travelled as fast as the driver could safely take
it. A part of Abigail could not help but find the whole journey as
exciting as it was frightening. She had never experienced such
things before. The storm worried Martha who gripped the seat and
appeared to Abigail to be deep in thought or prayer. Martha had
often told Abigail tales of ghosts and demons - hob goblins that
inhabited the cliffs along the infamous jagged northeast coast, but
she had never thought for one moment Martha actually believed in
any of them; they were, Abigail had considered them to be, just
silly tales based on folklore told to entertain her. Now Abigail
could see that, although they had not frightened her, they did have
a hold on Martha and she actually believed them.
Dawn slowly
broke but, with the thick cloud and heavy rain it was indeed a
dismal affair. The moors were drab, or invisible, lost in the mist
and spray as the stagecoach journeyed on and passed fields and
villages. Then the sky cleared for a short while just enough for
her to see the great towers of a gothic cathedral in the distance
across the vale as they approached the city.
She nudged
Martha and smiled at her, trying to snap her back into the more
relaxed composure that she was used to seeing. Martha seemed
unwilling to lift her mood. Abigail truly realised for the first
time that it was not just her life being irrevocably changed,
Martha’s had been thrown into turmoil also. Having seen her with
her hidden friend, Ezekiel, Abigail had an uneasy feeling that
there was a sad side to Martha’s life that she had never been aware
of, seeing her only as busy, happy and efficient Martha her
personal maid. It made her feel uncomfortable and strange, but she
could not understand why it should have such an ominous affect upon
her own spirits.
As they
approached the York’s city walls, houses with tall brick facades
and sash windows with fashionable fanlights lined their way. They
passed a convent and Abigail wondered if she should hide from the
world in there, but decided it was not for her. Later the screams
from the dreaded asylum drifted by as the doors were momentarily
opened to let in a new admission. It was more daunting to Abigail
than anything she had ever seen before in her life. The thought of
Martha being sent to such a place to work, horrified her and she
cringed at the gravity of their predicament. There, she had heard,
lunatics were housed pitifully. Once in, there was little chance of
being released. Martha recoiled on the seat and Abigail held her
hand firmly. They would never put her Martha in there as a worker
or inmate – never! Frederick was a powerful man and, sadly, a
dangerous enemy.
Beyond the
stone and crumbling city walls lay their future. Through the old
medieval gates she could see the timbered buildings of an older
style which, to Abigail, as the coach slowed to a halt, were as
murky as the narrow roads, fouled as they were by horse, cattle,
sheep and man alike. She prayed for their safety and good health as
the stagecoach stopped outside an inn and the door opened. They
alighted into a strange world. ‘Oh Lord,’ she said her silent words
within her own mind, ‘make our way simple, safe and clear.’
Rain continued
to pour down and Abigail was grateful for the step and the wooden
board that the innkeeper of the tavern placed on the mud splattered
ground as she climbed down. Above them, the phoenix painted on the
inn board swung in the strong wind, unnoticed as the anxious
travellers made for the shelter of the tavern; however, to Abigail
it gave comfort for it seemed to be a sign that all would be well.
She would rise from the embers a stronger person. Stepping inside
the tall narrow building was a strange experience for Abigail. This
narrow wood-panelled inn looked almost grim, but at least the high
ceiling and stairs were far grander than the simple low beamed
ceiling of The Cruck Inn on the moor road.
The morning was
young, and light struggled to
it. A part of Abigail could not help but find the whole journey as
exciting as it was frightening. She had never experienced such
things before. The storm worried Martha who gripped the seat and
appeared to Abigail to be deep in thought or prayer. Martha had
often told Abigail tales of ghosts and demons - hob goblins that
inhabited the cliffs along the infamous jagged northeast coast, but
she had never thought for one moment Martha actually believed in
any of them; they were, Abigail had considered them to be, just
silly tales based on folklore told to entertain her. Now Abigail
could see that, although they had not frightened her, they did have
a hold on Martha and she actually believed them.
Dawn slowly
broke but, with the thick cloud and heavy rain it was indeed a
dismal affair. The moors were drab, or invisible, lost in the mist
and spray as the stagecoach journeyed on and passed fields and
villages. Then the sky cleared for a short while just enough for
her to see the great towers of a gothic cathedral in the distance
across the vale as they approached the city.
She nudged
Martha and smiled at her, trying to snap her back into the more
relaxed composure that she was used to seeing. Martha seemed
unwilling to lift her mood. Abigail truly realised for the first
time that it was not just her life being irrevocably changed,
Martha’s had been thrown into turmoil also. Having seen her with
her hidden friend, Ezekiel, Abigail had an uneasy feeling that
there was a sad side to Martha’s life that she had never been aware
of, seeing her only as busy, happy and efficient Martha her
personal maid. It made her feel uncomfortable and strange, but she
could not understand why it should have such an ominous affect upon
her own spirits.
As they
approached the York’s city walls, houses with tall brick facades
and sash windows with fashionable fanlights lined their way. They
passed a convent and Abigail wondered if she should hide from the
world in there, but decided it was not for her. Later the screams
from the dreaded asylum drifted by as the doors were momentarily
opened to let in a new admission. It was more daunting to Abigail
than anything she had ever seen before in her life. The thought of
Martha being sent to such a place to work, horrified her and she
cringed at the gravity of their predicament. There, she had heard,
lunatics were housed pitifully. Once in, there was little chance of
being released. Martha recoiled on the seat and Abigail held her
hand firmly. They would never put her Martha in there as a worker
or inmate – never! Frederick was a powerful man and, sadly, a
dangerous enemy.
Beyond the
stone and crumbling city walls lay their future. Through the old
medieval gates she could see the timbered buildings of an older
style which, to Abigail, as the coach slowed to a halt, were as
murky as the narrow roads, fouled as they were by horse, cattle,
sheep and man alike. She prayed for their safety and good health as
the stagecoach stopped outside an inn and the door opened. They
alighted into a strange world. ‘Oh Lord,’ she said her silent words
within her own mind, ‘make our way simple, safe and clear.’
Rain continued
to pour down and Abigail was grateful for the step and the wooden
board that the innkeeper of the tavern placed on the mud splattered
ground as she climbed down. Above them, the phoenix painted on the
inn board swung in the strong wind, unnoticed as the anxious
travellers made for the shelter of the tavern; however, to Abigail
it gave comfort for it seemed to be a sign that all would be well.
She would rise from the embers a stronger person. Stepping inside
the tall narrow building was a strange experience for Abigail. This
narrow wood-panelled inn looked almost grim, but at least the high
ceiling and stairs were far grander than the simple low beamed
ceiling of The Cruck Inn on the moor road.
The morning was
young, and light struggled to
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