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CHAPTER ONE

Lammas Day dawned bright and fair, and Seth and his wife hastened about their preparations for the journey to the village. There was little to do, for Elizabeth, in the  far-sighted way of women, had made ready as much as possible the day before. All that remained was to cook and eat breakfast, to load the cart Seth had made for her, and to arrange for the care of the farm beasts during their absence.

As they wouldn't be returning until the evening of the next day, the feeding troughs of their two pigs were piled high, and the water troughs left brimming. The fowls could be left to themselves, and the cow likewise; milked and safely penned in the field amongst the lush grass. Mr. Ackroyd – who was not going to the fair that day, but would be there tomorrow when he had business of a kind that had set the Dale buzzing– would milk her that evening and again in the morning. Elizabeth's sister was left chained to the kennel she shared with Lady; puzzled at not being taken out and put on her long rope in the field, she bounced up and down, mewing plaintively until Elizabeth soothed her with a handful of cabbage stalks to gnaw upon and a mound of sliced turnips in her bowl to stay her over their period of absence.

Lady was to accompany them, for Seth wouldn't hear of leaving his dog chained up and left at home, and when Elizabeth, her dress folded and stowed away, was harnessed naked to her cart, her husband led his wife and his dog away up the track leading to the public road.

Elizabeth's bridle had been put on at the farm, and it was only when they left their land did her husband insert the bit into his wife's mouth and shift her leash to it from her collar to lead her as draught animals were led. But he did so only after a long and loving kiss, and when she was safely haltered Bathsheba Ackroyd came hurrying up to join them.

Her friend was happier than Elizabeth had ever seen her, proudly wearing the plain leather collar worn by dogs, goats and women, the collar God's-Will-Be-Done Ramsclough had put around her neck when she'd accepted his shy, stammering proposal a few weeks ago. The collar was only buckled, and not yet riveted; that would be done at her wedding tomorrow; a double wedding, for Willy's mother was to wed Bathsheba's father on the same day now that Bathsheba's mother was dead, found stiff and cold in the little shed where she was kept at night. The memory of her sin of long ago was now forgotten, and she'd been buried in hallowed ground, for she'd never been quite an animal, even if not a full human being. Beulah Ramsclough had lost no time in setting her cap at Mr. Ackroyd; nor was he loth, for Beulah was a comely woman and a sturdy, a fit mate for a hard-working farmer of the Dale. Many hands made light work, and his poor wife would be missed when the cart was needed. But Beulah or Bathsheba could cope with that, and all could help about the orchards and potato fields which would help to feed them all year round.

The three walked onward, Seth sweating and self-conscious in his only suit of heavy woollen cloth, and Bathsheba, in the woollen dress of an unwed girl and envious of the cool nakedness of her friend's married state, brought them up to date with the latest news, for she, yet unmarried and fewer than twenty years old, could still roam far and wide as she willed.

Jacob Archer, who eked out a precarious existence on the poor soil higher up the Dale, had taken to wife Potiphar Plowman, a distant relation of Elizabeth herself. All well and good, but with Jacob lived his sister Magdalen – 'Magdalen Wrymouth,' as she was known on account of her hare-lip. The farm wouldn't support three adults, nor was it decent that Magdalen should continue to live there when her brother married. Although only nineteen and free to roam, Magdalen stayed at home out of shyness about her ruined face, nor was she likely to marry. There was only one solution; she would be brought to the fair by her brother tomorrow, on the day when domestic animals were sold or exchanged, and there given to anyone who would take her in for the sake of her labour.

If all else failed, Thomas Wheelwright would take in Magdalen, Bathsheba declared, and Seth and Elizabeth agreed, for Thomas held some of the best land in the Dale and was a man both kindly and generous. He was wealthy, too, owning, apart from a wife, many cattle including four collared women, and more than a score of pigs and cows along with a dozen goats and numerous sheep. Magdalen would be well treated there, and cared for when she grew too old for work, but she would never leave the farm again, being its property and tied to it as much as any of its other livestock.

The three fell silent, Seth on account of being bored with women's gossip, Bathsheba because she'd said her piece, and Elizabeth perforce, on account of the steel bit in her mouth. Besides, it was hard work pulling the cart, laden as it was with a pin of beer – small beer, fragrant and weak for drinking on a hot day, for if men tippled strong ale in the mornings they forgot what they had to do in the afternoons – along with a sack of Elizabeth's famous onions. It was a heavy load, and the sweat trickled down Elizabeth's bare, dusty back as she leaned into her harness, Bathsheba pushing the cart from behind whenever they went uphill whilst Seth and his dog went on unheeding.

Nearer the village they met many folk, men and children with leashed women and goats en route to the fair. At the Inn, Seth and Lady abandoned Elizabeth to the care of her sister-women who freed her and took her into the Women's Rooms to bathe and dress. Later, sitting on the ale benches with pipes and tankards, the women watched the men and boys at their work of setting up the market stalls, calling out good advice whilst marvelling audibly at male clumsiness and tardiness.

Then a late breakfast was served, and women flocked to the kitchen of the Inn where Jacob Hawker, the Landlord, stood in a maze amongst the bustle of such brisk female activity until his wife thrust a stoup of ale into his hand and banished him to join the men at the ale-bench outside.

A huge meal was enjoyed by everyone: bacon and eggs, stewed pigs' trotters, mutton porridge, fried cows' lung and as much blood sausage as anyone could eat. Then the pack mule of Isaac the Jew was seen coming down the fell, the burly figure of Isaac to its fore, and the fair began.

CHAPTER TWO

It took but an hour for Elizabeth to sell or barter her onions, her beer being given to the landlady of the Inn to eke out the supply of drink. Many women had done the same, for it was not to be imagined that the Inn itself could supply so many thirsty folk from its cellars. Packing her husband off to the ale bench with twopence to pay his score, she made her way to the thronged stall of Isaac the Jew.

Isaac was in fine fettle, exchanging badinage and insults with the women thronging about his stall, some free to about and others held leashed by their embarrassed male kin. Elizabeth bought pins, needles and cotton thread – oil for the lamps could wait until Michaelmas – haggling with the best of them whilst Isaac tore his beard in anguish and cast up imprecations and pleas for mercy to his God amongst the urchins who came bearing brimming tankards for him as he willed..

Afterwards, with her purchases safely stowed away, Elizabeth set about what a later generation would call 'net-working.' She sought out and spoke to Jael Hardacre, a young women kin to herself and as tall and strong, and Jael's husband Hezekiah, as small and wiry as his wife was tall and sturdy, but with the strong arms and broad shoulders of his trade. With them she arranged a visit for three days in late September, for she meant to have ploughed the old potato field whose walls Seth had repaired; she would pay for their services by giving them her own for six days, a bargain eagerly accepted by both, for Elizabeth and Jael worked well together, being of the same height and build.

The buying, bartering and selling over, the women went en mass to the ale benches where they displaced the grumbling men whom they sent to take down and store away the wooden stalls and tables. There they sat at their ease, pipes and tankards at hand, and watched the men toil in the hot sun with an air of righteous satisfaction. It was good that menfolk should be kept busy, the women all agreed, for the Devil finds work for idle male hands to do, and men were most useful when heavy lifting needed to be done.

After a mid-day meal of bread, cheese and ale, races were run amongst the boys and younger men. There were archery contests, keenly contested, for the Dalesmen prided themselves on that skill with the longbow they'd been taught by the Welsh who dwelt high up on the fringes of Owldale. Each archer carried twenty-four Scotchmen under his belt, they would boast, referring to the two dozen arrows they kept there. And that was true enough, as the godless Scotch had found on those occasions when they'd rode as far south as Owldale. But they came not often, and then only when the great English lords were at odd with each other and the joint rule failed of the King's Lieutenant in York and the Prince-Bishop in Durham, for there were but slim pickings and hard knocks south of Barnard's Castle into Richmondshire and the North Riding of Yorkshire beyond where folk were hardy and numerous.

There were bouts with the quarter-staff, with many a cracked rib and broken pate, and 'Long Will' Plowman, cousin to Elizabeth, challenged Isaac the Jew to a bout.

Both were skilled, but Isaac, who tramped the fells fearing neither outlaws, broken men nor godless Scots, had the better of it, leaving Will doubled up from a poke in the ribs, and himself suffering only a bang on the head that kept his eyes crossed for half an hour afterwards.

After the entertainment, the nearer dwellers began to leave, each pleased or otherwise with their bargaining. They would return on the morrow, and those, like Elizabeth and Seth, who would stay the night, looked to their beds in the barns and sheds before gathering outside the Inn in the late afternoon sunlight to drink the light Summer ale and exchange gossip about the affairs of their neighbours, all the while savouring the delicious smells emanating from the kitchen where women bustled about preparing an evening meal for all.

CHAPTER THREE

After dinner an immemorial custom was performed. Always at Lammas the Book of Winifrith was read, the only time a lay work was recited, and one written by a woman at that. It had been scribed long ago by one of their own, Winifrith the Wise, once a lay-sister of the Nunnery at Ripon where she had learned to read and write, and it told of the coming of the White Christ to the Dale.

It was traditional that this book, written by a woman, should be read out by one of that sex. And so it was, but most women had difficulty reading the archaic Anglo-Danish lettering – or, indeed, any lettering – but would recite its contents from memory. But Elizabeth was sui generis; never had the Dale seen such a scholar, and she was literate in Hebrew and Latin beside, thanks to Isaac. Naturally, as the reading was to take place in the Common Room devoted to men, Elizabeth was taken in naked on a leash held by her proud husband. Kneeling at the feet of the men, her halter draped over one bare shoulder and the book open on a stool before her, she began to recite in her clear voice.

The seated men, the women crowding the door of the Women's Rooms, those outside for whom there was no room, all composed themselves to hear once more the comforting tale of how they came to practice the True Faith and be Saved.

A long, slim finger tracing out the crabbed letters, Elizabeth told of how Thangbrand Shield-Biter, a mighty warrior and berserker, had come a-viking in Northumberland, meaning to sack the monastery of Saint Cuthbert at Grimness Head. But the monks of Grimness were stark men and sturdy, with hands more used to the sword and the axe than to bell, book and candle, and their Abbot not the least of their warriors. The attackers were defeated in a blizzard with much loss, and Thangbrand was taken, wounded almost unto death. He had expected death, and vowed to make a berserk's end, but the good brothers, to his surprise, cared for him and healed him, and bade him go in peace.

Seeing the errors of his ways, it was said, when whole and in health again, Thangbrand bethought him of taking up the worship of the White Christ, of which the Abbot had spoken to him often as he lay healing. He went at once to Aelfric, he who man called 'Spear-breaker,' then Bishop of Durham, and before him swore to spread the Word throughout the lands north of the Humber.

Bishop Aelfric was just such another man of his hands as Thangbrand, although now, as a Christian Bishop and forbidden to shed blood, he rode into battle carrying a mace with which he would make great execution. He thoroughly approved of his visitor's plans, and had a special Mass said for his success, at the end of which he blessed a mail shirt and gave it to his guest before taking him off to anoint him a priest of Christ and to get him drunk. And so Thangbrand set forth about his travels, spreading news of the White Christ and His gospel. He went far and wide, even to Appleby in far-off Westmorland, and south to where the Welsh held sway in Elmet on the Ouse, thus getting the name 'Thangbrand Widefarer-priest.'

Some Thangbrand converted by argument, as the good brothers had urged him. But many more he converted by hard knocks, broken bones and bloody heads, for he was a quick-tempered man whose hand was ever at his axe, and he needed shriving more often than most churchmen, even Bishop Aelfric himself.

At last Thangbrand came to remote and barren Owldale. At his coming, men stood to arms, but it seemed the stranger came in peace, for his sword stayed slung over his back and his axe in his belt when he climbed down from his great horse.

A feast was prepared in welcome, for news from abroad was valued in the dale. Word was sent to Rhys ap Griffith, headman of the Welsh on the upper slopes, and he and his men came striding down the fell with their bows unstrung in sign of peace.

The meal over, ale and mead were broached, and Thangbrand, his axe on the table before him and his sword leaning on the bench at his side, began to speak, but not of news from abroad. Instead he asked them straight out what gods they worshipped and how they fared with their deities.

?gAs for we of the Cymraig,?h replied ap Griffith, ?gwe hold to Lludd the Open-Handed and to Cernunnos, God of War. These others, as they will tell you, swear by Odin and Freya, and by Skogula, War-God of the Angles. But as to how we fare with our gods I shall leave to my friend here.?h

Then spoke Aelfrith, headman of the Northumbrians of the Dale. ?gWe fare not well,?h he said, ?g for horses and such beasts do but ill in this dale, and a murrain is on our cattle and upon the sheep of our Welsh friends and allies. It seems to us that our gods have done little for us: certain it is that we have not done much for them.?h

At this Thangbrand told them of the White Christ, his sword unsheathed and his hand ever ready on his axe as he spoke. The men debated and argued, but their womenfolk had listened to Thangbrand with both ears, for the ways of the followers of the White Christ, as reported by Thangbrand, were much to their taste. Finally, on being told that each convert would receive a silver penny and three ells of fine white linen were they to go to Durham to be baptised, the meeting broke up and each man went home, each wife resolved to make her husband  and her unwed sons see sense.

  And so it came that the men of the Dale left for Durham in a body, well-armed with swords, axes and shields, the Welsh with their bows and their spears, the women wishing them farewell and proffering good advice about how they were to conduct themselves.

The men returned – in the same number as had set out, to the relief of the women of the Dale – each man proudly bearing his gift of white linen. As to the whereabouts of the silver pennies, the men were evasive, but their women were indulgent, there being little use for coined money in the Dale in those years. Anyway, it was well known what simpletons men became with money in their pockets amongst the taverns of a great city like Durham, home to more than a thousand souls; or so travellers said. Most of the men bore scars and bruises, and they wore them proudly as a sign of their hard faring, boasting to their wives and sweethearts of their travails. But the women held their peace, saying amongst themselves that such wounds had surely come about at the hands of the tavern keepers and whores their men had tried to cheat. And the women probably had the right of that, as women generally do.

Thus it was, thanks to the good sense of their womenfolk, that the men of the Dale became converted to the True Faith and held to it ever after, even when false prophets came from outside to tell them they misunderstood the Teachings.

Everyone was satisfied by Elizabeth's relation of the deeds of their ancestors, a tale they never tired of hearing, but then Isaac the Jew would tell them his news of the outside world. Pipes and tankards were filled, and all settled down to listen.

There was little to tell, and nothing which concerned the Dale. 'Ill-will Nixon'  and 'Nine-fingered Jock,' along with other Border ruffians, English or Scotch as it suited them to cheat the law of either country, were mustering on Bewcastle Waste, far to the north-west, but the Warden of the March in Carlisle castle had their measure. He was a stark man and quick to action; such rogues had short shrift at his hands, and Isaac predicted a goodly crop for the gallows by Carlisle caste.

  Presently Elizabeth was led away, and the men set to drinking and gossiping about the affairs of their neighbours, the women likewise, each in their own parts of the Inn.

CHAPTER FOUR

The morning came with a cloudless sky, and the sun was barely risen when the women were abroad after washing and dressing their younger children. Descending on the Common Room in a body, with shrill voices they chivvied the sleeping men outside and set to scrubbing and polishing, intent on setting all aright. The grumbling men were not left in peace, brusque female commands set them to fetching and placing the hurdles which would be used to pen the animals for inspection by prospective buyers. They were told to hurry, for there would be neither ale nor food until they were done, and even now folk were appearing in the distance, leading goats, pigs and cows to market.

Elizabeth was amongst the women taking a stoup of ale to recruit themselves after breakfast when Jacob Archer was seen coming up the road with his sister. As was the custom, Magdalen was naked, her arms pinioned behind her, and led by her brother by a rope halter around her neck.

Seemingly at something of a loss at what to do with her, Jacob finally disposed of his sister by tethering her in a pen amongst the goats. Then he went off to the ale bench.

The women, Elizabeth amongst them, flocked in Magdalen in sisterly concern. There was little they could do for her beyond giving her water, and bringing her food which she ate from their hands. Some of them stayed with her against her being teased by boys with sticks whilst she stood passively, her head lowered to allow her long hair to hide her face with its twisted mouth.

The cattle market was now in full swing, folk wandering about from pen to pen inspecting the occupants, the prospective buyers dismissive of the praises sung by the sellers. In an hour or so the selling and bartering would begin, and all looked forward to that, for a great deal of chaff and badinage was always exchanged in the bidding.

As for Seth and Elizabeth, they could only look on wistfully, for they couldn't even afford a goat. All the same, they could do some business, for Elizabeth meant to slaughter the older of their two sows – barren through age – in time to be salted down for winter, and she needed to arrange for the younger to be serviced by a boar in time to farrow in the spring. Bidding Seth stay where he was and not wander off, she made her way through the throng to where Thomas Wheelwright stood with his leashed wife at his side, looking at Magdalen in her pen. The two were deep in converse, Thomas's wife doing most of the talking. It was obvious what she was about, and Elizabeth hung back until she saw Thomas give a little shrug of acceptance. Magdalen need not worry; Thomas Wheelwright's farm would be her home if she could find no other.

Elizabeth soon completed her business with Thomas; his boar was at her disposal at any time in October, although she must somehow contrive to bring over her sow to him. But that was easily done; Mr. Ackroyd had a pig-cart, and Elizabeth hoped she'd be able to call upon the aid of her friend Bathsheba and the former's new stepmother when the time came.

Now Magdalen was being led from her pen to be paraded back and forth before the eyes of potential employers, an awkward moment for everyone.

Magdalen's long hair failed to hide the red flush that covered her face and the fair skin of her bare shoulders down to the tops of her breasts. Her brother, equally  ashamed because he couldn't provide for her, refused to meet the eyes of the sympathetic onlookers. Thomas Wheelwright, after glancing about him at the faces of the other well-to-do farmers of the Dale, sighed. At a sharp nudge in the ribs from his wife, he was about to end the wretched girl's ordeal when a harsh voice broke the hushed silence, bidding a stop.

All eyes swung round to the apparition stumping towards them, a squat, limping figure leaning on a staff, the figure of a man clad in undyed wool bearing a magnificent fleece across his shoulders, a leashed sheep-dog at his heels. A murmur spread through the crowd: it was Morgan ap Llewellyn, a man of whom many had heard, but few had seen, and fewer still had spoken to. They stared at him in wonder, for he was known to be folk-shy beyond all measure and to eke out a bare existence high up on the fells where he lived in a cave and ate the wild sheep he hunted with his bow. Greeted by Rhodri ap Hefn, clan leader of the Welsh, he entered the bare ground where Jacob Archer stood amazed. There ap Llewellyn stopped and stared up at him in silence. Then he spoke again in a voice rusty and disused, a voice like unto the harsh cawing of a raven.

    ?gLong have I wandered these fells,?h he began, his voice taking on the sing-song cadence of the story-tellers of his folk. ?gAlways alone save for the wild things of the moors. And now I would take to me a wife, for a man fares ill without a woman to care for his house and to warm his bed. And so I come to you, Jacob Archer, to ask you for the hand of your sister. This fleece will I give as a bride-price.?h

Jacob blinked in astonishment and glanced at this sister. ?gThat is a princely gift, and right heartily would I agree,?h he said at last. ?gBut that will be as she chooses, as is only right and proper. But dowry has she none, not even a rag to cover herself.?h

Ap Llewellyn threw back his head and laughed. ?gI will take her as she is, and be glad of her!?h he exclaimed, and at once he darted aside to where a few goats stood tethered. Quickly, he stooped detach the leash and to remove the collar from around the neck of his dog. Straightening, once again he faced Jacob and his sister. With one hand, he raised Magdalen's head and all around saw her flush deepen to crimson. ?gRelease her!?h he commanded, and Jacob, moving like one in a daze, removed his sister's halter and freed her arms.

Now Morgan proffered the collar, still warm from its sojourn around his dog's neck, and began to speak in his harsh voice, now suddenly softened and confiding, his language that archaic dialect still used and understood by the Dale folk both English and Welsh.

    ?gWilt wear my collar, woman??h he asked her. ?gWilt go with me, and share my life? Wilt cook and clean my hut, bear my children, and, in the end, tend my lonely grave? Little can I promise you, but that which I have you shall have, and with it my heart whilst we both live.?h

Wordlessly, Magdalen took the collar from him. She dropped to her knees and looked up at the grim, scarred face above her. The hair had fallen away from her face, and all could see the tender, lop-sided smile she favoured him with. ?gI will!?h she said thickly, offering up the worn collar in her cupped hands.

All watched silently as Morgan took the collar and buckled it gently about the bowed neck. Picking up his dog's old leash, he clipped it to his woman's collar and tugged on it gently, bidding her stand upright.

Now nothing would do but that they be married forthwith, first by the rites of the White Christ, as was befitting amongst Christians, and then in the name of Lludd the Open-Handed as was the ancient way of Morgan's folk. And so it was; a simple Christian ceremony conducted before everyone by an Elder, followed by an even simpler rite performed by Rhodri ap Hefn waving a sprig of mistletoe over the heads of the pair before rubbing the juice of its crushed berries into their foreheads.

Morgan was prevailed upon to stay and eat, but he would have none of it. He had mutton and cheese in his pack, he said; they had a long way to go, and the days were growing short. Bidding his new wife kneel, he took off his pack and strapped it on her back before assisting her to her feet. Then they left, and the last the bystanders saw of the two newly-marrieds was of the drably-clothed back of the husband and the pale gleam of the bare back of his wife vanishing into the heat-haze that hung over the dusty track to the West.

For long moments everyone stood silent, staring after the vanished couple. But then normality returned; this odd episode was not, after all, to be the only wedding that day! Bathsheba and Beulah Ramsclough were hurried off to the Women's Rooms to be uncollared and stripped, and to be rolled in the dirt of a goat-pen. Two small boys were ordered in, mercilessly scrubbed and brushed despite their feeble protests, than commanded to sit still and unmoving until called upon to take their part in the wedding ceremony.

CHAPTER FIVE

Elizabeth, after taking her part in the preparations, stood leashed at her husband's side and watched the brides come up between the line of spectators. Dirty, naked and on all-fours, symbolising the true, animal nature of Womankind, their unbound hair trailing in the dirt and their leashes gripped close to their collars by the solemn boys controlling their movements, Beulah and Bathsheba were led slowly up to the two men standing before the Elder. There they were left to kneel at the sides of their soon-to-be husbands as the ceremony began.

Affairs then proceeded as always, but there was to be no wedding breakfast, only a cold collation for a few friends at the house of Mister Ackroyd.

After making their farewells, a little party left the Inn at mid-afternoon. Willie and his father-in-law walked in front leading their wives, already thriftily naked to save wear on their clothing. That, and their purchases, lay in Elizabeth's cart along with her own. Led by her husband, she found the cart much lighter than before, even with the addition of Lady sitting bolt upright in the load-bed and making folk smile at the sight as they passed. Six or seven more of their closest neighbours straggled behind, and the entourage reached their destination within a hour of leaving.

Throughout, Elizabeth had been amused by her young friend's gradual adjustment to her new circumstances. Never having been led on a halter before, Bathsheba would occasionally turn aside to talk to someone, or to admire a plant or a flower, only to be reminded that her movements were at the will of another as Willie tugged on her leash. Finally, unconsciously, his hand slid along the halter to grasp it high up where it was attached to his wife's collar to keep her firmly under his control, as he would with an untrained dog or a skittish goat.

Once at the house, the women were released and the men dismissed on a tour of the farm whilst the house was thoroughly cleaned. Many hands meant light work, and the house was already clean and sweet-smelling, but it was a large building with no less than three Woman Rooms upstairs, each with a tiny adjoining room for a husband.

The house arranged to the exacting standards of the six women and girls present, the men were summoned to erect a a long table outside the kitchen and to bring up benches and chairs. Soon the board was groaning under a wealth of cold mutton, cheese and pickles, with a flagon of cider at each elbow, and the feast began.

It was twilight when Seth and Elizabeth came home at last, with Lady curled up asleep in the back of the cart. At their coming, Ruth dashed to the end of her chain, bounding up and down in sheer joy. Seth made much of his sister-in-law, petting her and stroking her quivering flanks, before he and Elizabeth set about caring for their other beasts. Finally the chores were done, the lamp was lit in the kitchen, and husband and wife sat down to a hearty supper. Afterwards, over ale and tobacco, Seth spoke of his plans to corral some of the wild sheep once he'd finished repairing the dry stone wall around the field where he intended to graze them. He would round up the sheep, he said, with the aid of Lady, and of Ruth, for he had high hopes of the latter. She was an intelligent creature, and would soon learn the duties of a sheep-dog under Lady's instructions.

For her part, Elizabeth agreed with her husband's plans for her sister. Ruth had spent fifteen years in her cage until God had won the struggle for her human soul; she was now an innocent animal, and it would be cruel to keep her chained up for the rest of her life when she could be put to work. Kindness and good treatment would soon bring her to a satisfactory condition, and Elizabeth's sister would become as docile, friendly and obedient as a good dog should be.

  Elizabeth then told her husband of the arrangements she'd made with Thomas Wheelwright about the farrowing of the younger sow, and of the bargain she'd made with Jael and Hezekiah Hardacre. Seth was aghast, as his wife had foreseen; in the manner of men, he expected his pregnant wife to be far less sturdy than she was. But Elizabeth over-rode him in the way women do, relating to him yet again how his own mother, whilst still yoked to his father's plough, had given birth to him in a furrow – a mild exaggeration, but forgiveable. To that Seth had no reply; the subject was dropped, and they spoke of other things, chiefly the affairs of their neighbours.

Later, after Elizabeth had gone to bed, Seth took his usual turn outside with pipe and tankard, and when he went at last to his spartan room the door to the warmth and comfort of his wife's bedroom stood invitingly ajar.