Novels (2)

Extract from 'A Child of Secrets'

Norfolk saga, begins 1890s

Jess hadn't eaten in four days, except for some brambles cocooned in cobwebs. As the cold red sun went down she knew she was near the end of her strength. She forced her feet to move, one in front of the other, heedless of the briers that tore at her tattered skirts and shawl. Branches reached out under cover of the uncertain light, clawing at her eyes and hair. She stopped, startled, as a pheasant flew up and battered away through the wood giving its loud 'cock-uck, cock-uck, cock-uck' of alarm. The panicked beat of her heart in her throat made her feel sick. Now that she had stopped, her muscles seemed to have seized up; she wanted to move but couldn't. She stood there, shivering with cold, her mouth so dry she couldn't raise a spit, her stomach so empty it was gnawing itself. And then she heard the voice, singing.
      It was a woman's voice, a mellow contralto, rich notes floating warm and unearthly on the cold air. Jess thought she was probably dying and angels were coming to meet her - except that she was quite sure her destination would not be heaven. Murderesses did not go to heaven. 
     The singing went on, coming nearer. 
     Straining her eyes in the fading light, Jess saw a figure moving behind a network of branches. A dark shape, cloaked and hooded, its arms gestured to emphasise the yearning music of the song. Plaintive words spoke of unrequited love and longing. But they stopped abruptly. The figure threw out its arms in theatrical appeal to the lowering crimson sun and began to declaim aloud: 
    ' "Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds, 
    'Towards Pheobus' lodging; such a waggoner 
    'As Phaeton would whip you to the west, 
    'And bring in cloudy night immediately. 
    'Spread thy close curtain..."' 
     The apparition was coming closer, her path bringing her round towards an inevitable confrontation. Run! Jess ordered her legs, but they were too weak. They could scarcely bear her weight, let alone move her on. 
            '"...love-performing night! 
            That runaway eyes--"'
     The words broke off as the speaker realised she was not alone. The little dog pattering ahead of her had stopped, with a questioning bark, looking at Jess with its ears pricked. 'Gracious goodness!' the young woman said half to herself. 'Whatever...'
     Jess didn't blame her for being startled. She too might have baulked if she had been walking alone in the woods and come suddenly upon a slight, thin figure up to her knees in tangled undergrowth, shaking with cold, ragged as a scarecrow, her hair wild, her face smeared with dirt and old tears. She wanted to run away, as she'd been running for four days, but her feet were rooted to the frozen earth. It looked as though her flight was over, one way or another. 
     'Are you real?' the gentle, husky voice asked. 'I almost took you for a phantom.' 
     Jess only stared back dumbly. 
     Cautiously, holding her heavy skirts bunched away from trailing briers, the young woman stepped nearer. With the light behind her, her face was a pale blur in the shadow of the cloak's wide hood, backed by a network of bare branches with the cold sky above and the red sun hanging low. 'Whatever's wrong?' she asked in concern. 'Who are you? Are you ill?
     Jess hadn't the strength for coherent thought. All she wanted to do was lie down and let exhaustion have its way. She couldn't seem to speak, so she shook her head. 
      'Oh, but you are!' the other argued. 'You must be. Why... you poor thing, you're frozen!' 
      The stranger was no more than a girl, younger than Jess herself. Seventeen, perhaps. Her face was a perfect pale oval, framed by the wide hood and by dark hair dressed in curls above her brow. But her eyes... Jess felt the shock like a physical blow. 
      In that pale, pretty face, blessed with a pink mouth and straight dark brows, the eyes that stared back at Jess were not a matched pair: one was blue like the speedwells that grew by the banks of the Ouse, the other was brown as the moleskin cape that Jess's mother had guarded so jealously from moth. Jess's shaking knees buckled and she sank down among the crackling undergrowth, into a white mist. She fought it, struggling to stay conscious, fearing that if she let go she might never wake up. 
      The dog barked again, a short, gruff warning. Faintly, as if from far distances, Jess heard another voice, a man's voice. Was it her dad, come to fetch her away to eternal damnation? But no, 'Hardlines' Henefer had had a great loud voice and this man was soft-spoken, with a strange inflection that wasn't Norfolk. He sounded annoyed, demanding to know what they thought they were doing. Then evidently he recognised the girl in the cloak for his voice changed, becoming respectful.
      'Oh, it's you, Miss Clare.'
      'Yes, Mr Rudd. Only me.'
      'You're out late, miss. It'll soon be dark.'
      'Yes, I know. I forgot the time. Dreaming, I'm afraid.' Her tone mocked her own frailty, begging his indulgence. 'And I know you've asked me not to bring Gyp into the woods, but he's on his lead, as you can see, and he's really very good - he doesn't bother your birds at all. And look ... I found this girl. I think she's ill.'
      Jess heard the undergrowth crack and swish as the man forded through it. He bent beside her, examining her with swift efficiency, his hands warm, strong and sure. 'She's not feverish. Just weak. Exhausted, poor lass. What the heck's she doing in my woods?'
      'Who knows?' The girl's voice turned gently dry. 'But don't concern yourself unduly, Mr Rudd. She doesn't look as if she's hiding any illicit pheasants.'
     'Maybe not. Not yet.'
      'You don't seriously suspect her of poaching, surely?'
      'I suspect anybody who's in my woods and shouldn't be,' was the response. 'Who is she, any road? She's not from round here. D'you know her, Miss Clare?' 
     'I've never seen her before. You're right, Mr Rudd, she isn't from any of the local villages. I believe I know most of the people in the parish - even those who don't come to church.'
       After a pause, the man said stiffly, 'I'm a chapel man, myself.'
       'Oh... Mr Rudd, I didn't mean...' She laughed, a low, melodic sound. 'Forgive me, I had no intention of taking you to task. Gracious goodness, where you worship is between you and your conscience. My only thought was for this poor child. Whoever she is, we can't leave her here. She isn't very big. Can you carry her to the rectory, do you think?'
      'You intending to take her in, then?'
       'What else should a Christian do, Mr Rudd?' was the grave reply and, after a moment, 'I was a foundling once myself, you know.'
       Jess felt herself being lifted, tossed up in strong arms that held her safe and conveyed her along at a steady pace. Her head rested on the man's shoulder and from his coat came a scent of tobacco smoke and open air, perhaps a hint of dog. The smell was alien to a girl more used to the tang of salt and fish, but the man was blessedly warm. His presence surrounded her with a feeling of security so strong that she let go her senses and sank down into darkness.

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This is the story of two very different girls, one from the fisher-folk community in King's Lynn, the other a strange, fey, foundling child named Lily Clare, who has been raised by the vicar of Hewinghall. But she does not believe he is her father. No, her father is a great man and will some day come and rescue her. He must come. Lily knows something wonderful awaits her.

The lives of the two young women intertwine as each follows her own destiny, Jess hiding from the fate she is certain must come to a proven murderess and Lily chasing a fairytale that, inevitably, will turn to dust in the harsh light of reality. Which of them proves the stronger? Only time will tell.