North Side of the Tree
Sequel to Raider’s Tide. The continuation of Beatrice and Robert’s story, historical drama set in 16th Century border country.In Raider’s Tide, Beatrice, a sixteen-year-old English girl, saves Robert a Scot from death. She has risked her own life, by helping the enemy but in turn is rescued by John, the local pastor. After nearly drowning, and with Robert gone, Beatrice finds it difficult to settle back into everyday life. She starts to learn healing with the Cockleshell Man but is too distraught to concentrate well. A quarrel with her father results in her leaving home to stay at the Parsonage out father’s way. There, her relationship with John deepens and they become betrothed. Meanwhile several captured Scots are imprisoned in the infamous dungeons of Lancaster Castle. Robert is among them – he did not make it across the brder. The prisoners are almost certain to be hanged after their trials at the Lent Assizes. Beatrice makes repeated attempts to free him, but nothing works and Robert is condemned to die. In desperation Beatrice plots with some travelling players to rescue Robert and in doing so, she jeapordises her relationship with John and narrowly escapes being thrown into jail herself. In saving Robert, Beatrice has become a fugitive from the law herself… and Scotland is the only place she can go.
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North Side of the Tree
MAGGIE PRINCE
For Chris, always
In transposing Beatrice’s story into modern English,the tone and content of her original narrativehave been preserved throughout,and her exact words wherever possible.
It is the late 1500s. Queen Elizabeth I is on the throne of England…
Contents
I walk the Old Corpse Road again. In the dawn light the woods are full of birdsong and the waking voices of sheep. Around me, oak and hazel trees are turning to red and gold and ruin.
I am on my way to visit my sister who is living at Wraithwaite Parsonage in order to avoid being killed by my father. I move carefully amongst the trees, because this is the way he may be coming home, tired and edgy from a night’s robbery on The King’s Strete, some miles to the east of us.
I do not wish to meet my father, but I am not in a position to criticise him, because I too have a secret. I am a traitor. Three people know it, and their silence is all that stands between me and being burnt at the stake.
I reach the rockface that makes the Old Corpse Road such a quick but difficult short-cut to our neighbouring village, and climb the steps cut into it, breathing in the earthy smells of autumn. Stunted yews and clumps of heather grow out of clefts in the limestone, and I hold on to them to haul myself up. At the top I nearly collapse with fright. Two strange men are asleep amongst the roots of a beech tree, perilously close to the edge of the escarpment. They have swords and axes at their sides. I tiptoe past them. These must be some of the men who walked from all over the district to march on Scotland with my father. Last spring we were raided by Scots, as we often are in this part of the country. Our men were to have raided them back, but this has now been put off until next spring, since our enemies have been forewarned by a fugitive Scot who hid for months in a hermit’s cottage in the woods, and discovered our plans.
Oh Robert, where are you now? Are you safe? You may be gone from here, but I wish very much that you could be gone from my mind too.
As I set off through the thinning trees, on to the heathland which surrounds Wraithwaite, I glance back at the two men and silently wish them well. I’m glad this raid has been abandoned, and that they do not have to go to war. Maybe the raid on Scotland will be forgotten altogether now. With Robert gone, and all the preparations for winter needing to be made, anti-Scottish feeling along the border is dying down.
I pass the first cottages along the track to Wraithwaite. A woman is hanging out her washing. We call, “Good morrow, mistress,” to each other, and she glances at the sky and adds, “I’m tempting fate. It’s going to rain.”
A flurry of wind blows the fallen leaves into a spiral ahead of me, and I nod in agreement. “You’re right, mistress.”
Sometimes, relief just washes over me. Little exchanges like this feel such a luxury, after being on the wrong side of the law for so long. I can pretend to be a respectable member of the community again, working the family farm, preparing to become betrothed to Cousin Hugh. Robert is gone. He wasn’t caught, and neither was I. My narrow escape makes me want to be very, very good indeed, even to the extent of marrying Hugh, my childhood playmate, as is expected of me, no matter how ludicrous it might feel.
The parsonage stands on the far side of Wraithwaite Green. It is a beautiful stone house, but in poor repair. There is worm in its doorposts, and its roof slates are pushed out of kilter by tuffets of bright green moss. John Becker, our young and beautiful parson, was my teacher until I turned sixteen earlier this year. He knows my secret. He also saved me from drowning a month back. The warmth which once developed between us during long afternoons in a drowsy classroom has many a time teetered on the verge of becoming something more. I daren’t look too closely at my feelings for John Becker, if I am indeed to redeem myself by marrying Hugh.
I walk up to the front of the house. Over the door, carved into the lintel, are the words Truth and grace be tothis place. I can hear someone chopping wood behind the house, so when no one answers my knock, I walk round to the back. John is chopping logs. He is shirtless and in coarse woven breeches and leather jerkin. He looks most unlike a priest. He hasn’t seen me. I pull my cloak tightly round me and watch him swinging the axe at log after log, splitting them with the grace of long practice. The back of his neck is running with sweat. His dark curls look chaotic and unkempt.
