Sussana Beckworth

I was weeding the herb portion of the kitchen garden in the late afternoon when I heard a small wagon come up the road into town. That, in itself, was unusual. Normally the only traffic are big farm wagons. Maybe a rider once every couple of weeks.

The weather was pleasant. I shaded my eyes as I looked past the house to the road. There was an older man and woman walking beside a mule, pulling a cart. The two looked tired and nervous, maybe? The cart had what looked like all their belongings. I stood up, brushed off my dress and wondered if my mother had seen them. It isn’t often we have unfamiliar faces in town.

I walked out to the street and watched as they continued up the road to the Inn. They tied their mule to a tree and went inside. I wondered who they were, then shrugged my shoulders and went back to my weeding. I’d hear soon enough.

Marion Blexham

No one was in the main room when an old couple pushed through the Inn door and looked around. They were haggard and looked like they had slept rough. Of course, that didn’t matter if they had money. If they didn’t have money, then we got into the intricacies of trade and valuing goods. Ours was a tiny village and a lot of business was done with barter.

“What can I do for you?”

“Is there a wise woman in town?” asked the man.

“No. And no doctor either. How serious is the problem?”

“It is but a stomachache. We are not a danger to the village.”

“Good.” I doubted they were going to buy any food with a stomachache.

“Is there any place we can camp for a week before we move on?”

“There is a stand of trees near the road, before you get to the village, back the way you came. You could camp on the other side of the trees.”

“Thank you.”

They turned and went out.

Sussana Beckworth

It was only a few minutes and I heard the mule again, this time taking the cart out of town. I got up again and watched them leave. In the distance, I saw them stop at the large copse near the road, then slowly walk their mule and cart off the road and into the bushes. Maybe the Innkeeper had given them permission to camp there for the night. I should tell my parents and brother.

I collected the weeds into a basket and then tossed them under a tree. The shade would kill these particular weeds before they could root themselves. I then gathered the herbs I thought we might be wanting for a stew for dinner and went to dig out some root vegetables. Once that was done, I put away the tools and brought my day’s harvest into the cottage.

As I expected, both my parents were sewing. I don’t know why the word is ’tailor’ for a man and ’seamstress’ for a woman. It doesn’t make any sense to me. I’ve asked and they can’t tell me either.

I tossed the produce on the table and started chopping.

“It looks like there is an elderly couple camping by the copse at the side of the road.” I said. “They stopped at the Inn, but then went directly back. They have a mule and cart.” I added helpfully.

“Elderly with a mule and cart? Unlikely to be thieves then.” said my father. “I wouldn’t worry about them.”

My brother entered, bringing wood for the fire.

“Nathaniel,” my mother said, “there’s some old people camping down the road. They stopped at the Inn first. Go see what you can find out.”

“Yes Mother.” My brother didn’t need a second invitation to avoid having to bring in water from the well, and ran out the door. That meant I would have to fetch the water. Maybe someone at the well would know. I finished the chopping and grabbed the kitchen bucket.

Clarice Malison and Fiona Rede were at the well, getting water for their own families. Actually, Fiona’s family are the village bakers, so it could have been for baking, but, at this time of day, it was more likely to be for dinner.

Clarice immediately wanted to share the news. “There’s a sick couple camping at the stand of trees by the road.”

“Sick? How sick?” My heart started beating faster.

“Just a stomach ache, nothing scary.”

“Oh. I’ve got some good recipes for that if they need them.”

“Where did you get them?” chimed Fiona.

“Old Mother Burgess before she died two years ago.”

“Oh. Now I remember. She had started to apprentice you before she died. She had good recipes for medicine. She helped me once.” said Fiona. “I need to get this home. Let me know if you get any good gossip.” She hefted her bucket and started down the street.

Clarice said thoughtfully, “I wonder if fish oil would help. Maybe not. My mother gives it to my father when he wakes up stiff in the morning. But that’s not the same as a stomachache.”

I laughed. “Trust a fisherman’s daughter to solve problems using fish.”

Clarice laughed too. “Well, it worked.”

I asked, “How do you store fish oil?”

“A clay pot sealed with wax. It needs to stay cool. Some people put it in a stream, others dig a deep hole and put it in there, but it’s harder to get to. It spoils, so if it smells rancid, throw it out.”

I learn new things every day. Anthracyda said I need to keep my eyes open. I try to do that. Maybe keeping my ears open is important as well.

Clarice said carefully, “Sussana, if you have Old Mother Burgess’s medicine recipes, maybe you should go see the campers. We haven’t had any news in a few weeks. Maybe you could trade stomachache medicine for news.” She picked up her bucket and headed home.

Now that was an idea. It would have to wait until after dinner, though.

After Dinner

I told my parents about the idea to trade stomachache medicine for news. They approved, so I made a small amount of two different medicines and, accompanied by my brother, went down the road. We saw their campfire flickering through the trees and my brother called out “Hello!” We followed the path that their mule and cart had made through the bushes and came up to the fire. They looked nervous, but relaxed a bit when they realized it was just the two of us.

The mule had been unhitched and loosely tied to a tree. They had made a lean to against the cart with a tarp, where they apparently intended to sleep.

I asked “I’m told you have a stomachache?”

The woman grimaced and said “Yes. And I’m feeling hot.”

“Can I look at it?”

“Have your man look the other way.”

“Nathaniel..” I started to say, but he was already turning to look at the trees.

She pulled up her shirt. “How long has it been hurting?”

“Two days.”

“Does it hurt if you touch it?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“Here.” She pointed to a spot on the left side of her belly.

I thought carefully about Old Mother Burgess’s recipes. One seemed more likely than the other and it had more willow bark. I took out the flask that I had marked for that recipe. “This might help. Two swallows of this now and two swallows when you go to bed.”

She lowered her shirt and she and her husband looked at me. “Are you a wise woman?”

“Not yet, but this recipe is from a wise woman and I was her apprentice. Nathaniel, you can turn around now.”

She took two swallows and put the stopper back in the flask.

I crouched down and looked straight at them. “So, what news have you?”

The husband looked at us. “The King and Parliament still have their armies fighting battles. I don’t know who is winning. There is talk that Parliament is looking for an alliance with Scotland.”

I looked at my brother “Nothing new under the sun.” Then back at the husband “What brings you to our village?”

“My wife was accused of witchcraft in Northumbria, but I swear she has done nothing wrong.”

My brother snorted. “If she was a witch, she wouldn’t be looking for a wise woman to heal a stomachache.”

He can surprise me sometimes.

I said “I will come in the morning to see how you are. Goodnight.”

They mumbled “Thank you and goodnight.”

As we walked home, my brother looked at me and said “My little sister, a wise woman.”

“Not yet.” As we got to our cottage, I started thinking about how Old Mother Burgess told me to keep notes for my own recipes.

Sussana Beckworth

First thing in the morning, I walked down the road to the elderly couple’s camp. This time I saw no need to bring my brother for protection. I called a “Hallo” to the camp before I went around the trees. The man was awake, sitting on a log, looking forlorn.

“How is your wife’s stomachache?”

“Less pain, but it still hurts and she is getting hotter.”

That didn’t sound good. I started thinking about fever remedies. “Can I see her?”

“Yes.”

I peered under the tarp and looked at her lying there. Her lips were cracked. I hadn’t noticed that last night, but maybe it was the light. She reached out and I took her hand. It was warm. I touched her forehead. Again, warmer than it should be. I looked back at her husband, at the fear in his eyes.

“Go to the well in the village and get a pail of water.”

He got up and searched around on the cart for a minute before he found a bucket.

“If anyone asks, tell them Sussana told you to get a bucket of water for her.”

He nodded and set off.

He returned several minutes later. I grabbed a cloth, soaked it in the bucket, then laid it across the woman’s forehead. She gave me a faint smile. I looked at her, then at her husband. “See if you can get her to drink more water. I need to go and make up a fever recipe. I will return.” They nodded and her husband took her hand.

I ran home. I had more willow bark for pain, but it doesn’t help with fever. Carefully, I washed my hands. I didn’t want any bad stuff from touching her seeping through my pores. Old Mother Burgess had recipes for fever, but she had told me that she wasn’t convinced about how well they work. Cooked elderberry might help. What I had was dried and cooking it would take a few hours. All I could do was try.

My mother looked at me as I started to pull out what I needed. “I’m trying to make a fever recipe for the old lady that Nathaniel and I saw last night.”

“Better you experiment on a stranger than on us.”

Ouch. At least she didn’t object. I started soaking the elderberries.

Midday

By midday, I had managed to soak and then cook the elderberries. I mixed the juice with willow bark water, put it in a cup and carefully carried it down the road. Her husband looked at me. “She’s still hot.”

I handed him the cup. “She needs to drink this. All of it.”

He raised her head, but that wasn’t going to be enough. I couched down and helped her sit up. She took the cup in both hands and shakily raised it to her mouth. Sip. Pause. Breath. Sip. Pause. Breath. It took some time before she could drink the entire cup, then we eased her back to lying down. I told the man, “Soak the cloth again. She needs to have it wet so it can take the heat away from her forehead.”

After he did so, I asked, “When was the last time you ate?” He looked up and answered, “The day before yesterday.”

“I’ll talk my mother into letting you have some stew. I’ll be back.” I stood back up and started home again.

Early Evening

I returned with a bowl of stew. Just vegetables, but it was what we had. The man ate for a minute, then he and I tried to get his wife to sit up. I could feel the heat from her body burning up, in spite of what her husband had tried with wet cloth or my elderberry and willow bark mixture. She took some sips of the stew from a spoon, but barely touched the chunks of vegetables. We laid her back down.

I turned to her husband. “The fever is much worse. How is the pain?”

He said, “The pain lessened after she drank what you gave her earlier, but she is getting hotter.”

“Has she slept?”

“Uneasily.”

I didn’t know what to say or do, then decided. “I’ll stay with you tonight.”

We sat on either side of her and held her hand. She had a weak coughing fit in the middle of the night for a little while, then quieted down.

Sometime before the first cock crowed, I couldn’t hear her breathing any more. I tried to feel her heartbeat and it was silent and I cried.

As the sky started to brighten, her husband looked at me, said “Thank you,” and he wept. I sat with him for awhile longer, then reached across and touched his sleeve. He looked up with tears streaking his face, disappearing into his beard. I said, “We don’t have a Vicar, but I will find someone who can help us.” He nodded and I stood up.

Shoulders slumped, I stumbled up the road home. Opening the door, my parents saw my face. My father just nodded and reached for his coat. I stood in the doorway as he stepped forward and enfolded me in his arms and I cried again. After a minute, I looked up at his face, pulled back and nodded. I turned, and both of us walked to the road.

“Where to?” I asked.

He stood for a moment in thought, then said “Let’s talk to Gilbert” and we headed to the inn.

Mrs Blexham saw us coming through the door and called for her husband. He stepped out of the kitchen, looked at me, dead tired and full of tears and asked “What happened? Sussana, are you all right?” Marion interrupted “The old couple camping up the road?”

“Yes. The woman.” I blurted out. “I used some of Old Mother Burgess’s medical recipes, they eased her pain, but she burned up with fever. I couldn’t stop it.” Mrs Blexham wrapped her arms around me and I started crying again. “There dear. God’s will to take us comes to us all at some time.”

She looked at her husband, then to my father. “We’ve no Vicar, we can’t bury her in the church cemetery. We’ll have to find another place for a cemetery. Gil, go talk to Brice (the baker) and figure out something. Jenefer, run along to Dericote’s and Gaynesford’s and tell them what’s happened. They’ll want to be involved in any decisions and will complain if we don’t tell them. Actually, stop at the blacksmith’s and ask if Thomas can help Mr Beckworth and meet us down the road by the stand of trees.”

She then looked at me and my father and said “Well, come along.”

Feeling like baby chicks following a mother hen, we hurried along behind her.

“Hallo the camp!”

We found the man still sitting beside the body of his wife, holding her hand.

Mrs Blexham offered her sympathies then said “We don’t have a Vicar, so the only offer we can make is a simple burial. You can say some prayers if you like.”

“I would be much obliged.”

I surprised myself, and probably everyone else, “Maybe we could bury her here?”

Mrs Blexham shook her head. “Mary’s Mercy. Too close to the road and the dead won’t rest easy. If we find a place further up the hill, t’would be better.”

She looked at the man and said, “It will take a while to get organized. What will you do afterwards?”

He looked down at his wife and said, “I guess I’ll go back to our children. My wife was the one the village accused. I’ll go back and await my time to join her.”

About that time Thomas Rawson, the blacksmith’s son, joined us. Mrs Blexham told him, “We’re going to need some shovels and a cart to bring the body to wherever the men decide we’re going to have a cemetery. This cart’s already loaded. Off you go.” He started back the way he came at a lope. She looked at my father, “We’ll come get you when we need you.” and off he went.

Mrs Blexham and I sat back down with the husband. I tried to wash the wife’s face as best I could with the remaining water in the bucket, arranged her hands, then all three of us waited.

A couple of hours passed, then we heard a mule cart coming down the road, accompanied by several men. My father had also heard them and joined the procession. Mr Dericote and Mr Blexham led the group and had a tarp for the body.

After receiving permission from the husband, they wrapped the body in the tarp and loaded it onto the cart. We passed all the way back through town, and then up a slight rise where, I guess, the men had decided we were to have a new cemetery. Several of the men who worked on the Dericote farm were already there with shovels, digging out a resting place. Someone showed up with a small wooden cross and Mathilda Potter, the petty school teacher, came and asked the husband for a name to put on the cross. “Rosamund Edgcomb” was the answer.

After the men had dug down to some depth they thought appropriate, a couple of them respectfully picked up the tarp from the cart and lowered it into the hole. We all stood in silence for a minute, then Mr Blexham asked the husband if he wanted to say anything. The man stood there for a moment, head bowed, then, in a faltering voice, sang a song we all knew from church. We joined in. At the end of the song, he picked up a handful of dirt, and threw it gently into the hole. Everyone else did the same, then the men with the shovels started the job of filling in the holes.

The man looked around at us all. “Thank you for your generosity.” He looked at me. “And thank you for trying your best to save her from the fever. I didn’t expect that for a stranger.” He looked back around. “I’m going to go back to Northumbria now and wait my turn.” He slowly made his way down off the rise, through town, collected his cart. And we never saw him again.

Mathilda Potter looked at Mrs Blexham and me and asked. “What was his name, so I can write ‘Beloved wife of _’ on the cross”? I put my hand to my mouth. “They were strangers. We never asked their names.”

Mathilda replied, “They were God’s children, not strangers.” and wrote ’Beloved Wife’ below ’Rosamund Edgcomb’. Then she looked back at me. “The important thing is that you tried to help them, name or not.”

My father put his arm around my shoulder and whispered, “You will become a very wise woman someday, and last night was when you started your journey. Remember this day. You will have both victories and defeats. We all do. Sometimes there is nothing you can do but hold their hand and ease their path. It hurts right now, but you’ve shown the strength of your heart. I am proud of your beginnings. Do not let this stop you.”

I knew what he was trying to do. He was trying to ease my pain and hold my hand as I held … I glanced at the cross … Mrs Edgcomb’s hand. I didn’t feel proud, but I appreciated his attempt.

Next - Sussana Argues with Mathilda (September 7, 1643)

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