Aria Remains
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

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‘And how didst thee fair?’ Bridgette asked, waiting for William as he approached their house. ‘Wouldst they see thee strung from yonder tree as a madman?’

‘Hush,’ William said, raising his hand and returning her smile as he turned from the path. ‘Thou shall be furnishing all hereabouts with ideas as yet uncovered.’

Once inside, after he had urged his wife to sit, to rest for both her sake and that of their child, he poured two cups of weak ale and sat beside her.

‘For certain they must have met thee with great surprise,’ Bridgette said. ‘Not only the alacrity with which thou hast furnished fresh ground, but those ideas thou were to share, the thought that all shall be fair and equal.’

William nodded, his hand upon hers, taking another drink. He had yet to reveal to his wife the deal he had struck, the bargain he had made, and she had yet to visit the plot upon which they would be securing their new home. As far as Bridgette knew, he had managed to erect a few frames, had dug a shallow well, had completed the smallest fragment of what he actually had achieved.

‘Query how long before it shall be ready, did they?’ she asked.

He knew he must tell her, of course, and feared her response. The men with whom he had met and taken to the new plot had agreed that they would begin to make the transition over the course of the following few nights. They would travel under darkness, would take what few belongings they had, would start to prepare their new homes and would then, only on the very last night, the night after which they would never return, take their animals and larger tools and other equipment with them. Consequently, William knew that he must tell his wife the truth on this night. Although sworn to secrecy, having been told just how vital it was they all kept these plans to themselves, he was well aware that even if none of them accidentally said something they shouldn’t, still Bridgette would know, would notice something was different. She was an alert, observant, intelligent woman, qualities that, amongst others, William loved her for.

She could also, he knew well, be fierce when crossed.

William put down his cup and took a deep breath.

‘I must tell thee something,’ he began, taking her hand and looking into her eyes. ‘And thou must promise that no anger, no upset shall be dispatched until I be finished.’

Bridgette frowned, placed her own cup on the ground, taking a moment to balance it, and then studied him closely. Their marriage had seen several incidents wherein William would do something he considered the right thing but which would, through no real fault of his own, as Bridgette well knew, still result in there being some kind of a problem, nothing more than a minor issue but which she would decide should fall to her to settle. She was not, however, one to bear a grudge, to kindle the flames of argument once the fire of her response had been doused, the error corrected, yet she had come to learn that, whenever he admitted to having something he wanted to tell her, it brought to her a feeling of anxiety, of trepidation, and carried with it the likelihood that she would need, once more, to pacify or rectify or quantify the situation.

‘And so,’ she said, a tightness in her voice resulting from her perturbation.

‘And so,’ William repeated, ‘there be some parts of the story of our new lives I have, as yet, been unable to reveal. Some…’ He paused, looking around the cramped room.

‘And so?’

Bridgette’s hand remained beneath his but he felt it become tense, as though its bones had forced themselves to the surface, that she was shielding herself beneath an exoskeleton.

‘Some small details that hath, thus far, remained hitherto unmentioned. The truth be that I hath been able, throughout these past days and weeks, to construct something more than a portion, hath built something greater than a few frames, have dug something that runs a good deal farther than a well and a trough.’

He turned to look again at Bridgette, who appeared more relieved.

‘Thought thou be set to say something awful,’ she said, smiling slightly. ‘But it be good thou hast managed to ensure so much is prepared. Oh, William, thou didst worry me so.’

‘It be finished,’ William said quickly, finally admitting to himself that he had no other option other than to simply tell her what had been weighing down his mind.

‘Finished? What be finished? Wouldst thou have me know thou hast given up? But, then, what of the meeting thou hath just attended?’

‘No,’ William replied, shaking his head. ‘The work. The work be finished. It be all ready, ready for thee and I, for all of us with whom I hath been speaking, those we both agreed should know, for us all to take ourselves away from this wretched, awful place, ready for us to live the lives we are owed. I hath received the news that our lame Dick, our so-called lord, shall be leaving in a day or, at most, two, called away to fight, to join the others amongst the noblemen who reign their disparity upon us. They shall be away and it shall be then, still employing the appropriate delicacy, of course, that we shall make our advance from this forsaken, bygone hamlet of the past to our new home, our village of fortune.’

Bridgette looked confused.

‘Finished?’ she asked, disbelief in her tone. ‘How canst thou be finished? A whole village? Finished? Be thee having something of a jape with me, thou devil?’

‘No, my sweet,’ William said. He held her hand more firmly. ‘It be all done, it be all complete.’

‘But… but, how can this be? How canst it be done? To be sure, something of such a load, of… how many did we thence decide upon? Some twenty families? How can there be homes, how can there be fences and fields and food and animals, how can there be anything in so little a time?’

William looked into her eyes again. Her confusion was beginning to grow legs, forming heavy and threatening hooves under which he feared he would be trampled. He swallowed hard.

‘That is the thing I must uncover to thee, that thou may be less than pleased about.’

‘And what be that?’ she asked curtly.

‘All work is done, all plans are secured,’ William told her, ‘all is ready for us but, in order to achieve such a thing, in such a short time, there was a deal that needed to be struck, an agreement that needed to be made.’

Bridgette slipped her hand from under his and got to her feet, turning to stand before him, looking down at him as she asked him to explain.

‘It may be,’ William started, looking up at his wife, trying to read her expression, trying to imagine what her response might be, ‘that I have come to an agreement with one who may not be so… so irreproachable as he may otherwise be.’

‘And who be that?’ Bridgette asked. She was beginning to sound both annoyed and frightened, her hands now menacing fists, balled upon her hips. ‘What hast thee done? Who be this untrustworthy person?’

William looked away.

‘All I have done, I have done for the benefit of us all,’ he said. ‘Both thee and I agreed that we should have more, we should have better, not just for the good of ourselves and our friends but for that little one growing inside you now, for our child, our daughter, if thee be right which, let it never be said otherwise, thou usually are.’

He offered a smile. Bridgette refused to take it.

‘Who?’ she asked roughly, her knuckles growing pale under the force with which her fists had been clenched.

Feeling as though he had grown smaller, that his face had been set aflame, he quietly said the name.

‘Beckett.’

Bridgette gasped, taking a step back. William reached for her, catching her by the wrists as she stumbled towards the hearth. Regaining her footing, she shook herself free and pushed him away.

‘Beckett?’ She was angry, whispering the name with distaste. ’Beckett? How could thee? What hast become of the senses with which I thought thee were once so blessed? Beckett?’

‘I know, but pray, listen as I try to…’

’How could thee?’ she asked again. ‘Doth thee not know the dangerous trap thee hath entered into? Dealing with Beckett be as good as stepping foot upon the gallows, as good as winding the rope around thy neck. It is nothing other than time before he shall come and kick away the barrel upon which thee is so clumsily standing.’

‘I know, but…’

‘‘Tis be thy hair grows through thy hood, William East. And what of thy daughter? What of she? Bad enough she be born into this pitiless squalor, since no one shall be going any other place should Beckett have the merest to do with it, but to be forced to grow, to try to survive without a father? Even…’ she said disparagingly, her face now a savage tumult of cynical distaste, ‘a father such as thee?’

Bridgette paused, taking a breath, regarding William in horror.

‘And what of I? Must I be forced to live this life alone, alone with a child for which I shall be unable to provide? What wast thou thinking, William East? If thee had a thought in thy head at all.’

‘Thou fails to understand,’ William told her, standing and reaching for her hands again. Bridgette relinquished her intimidating stance and pinned her arms tight against her body.

‘No,’ she said, moving around and away from him. ‘I understand well enough that thee hath given not one thought about thy family, about the lives of thee and me.’

’But ’tis all I have been thinking of,’ William said. ‘Dost thou think I entered into such a deal blindly? Dost thou not think I hath undertaken such work, hath made such promises, hath desired so much for each and all of us without giving the slightest postulation to what might happen should I fail?’

‘And what is it that the dog, the hound Beckett hath made promise of? And, most importantly, what be the price thou must pay, should this so-called deal thou hath made be broken? Be sure, husband, that Beckett will not retire from searching for ways in which he may break this arrangement and thus persecute and prosecute thee, for that be all of what Beckett be about.’

William grabbed Bridgette’s arm and led her back to the pair of stools, urging her to sit once again before joining her. He took her hand, and she reluctantly allowed him to continue holding it as he spoke in a quieter, more gentle voice.

‘My dear, my sweet wife, please allow thyself some breath, allow thyself some relief. Worry not that I hath done the wrong thing, for much thought, much reflection did I bring myself before agreeing such an undertaking. And I promise thee this…’

He stopped briefly, taking hold of Bridgette’s other hand.

‘I promise thee that all produce from such dealings shall be nought but good, nought but prosperity and happiness for us and the people about us.’

‘But with what didst thou bargain?’ Bridgette asked quietly, her eyes now softer, her body more relaxed.

William stretched his neck, moving his head from side to side.

‘It be a deal that shall last some five hundred years,’ he said. ’Imagine, five hundred years. What, dost thou think, the world should be like after such a length of time? That would be the year, if thy can even imagine, two thousand and twenty-two.’

He repeated the year again, trying to sound as incredulous as he could, smiling at Bridgette.

‘But what,’ she said, frowning once more, ‘didst thou base this deal upon? What is it that shall happen in these five hundred years thou maketh seem so fantastical? And, if thou be able, wouldst thou explain to me how this…this Beckett, this treacherous, villainous mongrel shall possibly be alive himself, after such a stretch of time?’

‘What dost it matter? What difference should it make? Thee and I, and all we know, shall be long departed by such a time. And then, when this mentioned date shall duly arrive, what Beckett then chooses to do with the deal we have agreed upon shall be, in its entirety, his choosing.’

‘But how?’ Bridgette asked again. ‘How can it be that anyone should make such a ludicrous arrangement, knowing well and full that they shall no longer be upon this earth to reap their reward, to claim their reparation? And yet thou speaketh of Beckett in such a manner that suggests thou believes the impossible, that he shall, indeed, be blessed by a life that knows no end, that shall endure so far beyond… ’

At that Bridgette faltered, a new fear revealing itself in her mind. William watched the colour drain from her cheeks as she looked down to the ground, bound to temporary silence by her thoughts.

‘This Beckett,’ she said at last, her face full of venom, ‘this man who be knownst to one and all as thief and wrongdoer, vagabond and heretic, this drunken ergophobe, this leasing monger, wouldst thee be saying to me that he be a witch, that he be not of this pure and beauteous earth but be, instead, risen from the damnation below?’

‘No, no,’ William said, hoping his assurances would placate her, despite not being certain of the answer himself. ‘How could that be so? How might someone we know, despite the deficiency of character and deceit of soul by which we know him all too well, how might they be a witch? For one, and pardon me, I beseech thee, for I wish not to show derision, but for one thing he be not even a woman, so a witch surely he cannot be.’

They both fell silent, both deep in thought. William had, if he were to admit the full truth to himself, entered into the agreement with what he might now say was a little too much haste combined with too little thought. He had known the idea, brought to him by Beckett one sultry spring evening as he was tending to his animals, seemed perhaps too good to be true but had been swayed not only by his desperate desire to escape the repression brought onto him by the chiefs of the village, but by such an enormous swathe of time the deal involved. He had thought Beckett foolish, that it was nothing more than a harmless piece of fun, until he had discovered for the first time the area of land upon which he would establish the village. Having never been aware of it before, despite its close proximity to Calcote, and then replaceing the tools awaiting him, he began to believe that it was, indeed, possible for Beckett’s suggestion to actually hold some merit. He did not think to wonder why this tract of land had, until then, gone undiscovered and undeveloped, did not give thought to how it was he could work so quickly. It had been as though he had fallen under a spell, that the land itself was blessed with a quality of mysticism that made everything seem possible, that had him beneath its charms and interwoven into its future.

Still, no, he thought. He could not be a witch, some kind of sorcerer. He was just Beckett, and although he was not the kind of person in which anyone would place any trust, nor lend any money, William could still not imagine that he could be anything worse than a blaggard. Yes, he enjoyed his ale more than any other and yes, his occasional return to the village caused many to feel that they should perform an inventory of their belongings both before and after his departure, but a powerful necromancer? A vengeful magician? No, it could not be so.

Looking around the hut, William noticed something he had not seen before. In the corner, at the other side of the room and almost entirely obscured by straw, was a small, dark object reflecting the light from the fire. He walked to it, picked it up and examined it closely as he returned to his seat.

‘What hath thee there?’ Bridgette asked.

‘I cannot be sure,’ William said, turning it over in his hand, moving it against the light. ‘It be a bottle of some kind. What sayeth thee?’

He handed it to Bridgette, who admitted she, too, had never seen it before.

‘It be made of stone, I wouldst say,’ she told him, ‘and there be some engravings or such upon it, although what they be I cannot say.’

They studied it for some time, passing it between them, but could replace no explanation. Bridgette thought it to be quite an agreeable object, sensing within it a measure of fortune, and so suggested they keep it, that it be put on the table at the side of the hut and which, over the coming days, she would be drawn to touch, feeling that such a gesture would bestow upon their home and their child a certain element of felicity and fortuity. No one had seen the figure who stole through the night, red cap pulled low across his eyes, creeping across the land with the quietude and stealth of a cat, who had wanted to perform an act of kindness, an act of decency in the face of disconsolateness that was yet to turn itself fully towards the new village of Easthope, knowing what was to come and attempting to bring to the home of William and Bridgette East at least the chance of redemption.

‘Perhaps it might assign to all of us better days,’ she said, gently rubbing her stomach.

William smiled, placing his hand upon hers. Feeling that Bridgette had been mollified, hopeful that all talk of Beckett and the details of the deal were now behind them, they soon prepared themselves for bed, William daring to discuss, in brief, a few of the improvements he had made to their new home.

‘Think on,’ he said, as they swept straw from the feculent mattress, the fabric by now a well-established lodging for a militia of fleas and bedbugs who were, themselves, preparing for another nighttime repast, ‘that soon we shall be taking ourselves for sleep on a second floor, that we shall have an entirely separate room in which to lay our heads.’

Bridgette had smiled and agreed that, yes, that would be wonderful, but still the thought lingered in her mind, the consideration of what a substantial length of time would add up to five hundred years. It was a period she could not imagine yet still, as she lay beside her husband that night, as his breathing crackled and rattled, it served to unsettle her, nagged at her with its inconceivability. It was as if this epoch, this enormous chasm that lay before both she and those that would follow her was trying to tell her that, however much she was to gain from this deal, there would surely be a great price to pay at that distant future point. And somehow, in some way she could not possibly envisage, she felt certain that she would be forced to make atonement, that there would be a debt to be remedied and that William’s extensive toil and well-intentioned vision would, ultimately, be her undoing.

Just as she was finally about to slip away she became vaguely aware of a far-off baying and then, as if similarly disturbed, the child inside her shuddered and shifted position.