Chapter 28
28
It was September. The swallows had left for warmer climes, the nights were drawing in, and everyone was needed to bring in the harvests – womenfolk and children included. It was a time for the community to pull together. Marcus, for the first time in several years, was no longer tied to the house with the care of his wife, and had offered to help out at a neighbouring farmstead. The farmer, whose wheat fields bordered Greybourne lands, had lost his oldest son to pneumonia three years ago and his wife to a tumour the summer after that. Although not friends, the man had never given Marcus any trouble, and certainly never made accusations of witchcraft against Luna for his misfortunes, as those in the village itself had been prone to do.
The man was grateful for any assistance, and even more so when Luna had turned up to help. She was young and relatively fit, and decided that sitting at home alone, missing Marcus, was serving no useful purpose. So, when anticipated bad weather threatened to spoil the harvest, she decided to be brave and offer her services. Keeping her head low and avoiding conversation with the other labourers, she joined the women who were gathering the wheat up into sheaves, not once complaining of her aching limbs or the long hours. Some people avoided her, but on the whole, everyone was too busy to indulge in gossip or name-calling.
Marcus was engaged in the much more physical task of scything, and Luna couldn’t help but admire her strapping husband as he worked tirelessly to harvest the grain and beat the forecast rain. After a week of back-breaking work and very little sleep, the fields were scattered with drying sheaves, propped together in stooks, and the threatened downpours blessedly failed to arrive, much to everyone’s relief.
‘We have been invited to the harvest supper in Little Doubton,’ Marcus announced the Sunday after the harvest moon. ‘You helped to gather in the wheat so should be part of the celebrations. Despite our previous venture into the village ending in disaster, I would like to remind everyone of your face and offer further proof that you are no danger to anyone. Talk of your good work in the fields has spread, and the surprise avoidance of the storms has even been attributed to your presence.’ He rolled his eyes to demonstrate what he thought of such superstitious poppycock.
‘But many still think I’m a witch. Working in our neighbour’s fields is one thing, but to eat, drink and make merry with these people is quite the risk.’
‘I’ll protect you,’ he said, drawing her close. ‘I promise.’
The supper was held in a large barn three miles down the road from Ravenswood and, although the evenings were getting darker earlier and the temperatures were plummeting, it was a pleasant walk. But then, anything she undertook with Marcus was a joy. Just to be near him made her heart sing.
As they approached the bustling barn, the heat of the fire and the sounds of revelry hit them. They stood in the wide doorway and she could see thick garlands of hops, dotted with corn dolls, hanging from the walls, and small candles in glass jars placed in clusters, giving a soft orange light to the space. The food smells were mouth-watering, particularly the spit-roasted pig, which had clearly been cooking for several hours. Two men were lifting it down, ready to distribute it amongst the guests, and music filled the air from the ruddy-faced chap playing a fiddle in the back corner. A woman in a white apron, who was handing around jugs of ale, beckoned them in.
Central to the scene were two long tables made by balancing boards and large doors across trestles, with rows of benches either side. A group of farm labourers shuffled up and made room for them at one end. Marcus sat himself next to the lads to shield Luna from their coarse chatter.
She looked down the length of the table before her at the platters piled high with fruits and roasted vegetables, and loaves baked into the shape of wheatsheaves sat next to pats of rich golden butter. The Greybourne lands were not arable, being largely woodland, but Mr Webber and Oscar had gathered a large basket of hazelnuts and Marcus handed them to a passing serving lad to be added to the feast.
As the fiddler played on and the chatter increased in volume, possibly due to the consumption of the ale, Luna allowed herself to relax. She belatedly noticed the Webbers were present, although not sitting together. Instead, Jed was paying an undue amount of attention to the woman sitting across from him. Perhaps she was one of the ‘pastures new’ Mr Webber was exploring in his reckless unfaithfulness.
Salutations were drunk to ‘the maiden’ – the last sheaf of corn standing – and then everyone was invited to eat. A cacophony of noise and clanking cutlery ensued. Marcus engaged with the men next to him from time to time, but spent much of the meal focused on his wife and her well-being. When everyone had eaten their fill, there was a request for help to clear and move the tables to ready the space for dancing, and Luna stood in the shadows, happy to watch the spinning revellers. The evening had passed without incident, and she didn’t want to draw attention to herself by cavorting around the barn.
A small child careered into her, and Marcus told her he belonged to the woman who had so captured Webber’s attentions earlier. A widow, who apparently lived out the other side of the woods, and still managed to produce offspring every couple of years, even though she remained husbandless. Luna then noticed her own husband’s jaw clench as a tall man with a shock of red unruly hair and a long, thin face approached them.
‘It’s Doctor Gardener. You will be expected to remember him from when we first married,’ he prompted.
‘Mr Greybourne,’ the man said, holding out his hand. ‘You are looking remarkably well, dear fellow. I was quite worried about you the last time we spoke so I am heartily glad to see you much improved.’
The two gentlemen shook hands.
‘And who do we have here?’ He turned to Luna.
‘Do you not remember my wife, Doctor? I appreciate it has been a few years since you examined her but she cannot have altered so very much.’ He was challenging the man to contradict him and there were tell-tale signs of his anxiety. The men exchanged a look before the doctor turned his attention fully towards her.
There was a beat before he replied. ‘Ah, yes, I understand you favour the treatments offered by Mr Findlay. Is it him we have to thank for your remarkable recovery? It is like looking at a new woman.’ He was not fooled for a moment and she could not bring herself to answer, as the man turned back to her husband. ‘Mr Findlay continues to confound me with his alternative cures and, although I am aware of the healing properties of many of his herbal remedies, he clouds the issue with his white magic. Jovial fellow for all that, and he’s had remarkable success with the dairy farmer’s tumour. But I’m a man of science, Mr Greybourne, as you know, and struggle with the idea that chanting a few mystical words can have any effect on a person’s health.’
‘That is something I wholeheartedly agree with,’ her husband replied.
‘Is praying to God so very different?’ Luna dared to voice. She knew Mr Findlay had used magic to heal her ankle and would not have the man unfairly maligned. Despite Marcus’s prejudice, she still suspected there might come a time when they would be glad of his services. Dark things were on the horizon and they would be in desperate need of the light. She was increasingly convinced that Luna Greybourne was haunting her; the face in the window, the words in the dust, the sounds in the attics – even the woman running from the house. She thought it had been a real person but all she’d seen was a flash of green cloak disappear into the woods. If the woman wished her harm – the prophecy in the wardrobe still on her mind – Mr Findlay might be the only person who could keep her safe.
‘My husband insists that magic is only real if you believe in it,’ she continued, ‘so by that logic, I suggest that if someone tells you your malady will improve, and you truly believe them, it may indeed lead to an improvement in your condition. Is that not at the very core of our faith, after all? Something that is not tangible – God – but that has the power to make a tangible difference to our lives. We are all good Christians, I’m sure. We pray and our prayers are answered by an entity we don’t understand. The power of God is magic of a sort, so surely we can’t discount all magic. ’
Luna saw the vein in Marcus’s neck throb as he narrowed his eyes, becoming agitated. ‘Now is hardly the time to have a philosophical debate, my dear. Apologies, Doctor. My wife is not used to ale and we should be returning home. Darling, please fetch your shawl.’
Marcus gripped her elbow and gently propelled her towards the barn doors, remaining to finish his conversation with the doctor. Luna had not drunk ale, but didn’t mind. He was saving face and she had overstepped the mark. As she sifted through the pile of abandoned coats, she caught the end of their conversation. It was not an angry exchange, but both men were quite definite in their assertions.
‘Look here, Greybourne, you must be aware that as a man of science, I know that a twenty-eight-year-old woman cannot shrink several inches, nor can she change her eye colour. I am not one to seek out mischief, and you have been a good friend to me in years gone by, but as your so-called wife pointed out, I am also a man of God,’ the doctor continued. ‘I like and respect you enormously. I don’t know how you have managed over the last few years, and I admire the sacrifices you’ve made, but if I am asked to swear an oath on the Good Book, know that I will not commit perjury for you.’
‘I understand and would not ask otherwise. Equally, I will stand in a court of law and willingly proclaim that she is my wife of ten years, and only God will know the truth. Do excuse me. Luna is waiting.’
Marcus walked over to her and looped his arm through hers, waltzing her out of the barn. As she stepped into the night, a blinding pain shot through her eye to the back of her head. It only lasted a moment but it was enough to unsettle her, and was probably just a result of the tension with the doctor.
Although the evening had largely been a success, it was perfectly obvious that the villagers were split in their beliefs; the uneducated and more superstitious amongst them were convinced she was the Ravenswood Witch, responsible for all their misfortunes, from the failure of their butter to churn to the baby born with a withered arm. The more educated members of Little Doubton knew damn well she wasn’t who she claimed to be, and these were the people she worried about. How long before the tinker spoke up, or Doctor Gardener had words with the constable and rumours of her true identity began to circulate?