The Frenchman Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  The Frenchman

  Sheritta Bitikofer

  Copyright © 2017 Sheritta Bitikofer

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means – except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews – without written permission from its author.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and a product of the author’s imagination. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Cover by Inked Phoenix

  ISBN: 978-1-946821-22-5

  Ebook ISBN: 978-1-946821-21-8

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  Terms to Know

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Afterword

  About the Author

  Also by Sheritta Bitikofer

  Terms to Know

  Warminster, Wiltshire county - The town's name has evolved over time, known as Worgemynstre in approximately 912 and it was referred to in the Domesday Book in 1086 as Guerminstre. The town name of Warminster is thought to derive from the River Were, a tributary of River Wylye which runs through the town, and from an Anglo-Saxon minster or monastery, which existed in the area of St Denys's Church. The river's name, "Were" may derive from the Old English "worian" to wander.

  The River Were runs through the town and can be seen running through the middle of the town park. The Minster Church of St Denys sits on the River Were.

  Cley Hill – Hill area outside Warminster. There is a legend that the hill was formed by the devil, when he dropped a sack of earth with which he had planned to bury the town of Devizes. He had retrieved the earth from Somerset and was travelling to Devizes when he stopped to ask an old man the distance to the town. The man replied that he had been walking for years to reach Devizes, so the devil abandoned his plan

  Gollumpus – A slang term for a large, clumsy fellow.

  Longleat Forest – Now the site of a 400 acre amusement park and resort, the forest is home to ancient Giant Redwoods and resides west of Warminster near Longleat. Less than a mile south of Cley Hill.

  Thomas Thynne - (ca. 1578–1639), of Longleat, Wiltshire, was an English landowner and politician who sat in the House of Commons at various times between 1601 and 1629. Owned Longleat House.

  Longleat House - The house was built by Sir John Thynne and was designed mainly by Robert Smythson, after Longleat Priory was destroyed by fire in 1567. It took 12 years to complete and is widely regarded as one of the finest examples of Elizabethan architecture in Britain. It is noted for its Elizabethan country house, maze, landscaped parkland and safari park. The house is set in 1,000 acres (400 ha) of parkland landscaped by Capability Brown, with 4,000 acres (1,600 ha) of let farmland and 4,000 acres (1,600 ha) of woodland, which modernly includes a Center Parcs holiday village.

  River Tarn - The Tarn runs in a roughly westerly direction, from its source on Mont Lozère in the Cévennes mountains (part of the Massif Central), through the deep gorges and canyons of the Gorges du Tarn (that cuts through the Causse du Larzac), to Moissac in Tarn-et-Garonne, where it joins the Garonne 4 km (2.5 mi) downstream from the centre of town. Albi is one of the many towns that resides along this river.

  Baiting Place – a feeding place for cattle

  Dew Ponds – Ponds lined with clay and straw used to collect rain water for cattle

  Gill – Wooded valley, usually containing a stream

  Catchland – Boundary land that does not belong to any parish

  Screed – A narrow strip of land

  Open Field Farming – Three large fields, two of which were cultivated in any one year, the third remaining fallow until the new year, when one of the other fields was left uncultivated. Each farmer had strips, called Selions, scattered throughout the large fields rather than in concentrated holdings. No hedges, so weeds spread.

  Balk – uncultivated strips of land between cultivated strips of land for access paths. Headlands if they were at right angles to the strips, and sidebalks if they were parallel.

  Selion – Cultivated strip in an open field, forming furrows on each side to act as drains.

  Dame – Wives of notable citizens, or elder women

  Yeoman – Freeman usually a prominent farmer, but not considered a gentleman.

  Tenant farmers – A farmer who tends rented land that is owned by a yeoman or landlord.

  Dower – One-third portion of the husbands holdings that is transferred to his widow upon his death.

  Chapter 1

  Warminster, Wiltshire County, England, 1623

  “Darren, put that down!” his mother, Martha, screamed from the second story window. “That’s not for you to concern yourself with. Let the serfs carry the load.”

  Try as he might, Darren’s thin arms finally gave out and he dropped the wheelbarrow back onto its iron legs. His palms and fingers burned a bright red from the effort he had put into gripping the wooden handles tight enough to push the wheelbarrow a measly yard.

  With his arms sore and face hot, he looked over his shoulder to see his mother leaning over the edge of the open window. She was still dressed in nothing, but her chemise and long brown hair draped like a thick curtain in front of her chest.

  She waved her hand wildly at a servant who happened to be making their way out to the fields. “Arthur! Take that away from my son before he hurts himself.”

  Darren turned and puckered his lips in a seething scowl that he didn’t want his mother to see. He despised his rangy build and the unerring fact that he was useless for anything more than stealing the air that rightfully belonged to those who could do more than him. In his own eyes, he was a waste of space, without skill or purpose.

  Arthur, an elderly serf who had served the Dubose household since Marth’s first husband passed away, came to Darren’s side with a look of utter pity. He had to be well into his sixties, the son of another tenant farmer from Scotland who had moved to England in hopes for better work. Even this old man, whose skin had been darkened by years of toiling in the sun, could carry the wheelbarrow of cattle feed with ease. Yet, Darren, who should have been in his prime, was hardly capable of bringing the load to the baiting place where the cattle took their twice daily meal.

  “It’s all right, Master Darren,” Arthur said in his wiry Scottish brogue. “You just rest yourself.”

  “Rest yourself. Rest yourself,” Darren mocked breathlessly. “That’s all I ever do is rest.”

  Arthur shrugged his bony shoulders. “Enjoy it while you can.” With that last word of advice, he hoisted the wheelbarrow off its legs and carted it down into the fallow field to the south.

  As Darren listened to the single, squeaking wheel roll away, a gust of wind whipped across the estate, making his lightweight shirt and vest ripple against his frame. He shivered as the chill crept along his skin.

  “Come inside, son, before you catch your death of a cold!”

  Darren felt his lungs seize as he inhaled the cold air. He quickly pulled out his handkerchief from his trouser pocket and coughed into the fabric until his throat grew raw, which didn’t take much effort at all. He
had been coughing all morning and all through the night.

  The window his mother had been hanging out of latched closed and, once more, the yard in front of their home was silent, besides the occasional groan from a milking cow or the bristling of wheat stalks in the adjoining field. Darren pulled the cloth away from his mouth to see it speckled with crimson blood. He scorned the metallic taste on his tongue and swallowed some of it back, wishing it had not come to this again.

  Ever since he was a boy, Darren was chronically sick. Whether it was a cold, pneumonia, or a simple case of severe fatigue, he was laid up in bed for one reason or another. As a result, he had become a frail and bitter young man. Many times, he tried to be productive, even if it was helping his mother balance the books or riding into town to conduct some trade. Yet, he longed to ease the burden of the serfs that served on the estate.

  The four fields that surrounded the sizable home was just a third of Martha’s late husband’s ownings. Upon his passing, it was rightfully willed to her and it provided an amiable income. Wheat, barley, livestock, and the newest crop of potatoes, kept their plates filled and coffers bursting. Martha, the mistress of the house, had been used to living lavishly, having come from an affluent French family of her own before she married below her station to a French farmer with a dream to become a wealthy landowner in England. She never made the same mistake again and chose her lovers with the utmost care, being mindful to check their pocketbooks before inviting them to bed.

  At least, until Darren’s father came. All he knew of the mysterious man was that he and his brother had come to England on some expedition of knowledge. His father had regaled Martha on the details of their many travels, but she could have cared less. The man was handsome and though he couldn’t provide for her in any way that would suit her, she boasted that he made her feel the closest thing to true love that she had ever felt before.

  Ten months after they met, Darren was born, and two years after that, his father and uncle disappeared from England altogether. A bastard in their world wasn’t too uncommon. Darren knew a few in Warminster alone. However, there will never be a more broken-hearted woman than Martha. Arthur often talked how she simply fell apart after his father left her the way he did, without word or warning. Ever since, she kept her heart guarded, but her bed was never empty.

  He would have been ignorant to not know that the villagers considered his mother to be a whore and a harlot. Not to Darren. To him, she had always been the caring and doting mother that he often didn’t deserve. Even when her lovers demanded her attention, she would rush to his bedside in the middle of the night to ease his suffering with a fresh blanket or cold cloth to press to his flushed forehead. She never once complained about Darren’s convalescing periods. Martha sacrificed much for her son and told him that she loved Darren more than her own life. No son could be dissatisfied with that.

  His father left them fourteen years ago and if the man was to be blamed for Darren’s constant ailments, then he hated him with all his soul. As far as he could remember, his mother was never sick. It was a miracle he was still alive at all.

  Darren stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and hustled inside before another coughing fit would send him into convulsions. He had been putting off a visit to see George, but it was becoming clear that he couldn’t wait any longer.

  Donning a wool waistcoat and knitted scarf, Darren slipped out of the house once more to retreat to the stables. Two of the three stalls were empty, and the horses were on loan to another farmer on the other side of Warminster. The only steed left was a brown and white mare Darren had humorously named Gollumpus because of the mare’s abnormally large size and unsure footing. They were much alike, Darren and Gollumpus. Both were nearly useless and kept around the estate out of mercy.

  They trotted along one of the balks between the tilled rows of barley until they reached the border of the farm. Looking over his shoulder, Darren could see his brick home in the distance with its dark thatched roof and creeping ivy that covered the outside almost completely.

  His mother often complained about the spreading vines, saying that it was an affront against man’s efforts to civilize and cultivate the land they claimed. Darren, on the other hand, admired the appeal it gave to the home and begged her to keep it growing until nature came busting through their windows. If he were anywhere near healthy, he would have asked permission to grow a small garden on the side of the house. It would have kept his hands busy while he failed to contribute to the farm and give him a little piece of wilderness that he could control and call his own.

  He kicked Gollumpus in the ribs and steered her to the north. He had lived outside of Warminster all his life, their estate situated between the sprawling town to the east and Longleat House to the west. Darren had never seen the outside of Wiltshire county, or traveled anywhere outside of five miles from their home. The two paths he knew well were the road to get into town and the road to get to George’s hovel.

  The man they called George the Hermit might have been Darren’s only friend, apart from his mother and the many servants and serfs they employed on the farm to tend the land. The only way he knew of the man everyone in town scorned and ridiculed was because one merchant’s wife had sympathy for Darren’s plight.

  When he had come into town, coughing and hacking one evening while on an errand to fetch his mother some fabric for a new dress, the woman pulled him aside and told him of the miracle cures George had concocted for her own daughter when she fell ill. Darren was ready for a miracle and ever since his first visit to the hermit, he continued to come back for his salves and tonics.

  Beyond Lockleat Forest and around Cley Hill, George’s hut was nestled deep within a strip of wooded land that belonged to no one. There, nature was his only company, and the burly man with a scarred face and long dark hair preferred it that way.

  His hut, which to Darren’s mind was a poor excuse for a home, was little more than one-room made of mud walls and a roof comprised of straw and branches that must have leaked during rainy nights. A sloping stack of firewood was piled against one side of the house with an axe stuck into a stump not far from it. A mud brick chimney emitted a swirl of dark smoke that didn’t help Darren’s sensitive throat. He coughed a few times just before dismounting Gollumpus, which announced his presence to the hermit.

  A tall man, dressed in clothes that were a little torn, but otherwise clean, ducked under the doorway to greet his visitor.

  “Darren,” he said. “I didn’t expect to see you back so soon.”

  “I didn’t expect to need to come,” Darren replied as he came forward and pulled the soiled handkerchief from his pocket to show his friend the blood he had coughed up.

  George took one look and shook his head. “I told you not to exert yourself.”

  Though Darren wanted to retaliate with some harsh words about how everyone tries to limit him, he kept his lips shut tight. Not only would it do no good to argue with the man who was over twice his size, but he didn’t want to risk upsetting the only person on earth who could make him better.

  The countless nights spent tossing and turning because of his aching joints, the endless burning and rawness of his throat, and the numerous spells of sickness that plagued his life were more than Darren could bear. If he knew it wouldn’t send him straight to hell, he would have killed himself long ago, so he could be rid of this perpetual state of suffering. None of the doctors his mother called for could find a cure or answer for her son’s frailness, nor could they offer the kind of relief that George did.

  “Come with me,” the hermit said with a sigh and passive wave of his hand.

  Darren followed him into his hut and the conflicting aromas of spices and herbs welcomed him. Against the far wall was a tiny bed with a mattress made of hay and soft down feathers. A deep indent had been made in the center where its owner slept at night. Beside it, a wobbly table with a single rickety chair whose seat appeared to be far too small for George’s hulky body.
The rest of the spacious interior was reserved for shelves and tables that were littered with bottles containing various powder and granule elements that George had never taken the time to identify to him, despite Darren’s probing curiosity.

  Swatches of various herbs and leaves hung at the end of twine that extended from the roof rafters. On the other side, the odious fire that billowed the smoke that tormented Darren’s lungs, continued to burn. Though, inside, the acrid fumes were not as bothersome as the scents of the spices wrapped around his head like a warm embrace. Just being inside the hut had a calming effect on his nerves and sickly disposition.

  George donned a pair of sheepskin leather gloves and tied a mask over his nose and mouth. When first asked, he explained that it was to keep Darren’s illness from afflicting him as well, but Darren told him that he didn’t think the illness could spread. It wasn’t the plague - that he knew of - but still the hermit took extra precautions when mixing up his usual remedies.

  Darren watched as he pulled down bottles and oils from his collection, taking the time to read each label that he had scrawled in not-so-perfect penmanship. The rest of the townspeople believed George to be many things. Uneducated was just one of them, but Darren knew all too well that the hermit must have been raised by a wealthy family for him to know how to read and write. He had never asked, but Darren suspected that he was not forced into this life of solitude, but chose it for himself.

  George was rarely seen in town, and if he did venture that far, he did not stop to socialize as was expected of most. He went there to do his business and return to the safety of his home. In some ways, Darren envied him, not only because of the carefree life he lived, but for his brawn and sturdiness. George was never sick, just like Martha. Darren wanted to resent their healthiness, but knew better to be grateful that another human being did not have to suffer what he did on a daily basis.