*They should sell quickly,' Martha said.

Of slight physique, he struggled under the weight. He cast a concerned glance at Eppie. *Don't be long, Ep.'

Yet another night had passed when Eppie had not slept well, having experienced her recurring nightmare, reliving Gillow's death.

Ever since the shock of the killing, she and Martha lived their lives in a stupor. They went about their day-to-day tasks with an inner sense of disbelief, verbally acknowledging his loss, never quite believing the truth of their words.

On a winter's evening, Eppie would sit on the stool and stare into the flickering flames, living a world of make-believe. Closing her eyes, she could smell the rich scent of tobacco from Gillow's shat pipe as he relaxed in his armchair after a hard day's weaving. Above the crackling blaze she heard his hearty laughter or the wavering tunes of his accordion.

Martha, beleaguered by her emotions, would frequently sink into a depression of spirits when, in the past, she had usually been optimistic and light-hearted.

What Eppie could never imagine was how valiantly Martha struggled against a sense of culpability that Gillow's death was punishment from God for the evil that she and Wakelin were committing. For the malady from which she was suffering was not wholly caused by her anguish at the loss of Gillow, physical illness, or the long hours she willed herself to work, sacrificing her health through arduous toil, but mental torture knowing she harboured Genevieve from her family.

Martha became aware of Eppie, subdued and listless, tears of weariness in her eyes. *Another bad night?' she asked gently.

Dawkin marched back in. *Ready?' Seeing Eppie's distress, he recalled how she had cried out in her sleep. *I'll go on me own if you'd rather stay in the warmth.'

Grabbing her cloak, she flung it about her shoulders.

*I'll make sure she doesn't have a tiring day, Ma,' Dawkin said.

Martha went to the food cupboard. *Take these lard cakes to eat on the way. Give one to Wakelin. Be careful how you go, them roads is slap with ice.'

Hopping onto the donkey trap beside Dawkin, Eppie tucked the skirts of her woollen frock between her knees and took Wicker onto her lap. *She's as warm as the gloves Gabriel gave mam last year. I wonder why he hasn't returned home from Bath yet. He's been gone so long.'

Catching her words, Wakelin hurled the axe into his cart.

*Why do you need to take that?' she asked. *You're only fetching coal, not mining it.'

He glared at her.

Dawkin felt guilty about harbouring his knowledge of what had happened to Gabriel. He had kept quiet, fearful of what might happen to him if Wakelin found out that he knew. With a flick of his wrist, he set Dusty into a trot, following Jenny.

*Have fun!' Martha cried from the doorway.

Staggered by this comment, Eppie was jolted into making a response. *Hanging around a market pitch, our feet feeling like blocks of icy pigs' trotters, you call that fun!'

Tugging out a package, she passed it to Dawkin. *Seeing as it's so cold, I thought you could do with this.'

Handing her the reins, he gleefully dragged out the red woollen object. *Just what I've always wanted, umm, what is it?'

*It was supposed to be a tea cosy. Mam said it wasn't a lot of use because it's gone a bit long and has holes where they're not meant to be. It'd do to keep your ears warm.'

He dragged the cap over his wavy brown hair and down to his neck. Staring through holes, his eyes glittered in amusement. *I'm slingshot Dawkin, the famous highwayman. No one will recognise me.'

Embarrassed about her penurious knitting skills, she tore it from him. *I'll throw it in the ditch.'

*Don't!' He snatched it back. *It's perfect, and so big it's bound to fit me even when I'm growed.'

Satisfied with his enthusiastic response, she planted a kiss upon his cheek. In turn, he drew her close to keep out the chill air. It was the first time in many months that she felt truly happy.

A cloak of snow covered the valley. Hills rose and dipped like enormous waves in a white sea. Icicles hung from cottage eaves.

Passing Goose Orchard, Wakelin slowed his cart, having spied logs stacked behind a peppered hedge. Taking a swig from his pocket pistol, he set Jenny to a quicker pace.

Eppie had read his mind. Joyfully, she belted out her version of her favourite Christmas song. *Good King Wakelin got so drunk he was sorely stew-ed. Jour-neyed home late that night pinch-ing win-ter fu-el!'

Grabbing the axe, he made pretence of throwing it at her.

Sniggering, her eyes drifted over the sprinkling of snow scattered upon the torn thatch of Pear Tree Cottage. Abandoned after its occupants had moved away in search of better-paid, all-year-round work in Malstowe, the home had a desolate air as though it were inhabited by ghosts. It reminded her of the tale that Kizzie had told the threshers: Ensconced in the Swan Chamber, Maygott had experienced several unnerving visitations. At first he kept them to himself, not wishing to appear hysterical.

In the morning, whilst splashing his face at the washstand, the door would burst open when there was no draught to account for it. At night, he would wake to the sound of creaking, like the swaying bow of a phantom rocking horse. Always these experiences were combined with the sensation of an icy breeze down his neck.

The final straw came late one night.

He slept in the grand bed in which Lady Constance had passed away. Jerking awake, he found himself being hoisted through the air, as though he were a plaything, or so he had related to du Quesne after he had run, screaming, through the manor and woken the household.

He had been placed on his feet in a sheep fold beside a toy shepherd, the spitting image of Samuel Cobbett. From this vantage point he could see into a baby-house. An effigy of his lordship was pinned to the ceiling by his buckle-breeches, his neck broken and stuffing leaking.

Kizzie said that Lord du Quesne looked mortified at this part of the tale.

Talia, a beautiful river maiden, gargantuan compared to the miniature doll figures, had floated towards the baby-house, her sky-blue frock caressing her body as though she were drifting through water. Fetching a baby doll out of the toy cradle, she laid it on a rug and wrapped it in a ragged cloth.

It was at this moment that Maygott spotted a distorted face staring in at the miniature bottle-glass window of the baby-house nursery. Though shrouded in gloom, its dominant chin and thick lips standing out against seemingly invisible cheeks, it bore an uncanny resemblance to Wakelin Dunham, the son of the deceased weaver.

Du Quesne firmly denied the chamber was haunted, although Kizzie did not think he looked so sure when Mrs Bellows pointed out the slithers of riverweed lying in puddles beneath the washstand.

Dusty topped the summit of the hill. Around the Lyn hills the temperature had plummeted in the winter blasts. Scattered hummocks of tussock grass spiked through crisp drifts of snow, arched white and frosty. Trench-like valleys on the far side of the mere had vanished beneath a sheet of glittering snow. Children swooped down slopes on homemade toboggans, their squeals of excitement, mingled with shrieks of terror, cutting through the air.

Ranged along the nearside of the lake were gaily-coloured stalls.

The air was thick with celebratory anticipation; folk smiled hugely at friends and sang out good tidings.

Eppie was ecstatic at the jolly sight. *The market's here today!' Her shrill voice brought Dusty to a startled standstill, ears pricked.

Skaters skimmed over the frozen surface of the lake.

*If only we had some ... '

*Skates?' She had not noticed Wakelin approach. In his upraised hand he held two pairs.

*They're wonderful! How did you know about the market? That's why mam said have fun, isn't it?'

He was delighted to see her revel in the cleverness of his craftwork. *Gramps gave me the sheep bones for blades and I fixed on the leather straps. Say hello to Ezra for me. He's singing for a hunk of cheese, an' a draught o' ale. Some folk have all the luck.' The dog sat beside the donkey trap, a front paw raised. *Twiss wants to come with you. Can't say I blame him. See ya.'

As usual, Dawkin drew attention to himself as people stared at the badger ambling by his side. He always carried a stick in case Wicker was attacked by dogs. Since Wicker had been brought up with Twiss, however, she acted more like a dog and even smelt doggish.

Upon the stalls were heaped all manner of basic necessities, giving shopkeepers and householders their last chance of stocking up for the winter. Grocers mixed blends of tea, and spices, ground coffee, sold oranges and hot gingerbread. A savoury-smell arose from tripod stoves where market-goers queued for pies.

Resourceful stallholders were quick to humour customers in their patriotic fantasies. Men's hats, cocked in the military or naval fashion, were providing an excellent last-minute Christmas success on a milliner's stand. Women flocked around a souvenir stall, eagerly seeking anything from teacups to bed linen embellished with illustrations of their revered British fleet.

Ezra stood amongst a band of journeymen who had set up a stall inside a pink and yellow striped marquee. A barrel, decorated with clumps of holly berries in nests of evergreen leaves, contained lamb's wool; a beverage of hot ale blended with spices, sugar, cream and roast apples. It was beside this tent that the children set up pitch.

*Get yer Christmas geese *ere!' Dawkin yelled into the crowd. *Can I interest you in a goose, guv'nor? Been hangin' ten days, nice n' tender.'

Wandering past a cooper's stall, Thurstan looked every inch a dandy in his moleskin trousers, tailcoat and high collar. Most striking about him were his curls which were brushed forward for an unruly, wind-swept look. Millisande Crocker, the only daughter of the wealthiest attorney in Litcombe, had her arm curled around his. Shivering and sucking comfits the impressionable girl giggled at his every word.

Even Lord du Quesne was here for this festive occasion. He was ridiculing Lord Rowland Wexcombe for his notion of enforcing, on Saint Stephen's Day, the bloodletting of cattle, purportedly to protect the beasts from sickness throughout the coming year. Wexcombe, a short gentleman with a knob of a head that blended into his neck like a terrapin, arched his eyebrows at du Quesne's condescending words, but kept his button mouth firmly shut.

Ezra blew a blast upon a cow-horn. *Wes hal! Fellow countrymen come drink and be merry. Drink to health and prosperity this Christmas.'

Attracted like bees to a honeycomb, rich farmers drew to the wassails.

Twiss yammered along, looked on bemusedly by Wicker, as the band sang, *Here we come a-wassailing, among the leaves so green.'

Du Quesne had long since given up the bob-wig as passe. His head of fair hair, grizzled about the ears, was adorned by a high-crowned black beaver hat which tipped precariously backward as, with avidity, he supped the heady liquor.

Since it was considered unlucky for anyone who drank from the barrel to refuse alms to the singers, each gentleman dipped into his pocket, all except du Quesne, Bulwar and Wexcombe, who made a swift exodus.

Having sold the geese, Eppie and Dawkin mingled with the throng. Beets, as big as bulls' heads, were being fed into a root-slicer. An operator cranked a flywheel, rotating knives to demonstrate this novel means of preparing mangel-wurzel for in-wintering bullocks and dairy cows.

Jostled in the crush, the children overheard a man explaining to farmers how land could be drained by use of his innovative pumping mill. The impressive model, complete with sails, was drawing a good-sized crowd, amongst them Lord du Quesne. Above the general discourse he could be heard bragging to Bulwar and Wexcombe about his competence in raising stock of the highest quality. *My hogs are the largest you would ever wish to set eyes upon, with immense hocks and bellies. As for my longhorn oxen, they are noted for the massive accumulation of fat on the rump.'

Humouring his lady-friend with his wit, Thurstan snatched a cushion from a stall and shoved it up the rear of his tailcoat in a burlesque gesture, caricaturing du Quesne as a country bumpkin.

Detecting amusement going on at his expense, du Quesne glared around, eyebrows knitted, though he witnessed nothing untoward. Thurstan, knowing full well it was a risky undertaking to perform any parody of his uncle had whipped out the incriminating article in a twinkling, and now cast him a syrupy smile, feigning innocence.

His nephew's self-aggrandizement being apparent in his attire, du Quesne said, *Your business is clearly proving lucrative in these times of competition.'

*Indeed,' Thurstan answered. *Coaching is by far superior to sheep shearing.'

*Never underestimate a sheep. My Leicesters have the finest wool combined with exceptional carcasses.'

The last thing Thurstan wanted was to be drawn into a discussion about the merits of his uncle's beasts. *Spin around the lake, Milli?' He turned to Fulke, his driver. *Clopton, fetch the skates from the phaeton.'

*Thurstan, darling,' Millisande implored in a watery voice, raising a white palm in alarm; *I lack your dexterity and would rather that my feet remain on terra firma.'

*I purposefully brought you for the skating,' he answered irritably, shoulders tightening. Aware of her jaded sullenness, he sought to cajole the callow woman. *With such comely feet as yours I am sure that, together, we shall skate divinely in poetica. But first, carpe diem, quam minimum credula postera: let us eat, drink and be merry.'

Beside a chandler's tent, boys were egging their friend on to jump a lofty row of candles set up as a game of leap-candle. Tallow candles were expensive with the high levy on them to help pay for the war against France. Eppie and Martha hated rushlights and would rather go to bed early than suffer the smell of them. Lingering at the display, Eppie picked up a yule candle and decided to buy it for Martha.

Tired of waiting for the chandler to wrap it with his clumsy fingers, she glanced around. Grinling and Agnes Clopton were conversing with their brother Fulke. Agnes's small head and scrawny neck projected from a cloak trimmed with ermine, an unusually fine adornment for a poorhouse matron, giving her a vulture-like look. Aware of Eppie gazing at her, Agnes glared back, disdainfully.

It was then that Eppie noticed a furtive watcher. Squire Bulwar, his bloated face looking not dissimilar to a vinegar-soused pig's head hanging on a nearby stall, was rubbing his chins in deep thought. Only when Dawkin turned from the stall with the candle did she realise that the squire was glaring not at her, but at him.

CHAPTER FORTY-ONE.

FLYING BLADES.

All of Litcombe seemed to have taken to the ice. Everywhere people struck out, some skating alone, others in pairs, hands linked across their chests.

Tired from their exertions, skaters wove their way towards the island for refreshments. A butcher's audacious decision to lead his pony to the island was paying off, for he was doing a roaring trade, roasting meat over a flaming brazier.

For the benefit of non-skaters a line of sacks had been laid across the ice, forming a walkway that linked the shore with the island.

Eppie and Dawkin donned their skates.

Twiss, now an old dog, with ashen flecks of age in his fur, nestled beside Wicker for a snooze upon a heap of discarded sacks.

Cautiously, Dawkin pushed onto the lacerated surface. *This doesn't feel safe.'

Thrusting her arms away from her body, whirling, pumping, Eppie sought to maintain her balance, but fell in a heap. *I can't imagine why mam would think this is fun.'

*I guess we'll get used to it after a few hours of practice.'

*I can't wait that long!' Knees apart, head dangling between hunched shoulders as though battling against a strong wind, she advanced, slowly.

Dawkin waited for her to catch up. *You look like a duck that's about to lay an enormous egg.'

A boy raced recklessly towards them. The tip of his skate scuffing into the ice, he smacked into Dawkin and sent him sprawling.

*And you look like a scrambled egg!' Eppie said, giggling.

In place of the skates he lacked, a pauper boy had tied sacks over his feet. Fetching out a tin that looked to contain horse grease he rubbed at the coarse material, lubricating it so that the makeshift skates would not stick to the ice.

Despondently, Eppie watched him speed away. *I think I'd rather have sacks on my feet.' Lowering her eyes, she determinedly made a fist of her dropped hands, steeling herself to do more than simply balance precariously. However, as soon as she got up a bit of speed, one or the other leg took off of its own accord and, tottering, she would crumple onto the glassy surface. Agitatedly, she slapped her elbows, knocking away frostings.

*Eppie, are you coming sledging?' It was Ella, riding in a red sleigh, her father at the reins.

Eppie had often seen George at work on the sleigh in his workshop. She rubbed her mittened fingers over the graceful bows. *It's like a Viking long ship.'

She and Dawkin clambered in, joining a tribe of carefree, chattering children who had crammed in toboggans. The white ponies set off to the northern vales, silver bells around their necks ringing gaily.

George inclined his head towards the sun riding in a pale blue sky. *The ice won't last. It's a wonder it hasn't cracked already under the weight of all these folk.'

Firs dotted the sloping valleys and broke through snow that sparkled in drifts.

Panting, the children came to the summit of the hill. Esmond staggered towards them. *Gyles tobogganed into a tree!' Animatedly, he simulated the accident. *Whoosh! Crash!'

*Is he much hurt?' Ella asked in concern.

*No idea. He's run off home to ma.' He dropped the sledge at Dawkin's feet. *Wanna go, Daw? It's real good, dead slippery and hard to stop.'