Superstition held the village together, that and fear of the unknown, be it the Lord or the devil, the traveller or the stranger. Or even a wedding dress. Fear was the invisible fence, sunk into the earth by tradition.

Chapter Nineteen

Pig’s Blood

The butcher wouldn’t hear of his wedding being postponed. He had argued with the elders that the village needed something to celebrate – even if his grandson’s body hadn’t been found. It made little difference if Misha was buried or not for there could be no doubt that the lad was dead.

‘The wedding will bring the village together,’ said the butcher, ‘give people hope in these dark days. There’ll be a feast to look forward to.’

Here the other elders felt themselves to be on safer ground. The butcher couldn’t possibly expect neighbours to dig deep into their stores now they were cut off from the rest of the world. Every morsel of food was vital to their survival. What would happen if the winter weather worsened and lasted longer than usual?

The butcher made light of their complaints.

‘What?’ he said. ‘An egg, a spoonful of flour, a cup of cream? That won’t leave anyone starving. And tradition is tradition.’

To which the elders had no argument. He had, after all, accepted their counsel and abandoned the foolish notion of his bride’s wedding dress.

‘You’re right to be cautious,’ said the butcher gravely. ‘And thinking of how we’ll all survive this winter, I might need my loans repaid.’

He took out the small, leather-bound notebook in which the sums owed to him were written, and turned to the miller. ‘Shall I start with you?’

‘No need,’ said the elders as one. ‘The wedding will take place as planned.’

The butcher put away his notebook.

That Sunday when the congregation was told of the wedding arrangements, a murmur of disbelief went round the church until the priest called them to prayer. Only Edith didn’t kneel. She remained standing, watching the priest, knowing the words he spoke were corrupted by the butcher’s orders. He peddled guilt in order to soften his flock to relinquish their food supplies. If she had a voice, she would have screamed: save your food – don’t waste it on this wedding.

Making no effort to be quiet she walked out of the church, allowing the large wooden door to slam behind her. Her act of rebellion was noted by everyone.

Una was kneeling next to her father. His elbow jabbed her ribs.

‘Bring her back,’ he hissed.

Once outside, she called after Edith. ‘Come back this minute. Where do you think you’re going?’

Edith ignored her. She heard Una run up behind her and felt her shawl being pulled from her shoulders. Only then did she turn to face her.