’ Aaron says. His pulse has quickened, every healing nerve on edge. ‘What ails the boy?’

‘Fever,’ the innkeeper says.

‘The worst of earaches,’ the woman says. She stares at Aaron with red-rimmed eyes, the colour of wild violets. Her long, black lashes are wet with tears. A beautiful woman in other circumstances.

Aaron addresses her gently, like he would an injured dog. ‘I have skill in healing,’ he says. ‘Although I cannot of course promise a cure.’ Not to her. To himself he promises, as he always does, he will do all in his power to help the child.

‘Sir, are you a doctor?’ The innkeeper appraises Aaron in this new light. His wife continues to stare.

‘No.’ Aaron says it simply. ‘I have different skills and have helped many over the years using nature’s remedies.’

The innkeeper grunts.

The woman ignores the grunt. ‘Are you, sir, one of the old cunning folk?’ she whispers.

She peers behind Aaron. What she seeks he has no idea. Hovering spirits, a black cat, his wizard’s cloak and staff?

‘You might say so if you wish.’ Aaron is faintly amused at the old term and impressed the woman knows it. These days, cunning folk, wise folk, are rare and hardly fashionable.

She squeezes the innkeeper’s arm, eyes on Aaron. ‘Let him come, see what he can do.’

The innkeeper scowls. ‘No quack will touch my son.’

‘No, no.’ The woman moves towards the door she came through, beckoning Aaron to follow. ‘We have nothing to lose, husband, except our son.’ She stops briefly, arms held out, palms up. ‘My own grandmother was one such as these. As a girl, I watched with wonder how she treated those who sought her out, curing them of whatever ills they suffered.’ She wags her finger at the innkeeper. ‘If this man is true, he is no quack.’ Reaching out to Aaron, she says, ‘Come and tell me if you can aid us. Please God you can.’

***

The afternoon is tipping into evening when Aaron leaves the inn. The worst of the heat is over, as is the worst of the boy’s fever. Yarrow tea from the roots he carries with him, a sponge bath of elderflower infusion, and lavender oil for an earache which was likely the source of the fever, cooled the child’s hot skin and alleviated his pain. Aaron left him sleeping under a thin sheet in a darkened room, with instructions for the mother for simple teas and oils she could make from her well stocked pantry to treat her young patient. The danger passed with the cure of the earache, a simple matter.

Humble pride raises Aaron’s spirits – at the boy’s cure, at the mother’s trembling smiles and choked thanks. An only child, a difficult birth, unable to have more, she confessed with a rosy blush. Every child is precious, Aaron said – his thoughts skipping to Rose – however many there are. She nodded to please him.

The innkeeper’s gratitude near matched his wife’s. ‘You must stay with us tonight,’ he said.

The woman said yes, he must, hands clasped in pleading. She wanted the comfort of Aaron’s presence until her child was truly well.

Aaron declined. The boy would recover fully. Besides, he had urgent business he must attend, he told them, and he could arrive at his destination this day if he hurried on immediately.

In truth, he will not reach Coppenhall by full night unless he gallops there. He intends, however, to make good progress by not wasting the hours of daylight left on this midsummer day. Aaron encourages the horse to a trot on the sparsely trafficked road and makes good time covering the miles to Newport. Late afternoon cools slightly into early evening, and wagons, riders and labourers returning from their work crowd the way.

His pace slowed, Aaron decides the day has been long enough, despite a heaviness of heart at the further delay. He will find an inn for the night, continue to Coppenhall tomorrow. Urgency prods at his gut, the jabs more piercing since Mother Lovell’s ambiguous farewell. He might tell himself one more day in ten years is neither here nor there. He doesn’t believe it, not any more.

To ease his heaviness, there is the matter of the child. He wants time to think on the contented fulfilment he has carried throughout the afternoon at being able to help the boy and his parents.

His reluctance to postpone his arrival is tempered by a delay attempting to cross the canal. An overturned wagon, a disgruntled horseman retracing his steps tells Aaron. It will be hours before the way is clear. Aaron wheels his mount and follows his informant, heading north. He vaguely recalls this road will meet one where he can turn south and regain his route.

He blinks, weary with the day’s travel and its mental demands. His parents, Mother Lovell and her obscure mutterings, the feverish child and his weeping mother play in his mind in a tangle of swelling emotions. His quiet joy at easing the boy’s suffering is subsumed by his aching muscles. An inn, a meal, a bed are what he needs.

The crossroad where Aaron will ride south lies in dusky shadows, overhung by an elderly oak. Aaron is about to follow the disgruntled horseman when a milestone sitting clear of the long grasses opposite snags his attention.

Eccleshall five miles , the stone says, on the road heading east.

The niggle of a memory tickles his tired brain. He frowns, rides closer to test if proximity will tempt the memory out. Nothing. Likely he and Marianne once visited Eccleshall, which is why the name is familiar.

Marianne. Aaron sits straighter in the saddle. Yes. Marianne. Born in Eccleshall , he hears her tell him. A bright, chill autumn day with red and gold leaves piled among the moss-covered tree roots, the two of them traipsing in the woods after Mother Lovell. They are in search of fungi for a lesson, the lesson being about whatever mushrooms or toadstools they collect. Marianne is in talkative mood, boasting about how she has seen much more of the world than poor Aaron, stuck forever in the same small town. Aaron didn’t mind, certain that at thirteen years of age he had ample time to experience the greater world.

Why Eccleshall? he had asked. Because it’s where Mother and Father come from, where they married, and had me . Marianne squatted to examine a red-topped mushroom, poking at it with a dirty fingernail . We moved when I was tiny, to Coppenhall, not far away . She grinned up at him. It’s how I remember the two names, because they both end in hall.

The horse shakes its mane and lifts its hooves, petulant, wanting to be on its way to food and water, or else be allowed to graze the dusty grass. Aaron quietens the animal with a soothing pat on the neck.

Five miles. An hour, if he doesn’t push the horse too hard. Aaron glances behind him. A white sun sits proud of the horizon against a clear, peach-pink sky darkening to orange. There is time. He sets the horse’s head east and urges the animal to a canter.