‘Mr Livingstone.’ Sarah moved towards the door, twirling a strand of hair anxiously around her finger. ‘I have just heard Mrs Holt ring the gong.’
‘One more word, and I have done. We bury Mabel and Helen on Friday, Elsie. We cannot in conscience leave it any longer. I wish for you to remain here, resting.’
‘But—’
‘There is no but. I will not have you put through unnecessary strain.’ He moved his mouth, trying out a sentence, tasting it before he spoke. ‘You are my sister. I will be . . . obeyed.’
Obeyed. The word roped around her throat.
‘Get some sleep, now.’ He bent to kiss her cheek. His lips were cold, dry. ‘Mrs Holt will carry something up for you to eat later.’ He walked to the door and offered Sarah his arm. ‘Shall we, Miss Bainbridge?’
‘Yes, certainly. Let me just say goodnight to Mrs Bainbridge first.’ Sarah came forwards and repeated his kiss. Her breath was warm against Elsie’s ear. ‘The diary is under the mattress. I didn’t have a chance to read it, I just hid it from Mrs Holt when I found you. Please, look while we are at dinner. Find out how we can stop this before it is too late.’
THE BRIDGE, 1635
I toiled up the stairs towards bed about five o’clock. Even then the snow fell ruthlessly. It would not stop until it had obliterated every object in a shroud of white.
I had grown so cold that I no longer felt it. Numb, inside and out, I climbed as if in a dream. I thought it was part of that dream when Josiah materialised on the landing in his nightshirt and bare feet, staring out of the window at the drifting snow. But he was real; the breath of life plumed from his nostrils and misted the frozen glass. He wheeled round at the sound of my step.
‘God’s blood! Anne, what are you doing up at this hour?’
‘I could not sleep,’ I said. His head flicked back and forth, from me to the window and back again. With a pang, I knew his mind: he was looking at the storm and wondering if I had whistled it up. ‘Did the wind awaken you?’
He did not meet my eye. ‘No. I am awake by design. I will leave within the hour. I intended to set out a little later, but this weather will slow us down.’
‘Leave?’ I had not slept – I was not thinking clearly. My temples throbbed with exhaustion. ‘Wherever will you go?’
‘You know where.’
It came back to me: Merripen. Josiah was going to watch while the boy danced on the end of a rope, while they cut his belly open to steam in the winter air. I had a vision of his innards, rotted to coal black.
‘Josiah, you cannot go! You cannot travel in this weather! It is madness.’
‘I must try. I have sent men out to dig a trench to the bridge already.’ These are the men that ride with him – not the household servants invited to last night’s feast. A fortunate circumstance, for I am sure if he sent Mark out with a shovel this morning, the man would topple sideways into a snowdrift. ‘I wish to be the first to tell the King that justice has been served.’
My hand rested on his shoulder for an instant before he flinched away. ‘Truly, husband, it is not worth the risk to your health. I doubt they will proceed with the execution on a day like today.’
‘You would like that, would you not?’ The ice crackling in his voice felt infinitely colder than the weather. ‘Have done, Anne. I am going and I will make sure that it is accomplished.’
Fear wrapped its fingers around my heart. Something terrible would happen. I sensed it, as surely as I sensed him by my side. ‘Josiah!’ I begged. ‘Do not act so rashly! You could die!’
It was then that I saw it: the old gesture I have seen a thousand times. But never from him. I never dreamt to see my own husband cross his fingers against me, as if I were a witch. ‘Do not ill-wish me. You have done enough, my lady.’
He turned and strode back to his room.
My own chamber was remarkably cold. No fire had touched the grate, with the servants revelling downstairs. Even the ink I use to write my journal had frozen in its bottle, so I cradled it between my palms as I climbed, fully clothed, into bed. The sheets were so chill that they felt damp.
I must have slept, for I awoke with a sensation like falling that jerked my body up. Cold white light shimmered through the windows – I had forgotten to close the shutters. The sun was rising but no servant fetched my morning drink.
Wearily, I climbed out of bed, knowing I would not fall back into sleep. Something was wrong. I felt it, worrying at me, like a strip of torn skin. Perhaps I would go to the kitchen. If there was a fire anywhere in the house, it would be there.
I stumbled bleary-eyed down the steps. I was in luck. Orange flames danced in the kitchen’s hearth and a pot hung suspended over them. Jane was no longer stretched out on the floor, but sitting at the table with one of Josiah’s men. Both of them looked as pale as whey.
‘What is the matter?’ I demanded. They leapt to their feet at the sound of my voice. ‘You,’ I said to the man, ‘why are you not out riding with your master?’
He inhaled. ‘I was,’ he said. ‘The master sent me back here with a message. There is something that must be . . . attended to.’
Jane stared at the knife-scarred table.
‘What?’
‘An unpleasant circumstance. Do not trouble yourself, mistress, we will arrange . . .’
My stomach wallowed. ‘What?’
A look passed between him and Jane. It was etched in their brows: their suspicion of me. They did not know how much they could conceal.
‘There is something by . . . something in the river,’ he said.
Understanding dropped into me, as heavy as lead.
‘No,’ I cried. ‘No, no!’
I blundered over to the door. It was hopeless, I knew, yet I had to see for myself.
I inched the door open against the snow and waded into the yard. Nothing moved. There was no sound. A white spell had fallen over all.
Bracing myself against the bitter air, I followed the path cut by Josiah’s men and their horses, a patina of fresh snow already covering it, step after laborious step. In a few minutes my shoes were wet through. Although I held my skirts bunched in my hand, high above my ankles, they soaked up the snow and weighed me down.
My teeth chattered. Snowflakes so cold that they stung like cinders battered against my face. A spiteful wind snatched at my hair. I knew that if I stayed outside much longer, I would catch my death.
At last, the stone lions of the bridge reared up. Icicles hung from their roaring mouths. I staggered next to one, my nerves taut and braced for horror.
There was nothing. Only an empty bridge twinkling with frost, and the river, frozen solid.
Exhausted, I leant on the stone lion. It was so cold that my glove stuck to it.
I paused, panting, summoning up the strength to trudge back home. My lungs were raw. I was too tired to feel anything like relief.
It was then that it caught the tail of my eye. I blinked and looked again at the river. Peered closely through the murky, silver-grey ice.