A Dowry Cow.

A Dowry Cow.

The secret to good cheese is a good cow, and Lilith Powell had the best cow in the county. Clarabelle was a brown-haired beast of Jersey stock, tall and broad, with a soft white mane that ran down her back and piebald patches on her rump, and she produced twenty-five pints of thick white milk a day, every day, without fail. Consequently Lilith’s cheese was famed in Gloucestershire - not too salty and made with the cream.

A spinster in her thirties, Lilith had been a renowned beauty in her youth, but now her raven black hair was streaked with white and lines creased her once alabaster skin. People used to call her slender, now they said she was bony, but she still had the most stunning violet-blue eyes.

Why had she not married? Lilith Powell had never cared much for love.

‘I have a home to look to, and cheese to make,’ she said to any who asked. ‘What need have I of a man?’

The men thereabouts said that she was ‘difficult’ and ‘bookish’ but Lilith cared not a jot.

That was not to say she had not had suitors, but none managed to catch her interest. She did have one man in her life: an aged, but still sprightly, grandfather named Harbottle. He was a scrawny little mariner with a white beard, bandy legs, and an impudent tongue. Together, they lived at a smallholding near Solomon’s Tump, on the other side of the River Severn from Gloucester - the Welsh side. Her only family, excepting said grandsire, was a younger sister away in London, but the two were not close.

She heard the shouting from the dairy - a small building at the back of her cottage. Men’s voices raised and angry, one of them was Harbottle’s.

‘What has he done now?’ Her grandfather was as troublesome as a toddler.

Lilith dried her hands in a cloth and, leaving the dairy in the pouring rain, pulled her shawl close. She walked past the neatly tended vegetable plot with beans, peas, onions, and cabbage - even some potato - around the cottage to a small cowshed by the side of the house, where her grandfather milked Clarabelle.

There were soldiers on horseback at the cowshed, and two on foot, dressed in buff jerkins and mismatched coats, wide brimmed hats - all with a blue badge - and weapons to hand. The two on foot were trying to drag Clarabelle out of the stall. A pail of creamy milk had tipped frothing on the floor, and her bandy legged grandfather - in a dirty shirt and torn breeches - hopped from one bare foot to the other, shouting and shaking his fists at them.

‘You cannot take her,’ he cried. ‘She’s mine, damn you!’ His voice screeched like a knife on a plate.

‘What goes here?’ said Lilith. Her voice proud and imperious.

‘Now you be in for it, damnable locusts,’ shouted Harbottle, and scuttled behind his granddaughter making cuckold horns at the soldiers.

‘What goes here?’ said Lilith again.

One of the riders, better dressed than the others, doffed his hat in the rain and smiled - a dazzling smile. He was clean shaven, with dimpled cheeks, long dark ringlets tumbling down his back, big brown eyes like a deer, and pale skin sprinkled with freckles. A mature man, but Kronos had been kind, still muscular, with a narrow waist and broad shoulders. Lilith could barely take her eyes off him he was so beautiful.

‘My apologies, sweet lady,’ he said. ‘We must take your animal on the orders of the King. The army besieging Gloucester needs food.’

‘She bain’t an eater, she be a milker!’ shouted Harbottle. ‘Witless shit-goblin. I fought the Armada and I will fight you.’ He raised his fists at them, but remained ensconced behind his granddaughter.

Now, all the men of the district knew Lilith Powell well enough, and not a single one would have dared interfere with Clarabelle. Lilith would have unleashed a stream of merciless invective at them, whilst Harbottle would have flung cowpats. Yet Lilith said nought for the moment, as the soldiers and her grandfather all awaited a response.

Lilith did not know what to say. Her heart pounded at the sight of this officer, and she could feel the heat in her face. She silently berated herself for behaving like a young maid at the harvest festival, but still said nothing. The rain seeping into her skirts and soaking her but she felt hot, almost feverish.

‘Lady?’

Oh Lord, they were all looking at her - she could still feel herself blushing furiously - mayhap they would take the red flush for anger.

‘Know you Sir John Wintour, Mr Brigand?’ she said, finally. ‘He will vouch for us as loyal subjects of the King.’ Sir John was also most particular about her cheese, she thought.

‘I do indeed, lady, but I fear these orders come from the Quartermaster General, and thus the King himself.’ He held his gloved hands wide open, as if it were predestined. ‘All cattle are to be taken to Gloucester. You will be recompensed for her.’

‘Good, sir,’ she said. ‘Clarabelle was bought in special from the Channel Islands, at great expense, because of the yield and quality of her milk. She has years ahead of breeding and milking. How will you recompense a decade of wealth?’

‘You will have to take that up with the officer in charge, sweet lady, in Gloucester. I shall give you a token.’ He smiled again and she blushed - she could not help herself.

Damn him! She thought. He uses his dimples like a weapon.

The officer took out a pencil from his saddlebags, and scribbled the word one on a scrap of brown paper. He handed it to Lilith.

‘What is this?’ she said. ‘’Tis no docket or note.’

‘The captain will know what it is in regard to,’ said the officer. ‘I do most earnestly assure you of that.’

‘And what pray tell is this captain’s name?’ said Lilith caustically.

‘Captain Wintour, lady.’

‘Is he related to Sir John?’

‘You know, lady, I do believe he is.’ The soldier waved his hand dismissively. ‘A distant cousin or somesuch.’ He put his hat back on. ‘In all honesty,’ he said conspiratorially to Lilith. ‘I think Captain Wintour merely has the position as a favour to his cousin. He is not rich or otherwise connected.’

Dimples smiled broadly at her again, which only infuriated Lilith. Was he laughing at her?

‘Very good, sir. I will visit this captain on the morrow. You had best make certain no harm comes to my Clarabelle.’

He doffed his hat again, still smiling like a cat with the cream.

‘Lady, I shall protect thy bovine charge with mine own life.’ He was being facetious, she was certain.

‘You are not letting these turnip heads take our Clarabelle?’ screeched Harbottle.

‘Only until Sir John and his cousin are informed, Grandfather,’ said Lilith, coolly. ‘Then Mr too-clever-for-his-own-dimples will be in trouble, I wager.’

Harbottle gave his granddaughter a strange look, as Lilith glared daggers at the departing soldiers. The laughing leader doffed a final time before leading his men, and her cow, away in the rain.

It is a three hour walk from Solomon’s Tump to Gloucester along the River Severn. Lilith dressed herself in her most respectable clothing for the journey - with sturdy boots, shawl, and a tall hat. She had hoped to make good time, leaving early in the afternoon, but barefooted Harbottle had insisted on accompanying her and the going was slow.

‘A woman alone in an army camp?’ he said. ‘I will not hear of it. They will take you for a punk.’

In all honesty she was relieved to have him. Lilith was nervous of visiting the Royalist siege lines - an army was no place for a respectable woman. As much as need be, Lilith supported the King and his party, but she sold her cheese to Governor Massey and the Roundheads of Gloucester town. The war had seemed so distant, until now. They took a boat over the river south of the town, guarded by soldiers, and entered the vast military encampment.

For over two weeks the great Royalist army had sat outside Gloucester, pounding the walls with shot, digging entrenchments and mines, and blockading the town. The land around the town was churned up by the feet of thousands of men, and the hooves of thousands of animals; houses were looted of anything of worth and torn apart to make shelter for the soldiery.

The King and his great officials had taken over manor houses, or even churches, for their homes, whilst a city of tents, shacks, and hovels sprang up in a bog beyond the trenches for the common men. Trees had been stripped and cut down for the army’s campfires, leaving the land barren, and the stench of thirty thousand men, their animals, and their waste made Lilith gag.

The Severn was polluted with the effluent of both sides, a fetid brown colour, and there was disease in the camp. The cavaliers were having the worst of the wet weather and stormy conditions. The townsfolk slept safe and dry in their houses, behind great earthen ramparts and old stone walls, with only the fear of a bomb in the night.

‘I like this not,’ said Harbottle. ‘’Tis worse than a Spanish prison.’

The Royalist camp took on a hellish aspect from the fires, smoke, and cannon. It was getting dark when Lilith and Harbottle arrived at the siege lines. Harbottle asked directions to Captain Wintour and the Quartermaster General from a slovenly youth with a moon face, dressed in rags, and holding a pike.

‘We shall see what this Captain Wintour thinks of Mr Dimple’s thievery, Grandfather,’ Lilith said, as they picked through the muddy camp. ‘You have the cheese safe? Give it to me then.’

Lilith had brought her best weapon: a round cheese, made with the cream, lightly salted, spiced with herbs, ripe and matured - a king of cheeses.

‘I fought the Armada,’ said Harbottle. ‘I can carry a cheese.’

Lilith took the cheese off her grandfather nevertheless. It was carefully wrapped in a fine cloth and she wished to present it to Captain Wintour herself.

Wintour was housed in a broken down hovel in the grounds of Llanothny Priory, near the batteries of guns that pounded at Gloucester’s walls night and day. They could hear the roar of cannon in on the wind, see the flash of light as a fiery shell was hurled at the town, smell the foul egg of sulphur on the air. She gave her name to a guard at Wintour’s lodgings when they arrived.

‘You are expected, Mistress Powell.’ He opened the door and let her and Harbottle enter.

The shack was lit by spluttering candle lamps, and bare but for a broken down table, two stools and a chair, and a bed of straw and blankets in one corner. Seated in the chair, with a broad smile on his face, was Dimples. He stood when she entered and doffed his hat.

‘Good evening, Mistress Powell,’ he said cheerfully. ‘I hoped that you would come.’

‘What is this?’ screeched Harbottle. ‘I fought...’

‘The Armada, Mr Harbottle,’ said Dimples. ‘Yes, I am aware.’

‘Where is Captain Wintour?’ said Lilith.

‘Why, Captain Lucius Wintour at your service,’ said Dimples bowing and doffing again. ‘Is that a cheese? For me? A token of your esteem and affection? I am flattered.’

‘You are Wintour?’ chorused Lilith and Harbottle together.

Dimples started laughing at the pair of them, incensing Lilith.

‘Where is my cow, sir?’

‘Madam, your cow will be returned to you on the morrow. I have arranged it with the Quartermaster General himself.’

‘Then what, pray tell, has been the point of this play-acting?’ She shouted. ‘You have dragged me and my decrepit grandfather across half Gloucestershire!’

‘Hardly decrepit, Lilith,’ said Harbottle. ‘I did fight against the...’

‘Armada! Yes, we know, Grandfather.’

Lilith was bursting angry, but she could not take her gaze from the captain.

‘Perhaps I merely wished to see you once more, Lilith,’ said Wintour, using her given name for the first time. ‘Has anyone ever told you that you have the most beautiful eyes?’

‘You are impertinent, sir!’ She could fell herself blushing red again.

‘And of course,’ Wintour continued. ‘I shall be able to call upon you once again when we return your cow.’

‘I shall not be there!’

Lilith threw the cheese at him, turned, and stormed out of the shack with Harbottle scuttling behind. She went straight through the camp to the boats at the Severn, demanding of a boatman that he take them across. The man took one look at Lilith’s rage and got his ferry ready.

Lilith sat in silence as they crossed the river in the darkness, furious at Wintour, and furious at herself. She said nought to Harbottle as they tramped home, not even commiserating with him when he stubbed a toe. Lilith’s mind, though she would not admit to it, was fixed upon the captain and his damnable dimples.

Captain Wintour returned Clarabelle to Solomons Tump the next morning. Lilith, true to her word, made sure that she was away from the cottage. When she returned, she found Harbottle in her kitchen with hams, wine, a crock of honey, and freshly baked bread, all delivered by Wintour. Her grandfather stuffed his face with the victuals and told her of the visit.

‘You are too hard on him, Lilith,’ said Harbottle. ‘He is a good man.’

‘You did not think that last night when you stubbed your toe walking home. You hoped he would catch the plague then.’

‘Aye, well he had not brought me a ham and some sack then.’ Harbottle carved himself a great slab of meat, chewed on it, and poured out a large cup of wine. ‘He left a gift for you.’

‘For me?’ Lilith’s heart leaped, but she quickly covered it. ‘I need no gift from Captain Dimples.’

‘Not even a set of fine new needles and a box of pins?’ Harbottle had a sly smirk on his face; he knew his granddaughter too well.

The next day, Wintour visited the cottage again with more gifts. Harbottle welcomed him warmly but Lilith made herself scarce at first, sitting, sulking in the dairy, whilst her grandfather drank and joked with Captain Dimples in the yard.

‘I should at least have the courtesy to thank him for the pins,’ she said to herself. ‘Not to do so would be impolite.’

Captain Wintour was just taking his leave of Harbottle when she emerged from the dairy.

‘Sweet beautiful lady,’ he said when he saw her.

‘You are still impertinent, sir, but I thank you for yesterday’s gift of pins. They will be most useful.’

Wintour bowed

‘He brought a set of fine kitchen knives for you today,’ said Harbottle.

‘No, you should not have, sir.’

They were fine steel knives with a Sheffield mark. Lilith blushed red again, her heart racing. She did not know what to say, and it was rare for her to be so tongue-tied. Captain Dimples merely grinned, bowed, and begged his leave.

The next day it was a fine silk shawl, and the day after an embroidered bedspread. Lilith protested, of course, but Wintour would laugh, tell her she had beautiful eyes, and promise to return ‘on the morrow’. That would merely make her blush all the more; she was infuriated and enchanted in equal measure by Captain Dimples.

By the end of the week, Lilith had to admit that she looked forward to the captain’s visits. There was no more sulking in the dairy. Instead, she sat with Harbottle and Wintour in the kitchen, laughing and talking non-stop about anything and everything - excepting the war which hung as a dark cloud over the horizon. The captain had a fine wit, and Lilith grew increasingly entranced - a new experience for the lady.

‘We shall see you on the morrow, Captain?’ she asked as he left one night.

‘I fear we are leaving Gloucester, lady,’ he said. ‘There is word of an army sent from London to relieve the town. If the place does not fall in the next day or two we shall withdraw.’ He looked glum. ‘Methinks it will not fall and Governor Massey will win.’

‘But where will you go?’ Lilith was distraught. ‘What shall I do?’

She looked at him, at his big brown eyes, cheerful smile, and pretty dimples, and felt as if her heart would burst. The first man who had ever caught her interest and now he was leaving? She would not allow it.

 Looking him in the eyes, she grasped him tight around the waist and kissed him full on the mouth, her lips opening slightly as he kissed her back.