And after two miles they found them. Six men, six horses and all of them, man and beast, surprised to see others on the road. They had rounded Briar Lane’s last sinuous curve before it came into Lathom village, and there they were, Henry Denton and his companions, half turned in the road and glowering as though the newcomers had interrupted some secret ritual.
‘Easy, Achilles,’ Tom soothed, for they had pulled up abruptly and now their stallions were whinnying and stamping, indignant at being made to cut short the race. Hector was pulling his head down but Mun held tight on the reins, refusing to be hauled forward.
‘Steady, boys,’ Sir Francis said, patting his mount’s sweat-glossed neck, trying to assuage the beast. ‘Remember, no dancing in the boat. You will follow my lead,’ he added breathlessly, yanking on his bridle to bring his restless horse back round. ‘Thomas, did you hear me, boy?’
But Tom was walking his horse forward, his eyes riveted to Henry Denton.
Henry smiled, a flash of white teeth in the moonlit gloom. ‘Have you come to see justice done, Sir Francis?’ he called, ignoring Tom, who had stopped a horse’s length away. The breath of men and beasts billowed like fog in the freezing air. ‘We have pulled this rat from its hole by the tail but I don’t mind sharing him with you.’ Next to Denton, George Green sat on a piebald mare, his hands bound together across the saddle’s pommel.
‘Good evening, Master Denton,’ Sir Francis said affably. ‘What is his crime?’ Taking the lead from their father Mun moved into a protective position on Tom’s left.
‘Why, he is a papist, Sir Francis! A crypto-Catholic,’ Henry exclaimed, raising a smattering of curses from his pals. One of them spat a wad of phlegm, which caught in his beard and hung glistening. ‘A priest no less. He has been hiding amongst us but we have smoked him out.’
‘I am no priest,’ George Green muttered through bleeding lips. He looked old and tired, beaten in spirit and weak in body.
‘You hear that, Henry?’ Sir Francis said. ‘He denies it.’
‘Of course the bastard denies it,’ one of the other young men said, shrugging broad shoulders. ‘That’s a crypto-Catholic to the quick.’
‘That’s how they survive to spread their filth,’ another man added, talking to Sir Francis but watching Tom. Mun had never seen this man before. He was clean-shaven, hook-nosed and round-shouldered. He sat his horse like a sack of meal for all his fine clothes and the black and silver hilted sword and scabbard strapped to an ornate baldrick across his shoulder.
Henry gestured at this man as though he was some wise sage to whom Sir Francis ought to listen and take heed.
‘What proof do you have?’ Sir Francis asked, half smiling, still not unfriendly.
‘He does not have any proof,’ Tom snarled, ‘but neither does he seek it. The Dentons think they are above the law.’
Now Henry looked at Tom for the first time. ‘On the contrary, it is the law that has commanded all priests to leave the country. Our country,’ he added with emphasis. ‘If anything we are upholding the law. As should you, Thomas.’ He glanced at Miles Walton. ‘Unless, of course,’ he went on, turning back to Tom, ‘you are secret papists yourselves.’
‘Hold your tongue, sirrah!’ Sir Francis snapped. One of the horses whinnied and a bird clattered from its roost, flapping into the night sky.
Henry raised his hands. ‘I apologize, Sir Francis. I have no issue with you. Or your sons,’ he added, dipping his head towards Mun. ‘But we must be on our way. The rot must be cut out, as any good surgeon will tell you.’
‘Does Lord Denton know what you are doing?’
Henry’s lip curled. ‘What is my father to you?’ he asked.
Sir Francis scratched his beard. ‘Take my word for it, lad, a father always likes to know what kind of man his son has become.’ The words were hooked and baited. ‘I am sure he would agree that breaking into a man’s house in the middle of the night and tearing him away from his children is not a noble act.’ Mun saw his father’s right eyebrow hitch. Saw his teeth worry at his bottom lip and the slight shake of his head. All for show. ‘I would not be proud of my sons had they done such a thing.’
‘Then tell me, Sir Francis,’ Henry said lightly. ‘Are you proud of your son sniffing round the skirts of this stinking papist’s whore daughter?’
Tom’s sword rasped clear of its scabbard and he kicked his horse forward but Henry drew his own blade and raised it just in time, parrying a thrust that would have sliced into his shoulder. Steel sang in the darkness and six more blades were hauled naked into the frigid night as Mun and Sir Francis spurred forward to put themselves between Tom and the other four men.
‘This is not your fight!’ Mun roared, pointing his blade at Miles Walton. He could hear Tom fighting and desperately wanted to help, but he knew they must keep these others out of it or else the night would drown in blood. Sir Francis knew it too, for he was beside him, naked steel glinting.
‘Damn you, Rivers!’ the heavy-set Walton yelled, coming for Mun. But Mun and his horse had grown up together and they moved as one, the beast side-passing left so that the man’s wild swing hit nothing. Hector turned on his haunches and Mun swung, clattering the flat of his blade against Walton’s head with a sickening thud. The man’s horse walked on and his companions stared open-mouthed as, without uttering a sound, their friend toppled sideward from his saddle. But his left foot snagged in the stirrup, twisted horribly by the deadweight of his body, and for several heartbeats they simply watched as the horse walked on dragging its unconscious master alongside.
Snot Beard yelled and spurred towards Mun, but suddenly Sir Francis was there between them and he whipped his own rapier up, hitting the forte of the other man’s blade, then thrust his sword forward, over and under his opponent’s in a lightning strike that ripped the weapon from Snot Beard’s grasp and sent it flying to clatter on the frost-bitten track.
‘I’ll kill the next man who raises his sword!’ Sir Francis barked and now there were only two armed men facing him and Mun: the clean-shaven man with the hook nose and a nervous-looking young man with small, close-set eyes who was visibly trembling, and they, it seemed, had seen enough to know better than to fight.
Tom was losing this fight and he did not need to see the half grimace, half smile on Henry Denton’s face to know it.
You’ve done well to last this long, was what Henry’s sneering expression said, but you’ve not trained with the sword as I have. You can ride, maybe, but you have no skill with the blade.
Tom was aware of other swords flashing in the night, of shouts and movement, but he would not take his eyes off this man whom he hungered to kill. This arrogant devil who was too confident. Too sure of himself . . . as Tom’s blade streaked through an opening to plunge into the meat of Henry’s shoulder. Henry roared with pain and anger and swung wildly, knocking Tom’s blade aside. Too wide, so that Tom knew he could not parry in time. Knew he had lost.
But then Henry’s world spun and he with it and for a heartbeat he must have glimpsed the moon; then he hit the ground, the air punched from his belly in a loud grunt. He lay gasping, Sir Francis standing over him, knife in hand, grey eyes glistening like wet flint, and suddenly Tom understood. His father had cut through Henry’s saddle girth.
Lord Denton’s son climbed to his hands and knees, glaring up at them with hate-flared eyes and trying to curse Sir Francis though he could not get the words out.
‘I am taking the minister home,’ Sir Francis said icily. The others sat their mounts still as statues, staring.
‘I’m afraid that will not be possible, Sir Francis,’ Hook Nose said, bringing two pistols out of his thick cloak and pointing one at Tom, the other at Mun. They were wheellock pistols of the kind some of their father’s friends had brought back from the Dutch wars, and from what Mun knew of them they could be wildly unreliable. But the two in this stranger’s hands were steady and menacing and though Hook Nose had played no part in the skirmish, he had that look in hi
s eye that suggested he had every faith in his weapons.
‘Please, sir,’ George Green called. Tied and helpless, the minister made a sorry sight. ‘For the love of God, do not think of murder.’
‘Shut your mouth, rat!’ the young man with the small eyes yelped, emboldened now as he jabbed his sword towards Green.
Sir Francis cursed and, holding rapier and knife out wide, stepped back to allow Henry to get to his feet, which the younger man did, wincing because of the wound in his shoulder that was spilling blood down his doublet.
‘Who are you, sir?’ Sir Francis asked the round-shouldered man, though keeping one eye on Henry.
‘You are in no position to ask questions, Sir Francis,’ the man answered, his head cocked slightly to the right. He had something of an owl inspecting potential prey about him. ‘Now sheathe your blades if you will. This night has enough bite about it already.’
‘My father is counted a friend by His Majesty King Charles,’ Mun warned the man, gripping Priam’s reins in one hand and his own rapier in the other. ‘You would not dare give fire.’ Nearby, Miles Walton, whom Mun had knocked from his horse, was sitting on the frozen track, groaning and holding his head. None of the others, Tom noticed, had moved to help him.
‘With respect, Master Rivers, you do not know the first thing about me and are therefore unwise to make assumptions one way or the other,’ Hook Nose said, shadow-browed beneath his broad hat. His mount held still as a rock despite his master gripping pistols rather than reins. Henry and Snot Beard collected their swords while Walton and the younger man with the beady eyes looked at each other uncertainly, clearly perturbed at how the night’s events had galloped away with them barely clinging on.
‘Do as he says, Mun,’ Sir Francis commanded, sheathing his own blades. ‘You too, Tom.’
Tom shook his head. ‘No, Father, I will not.’
‘Do not disobey me!’ Sir Francis yelled, spit flying. For a moment Tom eyeballed his father, hot breath pluming in clouds, then his lip curled and he nodded, sheathing his blade as Achilles whinnied his own protest.
‘Shoot the whoresons,’ Henry gnarred up at Hook Nose.
‘Shut your bone box, Henry,’ the man replied, pistols still pointing at Tom and Mun.
Henry’s eyes bulged. He raised his sword and put it to Sir Francis’s neck.
‘Stand off, Henry,’ Mun snarled, ‘or I swear I will kill you even with a bullet in me.’
Henry scowled, moving the point of his blade up so that it trembled a finger length from Sir Francis’s eye. The older man did not flinch. If anything he leant towards the blade as though daring Henry to make good its threat.
‘Lower your sword, Henry, or I will shoot you,’ Hook Nose said, pointing one of his weapons at Henry now.
‘What in God’s name are you doing?’ Henry blurted.
‘I am doing what we came to do. We have Green and we will take him to answer for his crimes. I did not come to quarrel with these men.’
‘You are too late on that score, sir,’ Tom said, simmering with rage.
But Hook Nose ignored him. ‘Help your friend, Henry,’ he said, nodding towards Walton who had risen on unsteady legs and was peering around himself as though confused as to where he was and how he had got there.
‘I will not tell you again,’ Hook Nose warned Henry, who shook his head dumbfounded and lowered his blade, stepping back from Sir Francis. ‘Thomas Rivers, you will lend Henry your saddle,’ he said, then shot Sir Francis a half smile, ‘seeing as his own is no longer useable. He may even return it to you.’ He shrugged his round shoulders. ‘On the other hand, he may keep it as compensation for the hurt you have done him and if you are lucky that will be an end to the matter.’ Henry glowered at Tom and Tom glowered back, then reluctantly he dismounted and began to undo the buckles and straps of his saddle.
‘Are we all ready, gentlemen?’ Hook Nose asked his party. ‘We have wasted enough time with this mummers’ play. There is work to be done.’
Tom looked up at the minister, whose bloodied and bruised face was drawn and pale as the moon. ‘Have no fear, Minister Green,’ he said. ‘We will see that justice is done. I give you my word.’
George shook his head sadly. ‘There is no justice, Thomas,’ he said gloomily. ‘Not in this world.’ Then his eyes filled with tears. ‘Look after Martha, I beg you. Keep her safe. Jacob too if you can. He is just a boy.’
Tom nodded fiercely. ‘I will, sir.’
Henry mounted, grimacing with the pain of it, while Hook Nose holstered his pistols beneath the swath of thick cloak across his saddle. Snot Beard yanked on the minister’s reins and the small party set off. But then Henry turned his mount in a tight circle, the beast savagely chewing at its bit. ‘This is not over, Rivers,’ he spat.
‘God knows it is not,’ Tom replied, the humiliation of their failure thrumming in his voice.
Henry wheeled back round and hooves clopped on the iron-hard track, knocking the peaks off mud that had frozen in low, wind-whipped drifts. As he went, George Green twisted awkwardly in the saddle, the moonlight washing over his miserable face.
‘See to my children, Thomas! Give them sanctuary from hateful men. God bless you, Thomas.’
And with that they were swallowed by the night, leaving the Rivers men alone as an icy gust blew down Briar Lane causing the hedgerows to tremble and the low branches of a nearby elm to rattle bleakly. Somewhere out in the darkness a vixen screamed, the shriek piercing the night. To Mun it was a blood-chilling, taunting sound. It was the Devil’s laughter.
CHAPTER FIVE
EVEN CHRISTMASTIDE COULD not dispel the gloom that clung to Shear House as chill as the fog wreathing Parbold Hill behind it. Since the incident on the road to Lathom, a cold, deep sense of uncertainty had lingered round the estate. All the usual traditions were observed. Alms were given to the poor. The grand rooms were adorned with rosemary, bay, holly and mistletoe, and the Yule log blazed in the parlour hearth. Friends, neighbours and relatives were invited to call and Lady Mary ensured that the Twelve Days were glutted with the very best fare they could afford: white bread, turkey, beef, venison, and pickled pork. Plum pudding, cakes and all sorts of sweets were washed down with spiced ale, brandywine and malmsey.
But there was no joy. Mun had only to be in the same room as his father or Tom, or worse still both together, to sense the choler coming off them like waves of heat from a coal fire. Tom’s impetuousness and the subsequent fight on the road had put their family at risk, that was how their father saw it. They had been dragged into matters around which they should have taken a wide berth, and that had kindled Sir Francis’s ire. As for his brother, Mun knew Tom believed Sir Francis had not done enough to help George Green, that he had been too selfish, or worse afraid, to petition for the minister’s acquittal.
‘I rode to Baston House, Edmund,’ Sir Francis had said when Mun asked if there was anything more they could do for Martha’s father, ‘and I put it to Lord Denton that the man should be released on grounds of insufficient evidence of his popery.’ He was packing tobacco into the bowl of his pipe, thumbing it down. ‘Denton and I have never seen eye to eye but I hoped he would put an end to the affair. Instead he threatened me. Us,’ he added, looking up at Mun as he put a lit taper to the tobacco and began puffing gently. ‘Threatened to go to the law over what Tom did to his son Henry. Gave him quite a cut about the shoulder, it seems.’
‘Lord Denton is a damned villain!’ Mun had said.
‘And one of the most powerful men in the land,’ Sir Francis warned, pointing the pipe at Mun, ‘which is why this family is better off clear of this whole mire.’ His eyes sharpened. ‘And Tom doesn’t need to know. That I went to see Denton or about the threats to prosecute him for what he did to Henry. I don’t want him blaming himself for any of it. I just want him out of it.’
Mun had agreed to say no more about it, hoping that Tom would stay out of trouble, that George Green would be found innocent, and that things could
go back to normal around Shear House. His mother had insisted that Martha Green and her brother Jacob stay with them until the matter with their father was resolved. It would be unwise, she said, and unsafe too, for them to remain alone at the minister’s house, and Sir Francis had, albeit reluctantly, agreed. And though he understood the reasons for them being there, Mun could not help but feel that their presence was a thorn in Tom’s side. How could his brother walk away from the matter with Martha and young Jacob always there to prick his conscience?
Tom’s anger festered and Sir Francis’s temper simmered until, on Plough Monday, the pot boiled over. The three of them were riding across the estate, calling on each and every tenant as they always did at the commencement of the agricultural year after Christmas. Over the next week every freehold farmer, miller and smith, every copyholder and leaseholder across the sandstone hills or the West Lancashire plain would receive a visit from the Rivers men during which they would be praised for last year’s work and reminded of next year’s obligations, however small.
They had so far visited three tenant families and Tom had said not a word, a sullen presence on a sullen January day, and there were still another twenty-one tenants to call on. Mun had sensed the storm brewing without seeing any way to avoid it.
‘Are we to drag your ill-temper along all week?’ their father asked Tom, breaking the heavy silence as they rode across the heath, following the brook eastward towards John Buck’s farm. Tom said nothing. He was watching a long ellipse of black shapes jostling across the iron-grey sky: rooks and jackdaws riding a bitter northerly towards their evening roost. ‘Open your eyes, lad,’ Sir Francis said. ‘We can’t do any more for the man than we already have. Green knows it, too, and will content himself that Martha and Jacob are safe thanks to us.’
‘They are going to kill him, Father, did you know?’ Tom said.
Sir Francis took off a glove and huffed into his hand. ‘They might,’ he acknowledged with a nod, ‘and I am sorry for it. You know I am. But no one is safe nowadays. You saw for yourself how they treated Robert Phillip and he is the Queen’s friend and confessor. If such as he can be locked up then what chance has a man of George Green’s standing? Any of us could be next. Accused of some crime.’
The Bleeding Land Page 6