Shrieking with laughter, Wilbert and Sukey charged into the lane after it. It was a popular practice amongst children in these parts, upon meeting a white horse, to make a cross on the ground with twigs. The first to spit on the centre of the cross would find treasure. With gusto, they took it in turns to spit beside the front hooves of the carriage horses waiting before the gate.

A scuffle broke out. *It were me!' Wilbert cried.

Sukey slobbered her runny nose on her sleeve. *Nah, me!'

*Oy, stop that filthy behaviour in front of her ladyship,' Jacob chided.

They ran off, thumping one another.

Jacob wrenched open the carriage door. The interior was upholstered in blue velvet. Matching curtains were pulled aside from the opposite windows. *Sorry about that, m'ladies.'

Eppie's gaze fell upon a lady with puckered ruby red lips. Her round face, fat like a pig's, was framed below by an enormous Brabant collar and above with a fur hat. *Really, gatekeeper,' she said in an imperious tone, readjusting her lap blanket, *this stopping and starting is not good for one's constitution. Has this wagoner completed his transaction?'

*Aye, that he has, aye, Mrs Bulwar.'

*Kindly close this door. It lets in a most disagreeable chill.'

Jacob waved his beetroot leaves at Jermyn, indicating that he had better get a move on.

As the carriage rolled past, Eppie's eyes momentarily rested upon the fine lady who sat opposite Mrs Bulwar, reclining against the padded backrest. She recognised her from Gabriel's description of his mother. Though pale and aged through illness, Lady Constance du Quesne's tender nature was plain to see. Acting upon impulse, Eppie curtsied. The smile that flickered upon Constance's delicate lips, as she caught sight of Eppie, vanished as quickly as it appeared, to be replaced by an expression of perplexity.

Treading into Copper Piece Wood, Eppie was awestruck by the glorious cathedral of trees, resplendent in their autumnal foliage. The air was full of creaking and rustling as the last of the leaves shook free, drifting around her like parched shrews.

Picking up a stick, she thrashed branches where acorns hung limply. Greedily, the pigs raced around, nosing for the fallen acorns. The image of Lady Constance remained fixed in Eppie's mind. Whilst the lady's face had borne a mask of well-practiced social etiquette, caught off guard it was as though her private, inner self had surfaced. What was it about the sight of the woman that pulled at her heartstrings? Made her sense that something was missing from her life?

From a clearing arose the smell of smouldering wood. Men had stacked hornbeam branches in readiness to make charcoal and were now shovelling earth on top of the hummock. Every now and then an escaping jet of spiralling smoke swirled close to the men's feet, to be smothered with earth. She imagined the mound to be the lair of a vexatious dragon.

Axes hacked. An oak shivered as it sought to hold onto life. Wistfully, Eppie reflected upon all the years that the tree had lived in harmony with the seasons. Though she hastily pressed her palms to her ears, this could not shut out the sickening thud which reverberated through her feet as the trunk smashed to the ground.

Wakelin sat inside the entrance of a rain-shelter constructed from woven branches and canvas, slashing with a knife as though cleaving and trimming hazel poles. Outside the tent, Haggard, a wily-looking character, who wore strips of blanket around his calves, which he called his country boots, was hacking branches.

Setting off to the broad skirt of an oak tree, Eppie swooped upon an enormous acorn.

*Hey, I've found a hedgehog!' Wilbert yelled.

Eppie glanced back to where the path dived into a dingle, stunted oaks surrounding its slope. Wilbert had been whacking leaves in a half-hearted effort to find nuts to feed his family's pigs. He now turned his attention to the unfortunate hedgehog.

Enraged, seeing him strike it with his stick, Eppie raced towards the boy. *Leave it be!'

*Shove off.'

*It's done nowt to you.'

*It's sucked our cow's milk dry.'

*That's a dullard's tale, no mistake.'

Spying the massive acorn, he snatched it from her. *What a big un!'

Hurtling into Wilbert, Sukey knocked it from his hand. *That's mine! I spat in the middle of *em horse twigs, so I won it.'

*Nah, ya din't.' Wilbert tried to grab it back. *It were me. I know my spittle anywhere; it's got yellow blobs in it.'

Eppie stamped her foot. *You gimme back my acorn.'

Sukey sneezed over her. *I take what I want.'

Skulking behind Sukey, Wilbert snatched it.

Wakelin raced up to the squabbling children. *Oy! Give that back!' He booted Wilbert on the backside so hard that he flew through the air.

Wilbert howled in agony, his face as grubby as the rotting leaf-litter in which he sprawled.

Taking one last look at Wakelin's fierce expression, the children pelted off.

Eppie and Wakelin wandered back to the tent.

*A year of many nuts means a year of many nits,' Wakelin reminded her. *So, unless ya wanna catch what *em Hix kids have got, stay away from *em. Anyway, where's yer guts? Why didn't ya fight *em for yer acorn?'

*Pa says it's wrong to fight.'

*You don't need to listen to what pa says. A good smack around the chops is the only language them sort understand.'

Haggard emerged from the shelter. Tugging at his goatee beard, he stared anxiously around.

Before the folds of the canvas fell back, Eppie spotted the bloodied carcase of a deer. *So, that's what they've been up to,' she thought. *Poaching.' Despondently, she ambled away.

Wakelin tossed rods into a heap. *Where you off?'

*Home.'

*With them clodpoll Hix lying in wait for ya? Not clever.' Nearby was an elder tree, its criss-cross branches sweeping the ground. Within was a log. *Sit.'

Eppie wanted to chastise him for talking to her as though she was Twiss, but felt too tired to argue.

Wakelin and Haggard worked on, making wattle hurdles that would be used to cordon off parts of the fields. The hurdles were useful for providing shelter at lambing time. Laying a log mould upon the ground, in which holes were drilled in a line, Wakelin inserted upright spur rods and wove horizontal cleft rods around them.

Eppie's stomach rumbled.

Wakelin was riled to see her expectant eyes fixed upon him. *Yur, Yur.' He stole a cautious glance into the shadowy woodland and disappeared into the shelter. Moments later he reappeared, a bulky sack upon his shoulder.

Motioning Wakelin to chuck the sack into his wagon, Haggard drove off in the direction of The Fat Duck.

Wakelin grabbed a ragged bundle and hastened away. *Shift it. I'm famished.'

Eppie's fast walk changed to sporadic bursts of running as she tried to keep up with the racing pigs and Wakelin's giant strides. Consumed by thoughts of his poaching she uttered not a word about the theft, though she must have given something of her mind away.

*Why ya staring at me like that?' he upbraided.

*I ain't.'

What neither of them saw was a furtive watcher. Camouflaged by his moleskin jacket and trousers, Amis Lodge, Lord du Quesne's gamekeeper, lurked beside a field maple, a gun slung over his shoulder.

Eppie's attention was drawn to dirty grey smoke billowing not from the chimney in the hip roof of Dank Cottage but from out of the door.

Wakelin dashed indoors. *What's amiss, Ma?'

Martha's face was flushed. *I'm not getting the parsnip pudding whisked, that's what. Not long after Henry called to let me know we mustn't gather fuel from Copper Piece Wood I bought some cheap coal from a gypsy who came acalling. I'm sure it's sea coal, it smokes so. I've been frozen all morning having to keep the door open to let out the smoke.'

*We can't live like this, Ma. Up at the manor they've got heaps of logs for fires. Du Quesne don't intend shivering, so why should we? Outta me way.' Dragging the fire bucket towards the grate, he shovelled out embers.

Martha fetched the cauldron off the fire and set about serving the cow heel broth. *I only hope this has warmed through.'

*There ya go, Ma. A cheerful blaze with no smoke.'

*Whatever did you make that with? I'd no wood left.' Branches lay beside a pile of discarded rags. Martha drew her ash-grimed hand across her forehead. *Wakelin, you've never gone and ... '

*It don't matter, Ma. Say yer pleased. I thieved it for you.'

*His lordship gave strict orders.'

Wakelin was irritated by his mother's displeasure. *What do any of the du Quesne's care? As long as they live life lavish they don't give a hoot about us.'

Eppie stamped her foot. *That's not true. Gabriel told me ...' She bit her tongue, horrified at the words that had tumbled out.

Wakelin glared at her, his eyes filled with suspicion.

*Shoo!' It was shortly after dawn the following day. Martha was in the backyard. *How did you get in here?'

The remains of her bread and sugar breakfast sticking out of her mouth, Eppie dashed off to investigate, expecting to see the yard overrun with Samuel's sheep. She was in time to see the pigs scurry into the orchard, their roly-poly rumps swaying.

Hands on hips, Martha stood in the wring-shed, surveying the remains of the plums she had intended to use for liquor. *Did you leave the door open?'

Eppie shook her head.

*Who did? Gillow, before he set off to the cloth market after cockcrow?' Some cider bottles were missing. *Ah, no, I see. That Wakelin Dunham has been helping himself a bit too often for my liking. I suppose it's because he's badly off. It was mean of du Quesne to say Wakelin could only work for him if he accepted half-pay.'

Whilst Martha was busy indoors, Eppie set to, clearing up. Having swept the last of the mashed fruit into a pile, she fetched a pail of water from the stream. Charms of goldfinches flitted around, nipping seeds from summer's knapweed crowns.

Kneeling on the wring-shed floor, she was busy scrubbing when shouting came from the lane. She scurried down the garden path to investigate. Hanging over the cart gate, she saw a gang of hallooing men and boys chasing a dog. *Wasp!' He must've escaped from Tom's barn.

The dog looked so crazed that she imagined he could bite off his own head.

Martha came to the cottage door, opening it only a little, so that Twiss would not escape. *Eppie get indoors!'

Swinging around, Wasp faced the gang. They came to an abrupt halt, fearful looks on their faces. Like a miniature fighting bull, the dog tore towards Tom. Before it had a chance to bite, Tom dealt it a vicious kick. Making a bloodcurdling howl, Wasp fell to the ground. The tormentors left off.

Staring at Wasp, Eppie saw him open his eyes a crack. His nostrils trembled as though smelling her out.

Rising swiftly, he raced towards the garden gate which, obligingly for him, as he head butted it, swung open.

*Eppie!' Martha beseeched, still holding the door ajar. *Quickly!'

The dog came to a jolting stop, standing between the cart gate and the cottage, glowering at Eppie.

*Uh oh!' Eppie realised she should have done as Martha said. Now it was too late.

Pelting back to the wring-shed, squealing, she sensed the dog close on her heels.

At the moment that she braced her back against the door, the dog's horny head slammed onto the other side. Intent on reaching her, he scrabbled at the gap at the bottom.

Eppie's legs shook so much that she was sure they would not prop her up.

There was a moment of silence. This was followed by deafening squeals.

*Those are my piggies!' she thought despairingly. *I grew *em from acorns.' In her mind she pictured Slodgy lying in a pool of blood, his trotters twitching.

A barley threshing flail hung upon a rusty nail. She grabbed the ash hand-staff. The holly-wood swingle swung upon its leather strap, heavy and free.

Mustering courage that she did not truly feel, she threw back the door and raced towards the dog. The flail in her raised hand now felt, incredibly, feather-light. *Oy, you!'

From the corner of her eye she saw Martha also running towards the orchard. She looked most un-Martha-like, flapping her arms and squawking like a pheasant.

Hearing Eppie's thudding footsteps, Wasp wheeled round. Gnashing his teeth, he rocketed towards her.

She had no time to react.

The dog leapt squarely upon her chest and she landed, with an agonising thud, on a heap of bobbly windfall apples.

Above her loomed murderous eyes, a flash of jagged teeth. Drool, with a distinctive sweet-piggy odour, dripped from the dog's purple tongue onto the stiffened muscles of her neck.

Before Wasp had a chance to bite, Eppie rammed the swingle between his teeth. In pained surprise, the dog leapt back.

Dragged to her feet, Eppie felt Martha's comforting arms about her.

By now the orchard had become a scene of pandemonium. Dashing around the fruit trees, the pursuers tried to grab the dog. He was too quick for them and raced off in the direction of the manor house.

The men and boys immediately charged after the deranged dog. With a sense of disbelief, Eppie and Martha listened as Gillow's rows of beautifully blanched leeks shattered beneath the thundering feet.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN.

SLICK'S FINEST LICK Bonneted, cloaked and mittened, Eppie skipped to Little Lubbock church. Along the way she hummed the melodies she knew Gabriel would be rehearsing.