As Soft as Dreams

By Sasha Bulter
Historical fiction

1577

A town in Worcestershire

He comes running across the fields in the early light. Eliza would know him anywhere, a smudge against the green through the diamond panes. She is up at once, legs carrying her towards the front door. Francis rests a hand against the doorframe, swallowing hard, words thick and unsteady: ‘It’s Arthur again.’

She turns, quick as a hare, feet slipping on stone. The rising sun casts strips of light amongst the shadows as she darts through the house, past the great hall and the parlour, through the kitchen and into the still room, with its smell of rosemary and lavender and thyme. She shouts for Ma, and together they rummage the shelves to the clatter of pottery, searching for the herbs, the tinctures, the something, the anything that could save a child’s life.

When they leave, Francis runs ahead. Shirt catching in the wind, strong legs pitching him onwards, worn soles of his boots kicking up behind him to greet the sky. It is always him they send: he is the fastest of his siblings, he is the one the family worry about the least. Francis can get himself into trouble, but he will always find his way out again. That’s what they say. They follow him through the streets, where the houses become cramped and the lanes narrow. A man with a cartload of cloth swears as they dash past. The front door is ajar, and they rush up the stairs to a symphony of creaks and groans, to the room where the brothers sleep.

Arthur is on a pallet. A kind, sickly child, always struck with fevers. This one is ferocious; his thin limbs are slick with sweat, the sheets askew about his feet. Margaret kneels beside him and her hands, as sweaty as her son’s, reach for Eliza and Ma.

Ma feels the child’s forehead and lists ingredients in a low murmur as Eliza scrabbles for them in her bag. Bay leaves, bayberries, sage leaves, wine. Eliza mixes them together, feeling Francis’s eyes on her hands as she works, as though she is a conjuror who can pull someone back from the brink. Her breath is shallow and quick but her hands are steady. They spoon the medicine into the boy’s mouth and watch as he grimaces at the inevitable burn in his throat. In times before he had spat it back out, but not today: he swallows it all, eyes half-closed.

Downstairs in the dark kitchen, Eliza mixes more. ‘Every few hours he needs to take this,’ she says to Francis, her eyes on the phial.

He leans against the kitchen table, his face taut. ‘He was up all night.’

‘You should’ve come sooner.’

‘We thought it would pass.’ There is fear in his voice. ‘Do you think he’ll…’

She knows the question. Children are pulled from their mother’s clutches every day; squalling and vibrant one morning, limp and gone the next.

‘Arthur is strong. A cat with nine lives.’ She tries to smile.

He folds his arms. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, forearms corded from daily work. His hands are fists, and she sees a finger worrying at a piece of skin by his thumb. Her gaze lingers a moment, and he catches her.

‘You did the right thing,’ she says.

Ma calls, and Eliza turns to the door. But then she hesitates and reaches for him, resting her hand on his bare arm, feeling the coolness of his skin. He puts his hand over hers. And then she is away, hurrying up the stairs, thoughts tugged back to saving a boy’s life.