The Revels by Stacey Thomas

Author:Stacey Thomas [Thomas, Stacey]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: HarperCollinsPublishers
Published: 2023-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

Chapter Twenty-One

‘You do not belong here,’ remarks the tavern maid, her tone curious. She is a year or so younger than me, and places a jug of ale on the table. I sip and study the backdrop of Pendle Hill through the slight window in front of me. I am at liberty until we meet with the townspeople tomorrow. Last night I dreamt of Agnes, and of Pendle Hill, a gothic landmark, one that haunts the peripheral of my vision. I’d had enough and this morning over breakfast had decided to ride out to Pendle to cool my unease. I had stalked the hill’s skyline across bogs, breaking my journey with a small stop at a tavern in Barley.

‘Sir.’ The maid curtsies when she remembers her manners. She is small and dark-haired.

‘I am in the area on business, and have ventured here to see the hill,’ I divulge, and when she shows no interest in resuming her duties, I add: ‘I am from London.’ I peer again in the direction of the hill, until the girl shifts and blocks it from sight. I am grateful, as it shields me from the other patrons’ curious stares. I am plainly dressed but feel out of place in this worn-looking tavern frequented by the villagers.

‘London,’ she whispers to herself. ‘I have seen it in my dreams.’

‘I would not waste your time dreaming of it. It will steal your breath. It is too full and dirty.’

She frowns. ‘I had thought the only thing London would take from me is my purse. I did not think it would begrudge me the very air I breathe. I will dream of York instead. My father,’ she says of the innkeeper who keeps a subtle watch over us, ‘has family there.’

I smile. ‘I have just come from York. It far surpasses London.’

‘The place, or the people?’ she teases.

It is as though she can read my thoughts of Althamia on my face, and I flush and mutter, ‘Both.’

‘Are you lodging nearby?’ she asks.

‘I am a guest of Lord Carew.’

‘You are the witch-hunter!’ She says with a flinched look at the talisman at my neck.

‘My master is,’ I correct.

She backs away with a quick curtsy and hurries to whisper in her father’s ear before busying herself with attending to the customers on the opposite side of the tavern.

The flat top of the hill is again blotted out, this time by the innkeeper, who places himself in front of me.

‘My daughter tells me you are from London. I am Mr Wren, the owner.’

I incline my head and accept the tankard of ale he offers me.

‘It must be exciting to have lived near the King and Parliament’s men.’

‘I have seen the King, but at a distance. Though I regret the closest I have come to Fairfax or Cromwell is through the news-books.’

He nods and muses, ‘It is strange, but I feel as if I know these men. They have touched our lives, but it is doubtful men such as myself will ever touch theirs.

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