Hosts of Rebecca by Alexander Cordell

Author:Alexander Cordell [Cordell, Alexander]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Hodder & Stoughton
Published: 2014-08-06T23:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER 15

AS A MOTH on a pin Tom the Faith fluttered, and a month went by and my mother made no move to stem the bleeding heart. Then Waldo Rees Bailiff tried her, and Morfydd slipped with a bucket of water, half drowning him, though what she was doing with a bucket on a window sill was anyone’s guess. Terrible to see poor Tom, though – mooning around the lanes, hand-wringing on the doorstep, never within yards of Black Boar tavern, hangdog, drooping with lovelight in December.

These were the mornings of the frozen water butt; of ice-cold water freezing teeth in their sockets when you washed every morning in the grip of the frosted land. The snows came in beauty and the flaring bare arms of winter were all over dripping with icicles. The rivers were shouting again after the drought of summer, their music a thunder that bellowed at Cae White, and with Christmas upon us I thought of Him Who was born for us. I am not much one for religion but I believe in the Man, though I could never accept Him from the brushes of painters; soft-faced, doe-eyed, gentle as a baby. For great are His works, and wonderful. So the God I see is a man of strength, with a chest as a ship’s prow and ten feet tall. Seaweed for hair has He, seven fathoms deep are His eyes as green as the waves in anger, with a voice as the thunder.

I gave Him more thought as I went up to Tom Rhayader’s place that night for my third proper Rebecca meeting. The sky was lanterned over the crest of the hill where Toby Maudlin lived. Not very bright, was little Toby, but a good man with a vixen of a wife from Cardie, sharp as a needle and a tongue as a razor, and she raised lumps on Toby every Monday night regular when he went to Black Boar for his weekly pint. Light kissed the snow from his door as I passed, and I saw him creep out with his boots in his hand.

“Good evening, Toby Maudlin.”

“Good evening, Jethro Mortymer. Where you bound for?”

“Same place as you by the look of it. You joining?”

“Got a gate,” said Toby, lacing his boots.

“Damned lucky. I’ve got three and more every week.”

“Same up at Tom Rhayader’s place – you heard? Four if he works to St Clears. But he can still work to Carmarthen if he adds six miles though he’ll be paying out more for boots. Eh, these Trusts! The county’s gone mad.”

“Not as mad as you think, Toby. Speculation is the same whatever road it takes. They know what they’re doing.”

“There’s a queer old word. Speculation, is it? New words cropping up every minute. Is the toll money likely to go on road repairs, for instance – I’ve got Moses’ tablets on mine.”

“That is the excuse,” I answered. “But most of the money is for paying out the investors and we don’t get

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