Read Online The Witch’s Daughter by Paula Brackston - Free Book Online
Authors: Paula Brackston
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court and council meeting place, the top provided rooms for local records and government matters, and beneath the whole was a subterranean jail. The growth of Batchcombe had allowed for the inclusion of fads and fashions where buildings were concerned, so that a lack of continuity or conformity of style existed, giving a wide-ranging variety to the façades that lined the streets. There were stone cottages, some whitened, some bare brown sandstone. There were houses of warm brick, and others of timber with wattle and daub. Next to these stood a terrace constructed painfully out of flint. Thatch of straw or reeds covered some, while others sheltered from the wet winters beneath tiles of stone. Every taste had been accommodated, every innovation tried. Yet the overall impression was one of slight decay and disintegration. It was as if each building was a separate dwelling placed close to another merely by chance, rather than a matter of cohesion and community.
It was fair to say that Batchcombe stood as a portrait of the preceding century of flux. The winds of political change had buffeted it this way and that, and throughout it all, the village and its people had seen survival in acceptance and flexibility. And the monument to their malleable nature was the raw ruin of the monastery to the west of the village boundary. It was as though the centuries of existing side by side for the Church and the godly people of the area had never happened. As if they had never worked in the monastery gardens, or gained employment assisting the monks with the harvest, or apprenticed a clutch of boys every year as stone masons to work on the glorious home of God’s servants, or held out their hands for alms in times of poverty and disaster. When Henry VIII had broken from Rome, and the monasteries were sacked, Batchcombe turned its face away, and not a pitchfork was raised in protest. The monks’ place of worship and home for centuries was raped, plundered, and defiled, left a craggy heap of stone.
By contrast, the modest church at the southern end of the high street had flourished. It was simply built of stone, with most of its windows plain. Only one had the indulgence of stained glass, depicting Christ’s raising of Lazarus from his tomb. The church had become the focal point for most social gatherings and, of course, worship in the area. A succession of canny church wardens had spirited away any signs of popery or undisguised wealth, leaving a spare, understated interior, in keeping with the wishes of first one monarch, then the next, and portentously interpreting the spartan tastes of the years that were to come. The parishioners had slipped quietly into the cushionless pews and counted themselves lucky not to have been delivered into the dubious care of one of the more radical itinerant preachers who roamed Wessex in search of receptive ears for their puritanical beliefs. The parson, who had by this time established himself firmly at the heart of matters both religious and secular in Batchcombe, was the Reverend Edmund Burdock, a thin strip of a man whose flimsy frame and soft voice belied a steely will.
Bess enjoyed attending the Sunday service at the church. After tending the livestock and finishing their household chores, the Hawksmith women, in keeping with all other women in the area, put on their least-worn gown if they had one, or fresh collars, cuffs, and apron if they did not, fastened their bonnets, and set out for the church. If the weather was kind, they would walk; otherwise, John would persuade the mare between the shafts of the wagon and they would ride to the village.
On this occasion, the sun was arcing upward into a cloudless sky and the happy group trod the dry path to Batchcombe, enjoying the prospect of a little socializing. For Bess, this was the one opportunity the week afforded to watch the people of the village and to listen to their gossip. Her mother had spoken to her about the perils of eavesdropping, but
It was fair to say that Batchcombe stood as a portrait of the preceding century of flux. The winds of political change had buffeted it this way and that, and throughout it all, the village and its people had seen survival in acceptance and flexibility. And the monument to their malleable nature was the raw ruin of the monastery to the west of the village boundary. It was as though the centuries of existing side by side for the Church and the godly people of the area had never happened. As if they had never worked in the monastery gardens, or gained employment assisting the monks with the harvest, or apprenticed a clutch of boys every year as stone masons to work on the glorious home of God’s servants, or held out their hands for alms in times of poverty and disaster. When Henry VIII had broken from Rome, and the monasteries were sacked, Batchcombe turned its face away, and not a pitchfork was raised in protest. The monks’ place of worship and home for centuries was raped, plundered, and defiled, left a craggy heap of stone.
By contrast, the modest church at the southern end of the high street had flourished. It was simply built of stone, with most of its windows plain. Only one had the indulgence of stained glass, depicting Christ’s raising of Lazarus from his tomb. The church had become the focal point for most social gatherings and, of course, worship in the area. A succession of canny church wardens had spirited away any signs of popery or undisguised wealth, leaving a spare, understated interior, in keeping with the wishes of first one monarch, then the next, and portentously interpreting the spartan tastes of the years that were to come. The parishioners had slipped quietly into the cushionless pews and counted themselves lucky not to have been delivered into the dubious care of one of the more radical itinerant preachers who roamed Wessex in search of receptive ears for their puritanical beliefs. The parson, who had by this time established himself firmly at the heart of matters both religious and secular in Batchcombe, was the Reverend Edmund Burdock, a thin strip of a man whose flimsy frame and soft voice belied a steely will.
Bess enjoyed attending the Sunday service at the church. After tending the livestock and finishing their household chores, the Hawksmith women, in keeping with all other women in the area, put on their least-worn gown if they had one, or fresh collars, cuffs, and apron if they did not, fastened their bonnets, and set out for the church. If the weather was kind, they would walk; otherwise, John would persuade the mare between the shafts of the wagon and they would ride to the village.
On this occasion, the sun was arcing upward into a cloudless sky and the happy group trod the dry path to Batchcombe, enjoying the prospect of a little socializing. For Bess, this was the one opportunity the week afforded to watch the people of the village and to listen to their gossip. Her mother had spoken to her about the perils of eavesdropping, but
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