Chapter 15
THEN
In the days that followed Alice’s death, Meggie was terrified to leave her cottage.
When she was careless enough to let herself be seen, even briefly, people pointed at her and whispered about her.
Conversations stopped as she approached and continued as she hurried away.
Whispered curses about the Snow Witch followed her, making her cheeks flame red in shame and embarrassment.
Coventina’s Well was her escape, her sanctuary.
She prayed to the goddess, and asked for forgiveness over and over again.
She didn’t even have Emory to help her or to talk to or to hold her whilst she cried.
He was away on some sort of business up at Carlisle – something that his brother had decreed a ‘necessity’; Meggie was sure that it was more to remove him from the area whilst the problem of Alice was dealt with.
He’d been sent away as soon as Charles had made the request to Meggie.
Clearly, the problem was a little too close to home this time.
Alice had been a close friend of Emory’s as well.
Meg had tried to speak to Alice’s mother on countless occasions, to explain what had happened, but the door was always slammed in her face.
The last chance Meg felt she had to both pay her respects to Alice and to try to prove to Cecily that she, Meg, was not the murderer she thought she was, was at Alice’s funeral – despite Ellen’s warnings to stay away.
She hid behind the trees and watched, waiting until everyone was assembled in the church. She rammed her knuckles in her mouth to stifle her sobs as she saw Alice’s coffin be carried in: just a simple, wooden box, far too small it seemed to be carrying her dearest friend.
After the church doors shut behind the straggling cortege of villagers, Meggie stood there, trying to summon up the courage to creep inside.
Finally, sending a prayer to Coventina to help her have the strength to do so, she took hold of the polished door handle and turned it, slipping in during the service.
She sat down on the end of the back pew, her hands gripping the seat even as she thought her heart would pound out of her chest. She must have knocked the seat in front as she eased herself in, as a man sitting there turned around: one of the burly labourers who had worked with Ellen’s husband, Tam.
His face darkened as he realised who she was, and she shrank back, hoping beyond hope that he would not choose this moment to shout at her and accuse her of anything.
But worse than that, he turned and nudged the man next to him, who turned to face her as well. ‘Witches are not welcome in the Lord’s house,’ the second man hissed.
‘I am not—’
‘We all know what you did to Alice. She’s in yon coffin because of you.’
‘She is not—’
He did not let her finish. ‘If you do not leave here now, we will make you leave,’ he threatened. ‘Snow Witch.’ He spat the words out, making it sound like a curse.
His companions must have heard him, because within moments, there was a rumble of unrest and a group of men began to leave the pews, standing up and surrounding Meg where she sat. She shrank back, her fingernails digging into the wood.
‘Please – let me be. I shall go…’
‘You damn well will,’ growled one of the men. He grabbed her arm and pulled her out of the pew. Meggie gasped, shaking her arm, trying to free herself, but then another man took her other arm, and between the pair of them, they began to manhandle her out of the building.
She opened her mouth to speak, to protest, to plead her innocence, and one of them tried to clamp his hand over her mouth.
‘You will not curse me,’ he snarled. ‘I heard how you tried to hex those women when you killed Alice— Ouch, you bitch!’ he yelled as she bit him.
‘You have assaulted me in a church!’ Angrily, he threw a punch at her, cracking her right across the cheekbone, which made her see stars, while the other man pinned her arms against her side, digging into her flesh with his fingers as they forced her to the door.
By now the whole congregation had turned to see what the commotion was. Meggie was aware of the priest shouting at her, saying something about Pagan ungodly wretches darkening His door, and Cecily was wailing, being comforted by the women beside her, clearly still blaming Meg for Alice’s death.
Two more men pushed and shoved Meggie outside, slamming the heavy wooden door on her as they threw her to the ground and left her crying and shaking in the snow.
Her ankle had twisted painfully beneath her and she had landed heavily on her side, pain shooting up her body and jarring her hip, making her gasp with pain and clutch her stomach, praying desperately that the babe would stay safe.
She used the gravestones and the walls to lean on for support as she tried to get to her feet, but then she had to try to get home across the empty fields.
It took all of her strength and willpower to stand up.
Meggie was a small woman, slender in build; it did not need four men to force her out of the church. Yet the men had seemed to enjoy it; to enjoy touching her and hurting her and abusing her.
She could smell them on her skin for hours; feel their fingers gripping into her flesh and taste the hand that had covered her mouth.
And there was Ellen, three rows from the front, piously putting her head down and clasping her hands together in prayer as she, Meggie, looked helplessly around, her muffled screams begging for someone to stop the thugs.
Ellen was presumably thanking God it wasn’t her body at the front of the church, lying in the simple pine coffin by the altar.
Once outside the stone boundary wall of the church, Meggie’s ankle gave way again, and she slid to the ground howling uncontrollably, cradling her belly and praying again for the child within her.
She realised again, through her own pain, that it wasn’t one life that had been taken with Alice’s death; it was two.
And Charles Milburn was living in blissful denial of this. He knew Alice was dead, of course he did. But Meggie was certain he didn’t care one way or another.