The Bleeding Land

by Giles Kristian

  A raven flapped into the sky kaahing angrily at the men and horses that had disturbed its feast: the rotting remains of an old sheep that had not survived the winter, half covered by the brambles thronging the stream-bank and stinking.

  ‘So we are to cower from men such as William Denton?’ Tom said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Let it go, brother,’ Mun said.

  ‘Aye and not just Denton,’ Sir Francis said, ‘but the King too. The order for the expulsion of priests came from His Majesty’s own lips. Damn it, Tom, I am a courtier! You expect me to go against the King? For the sake of a bloody minister who may even be a Catholic? And a spy for all I know?’

  ‘I expect you to do what is right, Father,’ Tom said.

  ‘Hold your damned tongue!’ Mun growled at his brother.

  But Sir Francis held up a hand indicating that he still had more to say. ‘When you become a man, Tom, you will learn that there is no right or wrong.’ He glanced up at the grey sky as though trying to judge if it would be dark when they left John Buck’s farm. They had long passed the rotting sheep, but the cold breeze whipped up its stink and carried it after them, so that Priam snorted in disgust. ‘There is just survival,’ he said, as the cold seeped through Mun’s clothes, beginning to gnaw at his flesh. ‘Or ruin.’

  Martha Green had told no one she was going to Baston House. She told herself that she had not mentioned it to Tom because she had only decided to go that morning and now Tom was somewhere out on the estate with his father and brother. But then neither had she told Lady Mary or Bess or even Jacob and there were no excuses she could think of for that, other than that she already felt herself a burden to Lady Mary and had no wish to burden her further. Instead she had told Lady Mary that she would very much like to ride across the fields up to Old Gore meadow and as far as Gerard’s Wood, for Tom, she said, had talked fondly of that route which he had so often ridden as a boy.

  ‘It will be good for you to take the air,’ Lady Mary had agreed kindly, ‘so long as you wrap up warm. There is a dampness to the air that makes it feel much colder than it is.’ With that she had had Vincent saddle one of the smaller, docile mares and Martha had thanked her and headed off, promising to be back soon.

  Now, her mount taken off by a stablehand to be watered, she stood in the grand, oak-panelled entrance hall of Baston House while a portly servant went off to fetch Lord Denton. The hall was festooned with tapestries which Martha thought were the most beautiful she had ever seen, and gilt-framed portraits of stern, rich-looking men, which she found intimidating. Flanking the hall were two enormous wings, one given over to household functions and the other for the entertainment of visitors, and Martha could almost hear the cacophony of feasts gone by, the raucous guests of Lord Denton’s ancestors making merry. The sweet smell of burning birch was undercut by the iron tang of fresh meat, and beeswax candles flickered in wall-mounted sconces but could not ward off the oppressive dark of so much ancient oak.

  To her right a large door clunked open and a man appeared, holding a glass of dark wine and silhouetted by the glow of flames behind him.

  ‘This is a rare pleasure, Miss Green,’ Lord Denton said, raising his glass at her and half bowing. ‘Please, do come in where it’s warm. It is quite impossible to heat a house like this, you know.’ She nodded and entered the parlour. ‘My wife, God keep her, used to say that the frigid air is good for the soul. That it keeps our thoughts pure and the humours balanced.’

  ‘And what do you think, Lord Denton?’ Martha asked, suddenly aware that her hands were tight knots at her sides. She took off her hat and placed it on the bench beside her.

  William Denton smiled, revealing white teeth amongst elaborate moustaches and beard. His greying hair fell in long oiled curls beneath which Martha could see golden hoops hanging from his ears.

  ‘I think I would rather be warm,’ he said, closing the door and gesturing towards a tall-backed chair carved from a glossy, rich-looking wood which Martha guessed to be walnut. She sat, hoping she would be offered a drink, for her mouth was so dry, and took in the man before her. Martha had never met Lord Denton before but she could now see from where Henry Denton got his good looks and the vanity to match. Dressed in a fine doublet that was slashed to reveal a purple silk lining, white breeches, silk stockings held up with purple garters, and shoes of soft-looking leather, Lord Denton was clearly a man who liked to be noticed. It came to her then how different Sir Francis was from this man.

  ‘So, Miss Green, have you come to Baston House to admire our famous gardens? If so I am afraid you will be disappointed, for there is very little of beauty to be found at this time of year.’ His blue eyes flashed and his moustaches twitched above the hint of a smile. ‘Though I would suggest that only makes one more appreciative of beauty when one does come across it.’

  Martha forced her own lips into a smile. ‘My lord, if I may be so bold, we both know why I am here.’ There was no turning back now. ‘I believe it was under your orders that my father was taken from his house in the night and imprisoned.’

  Lord Denton produced a pipe from the waistcoat beneath his doublet and walked over to a table, lifting the lid of a small, silver dish. ‘His Majesty’s orders, actually,’ Denton said, stuffing the clay bowl with tobacco. ‘If indirectly. For it was the King who ordered all priests to leave England.’ He held a taper to a candle and took the flame to the pipe, sucking on the stem until the tobacco in the bowl took, at which point he smiled and tilted the thing to show Martha the smouldering contents. ‘Your father disobeyed the King. We obey the King.’

  ‘But my father is no Catholic,’ Martha said. She opened her hands and saw little crescent-shaped dents in her palms where her fingernails had dug in.

  ‘Ah, but you see he is just that,’ William said, pointing the stem of his pipe towards her. ‘So say enough of the villagers to make it more likely true than false. An honest tenant of mine says your father would not speak against Laud’s reforms. Another said he saw your father perform extreme unction on a dying woman.’ He shrugged shoulders that were still broad. ‘The people are afraid of Catholic plots, girl, and as their minister George Green has done little to allay their fears. Indeed he has done the opposite. He has inflamed them.’

  Martha felt sick. She suddenly understood what was going on, that Lord Denton was simply looking out for his own skin, keeping the common folk happy by giving them the scapegoat they all so desperately needed. Perhaps Denton himself was a Catholic. It was not impossible. But so long as he kept the wolves fed he would have no trouble. The harvests would be gathered, his tenants would pay their dues and all would be well.

  ‘The whispers of frightened people cannot be taken as truth, my lord. You must present proof before you condemn a man.’

  ‘What I must do, Miss Green, is preserve the King’s peace,’ William snapped, a scowl marring his good looks. ‘These are troubled times and none of us knows what is coming.’ He stood gazing at a tapestry on the wall of a young man hunting on horseback, two dogs trotting obediently behind their master. The man looked strong, long fair hair falling to his shoulders, and Martha wondered if it was Lord Denton himself, immortalized for ever as the young hunter.

  ‘Sir Francis will speak for my father at his trial,’ Martha said. It was not true as far as she knew, but she hoped it might give Lord Denton cause to reconsider.

  He spun towards her. ‘Your protector,’ he snarled, ‘ought to be helping me keep a hand on the reins, not questioning my judgement. He and those delinquent sons of his ought to consider themselves lucky that I have not brought the law against them. That troublemaker Thomas Rivers set upon my son. Wounded him grievously.’ He swept the pipe through the air. ‘Slashed him about the shoulder, do you hear?’ he said, then put the pipe back to his mouth. ‘A perturbing business which I have convinced Henry to put behind him, for which Sir Francis should thank me. Instead he comes here and points his finger at me. Next time I’ll whip the man. Remind him of the order of things
. If he’s not careful the mob will think he’s a damned papist. Come banging on his door in the small hours.’

  That threat was not lost in the cloud of tobacco smoke pluming around Lord Denton’s curled hair and Martha swallowed dryly, her heart hammering in her chest because of what she was about to do. The fire crackled and spat. She felt the weight of eyes staring down at her from the paintings on the walls.

  ‘Please, my lord, I beg you to reconsider,’ she said, pleading with her own eyes whilst removing her coif and shaking her head just enough that she could feel her hair tumbling freely to her shoulders. ‘My brother is only thirteen years old and our mother died when he was nine. Father is the only family we have.’ This was not quite true but true enough seeing as her uncle and cousins had sailed for the New World two years ago. ‘Is there anything I can do to prevail on your mercy, Lord Denton?’ she asked, feeling tears – they were true enough – well in her eyes. ‘Do you have need of a maid? I am a good cook and would ask no pay, just that my father be freed and left alone.’

  ‘And have a papist’s daughter under my roof?’ William asked, one eyebrow hitched as he exhaled yellow-grey smoke that drifted in lazy tendrils up to the carved oak ceiling. ‘Besides, I already have more servants than I need.’

  Martha saw something different in his eyes now, something predatory. And so, swallowing the lump that had risen in her throat, she removed her neckcloth, feeling the fire’s glow on the bare skin of her shoulders. Her cheeks had begun to burn hotly.

  ‘My apologies, Miss Green,’ he said, turning, ‘but I have not yet offered you a drink. This tobacco smoke can dry the gills and is even worse for those not partaking. Malmsey?’ He was already pouring the dark liquid into a glass.

  ‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said. She did not normally drink strong wine but today she would and gladly. The stronger the better. He walked over and offered her the glass, which she took in two trembling hands.

  ‘Now then, I am not an unreasonable man, as anyone that knows me will testify. Let us see if we can come to any sort of arrangement, shall we?’ Martha nodded and, putting the glass to her lips, sipped the sweet wine so that its warmth bloomed in her throat and chest. God forgive me, her mind whispered.

  ‘What other . . . services . . . can you offer a man in my position?’ Lord Denton dared, the thing barely veiled at all now.

  Martha let the question go unanswered, which was answer in itself, and Lord Denton went back to the table and laid the pipe on a plate, where it sat smouldering.

  ‘The door is locked?’ Martha asked, her whole body shaking now, so that she thought even her soul was trembling.

  ‘No one will come in,’ Lord Denton said, assuring her with a smile.

  ‘And you give me your word you will have my father freed?’ she asked, fingers fumbling at the lace of her bodice.

  ‘You have my word that your father will not spend another week in that prison.’ He gestured for her to stand, so she did, though she feared her legs might buckle at any moment. ‘Now take off your skirts, girl,’ Lord Denton said, teeth worrying his bottom lip. His forehead glistened with sweat and the firelight danced across his face and Martha thought he was the Devil in human form.

  Her skirts fell to the floor and despite the fire’s heat she felt a chill breeze across her legs as she pushed down her stockings and took them off, laying them beside her shoes. Lord Denton’s eyes flickered hungrily down to her private parts. She saw a shudder surge through him culminating in a twist of his neck that reminded her of a bird of prey.

  He went over to the tapestry and ripped it from the wall, then spread it across the floor. Dust caught in Martha’s throat but she tried not to cough.

  ‘Now come here,’ he said, his voice somehow thickened, and extended a hand down to the floor. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

  Martha glanced down at her nakedness, her hair hiding her face for a moment. ‘God forgive me,’ she whispered. Then she went and lay on the tapestry and closed her eyes.

  When Lord Denton had finished he stood and pulled up his breeches, smoothing his moustaches with finger and thumb. He put his fingers to his nose and inhaled deeply, then walked over to the table and filled his glass with wine, turning his back on Martha.

  She took the opportunity to stand and found that her legs were weak and would barely support her as she hurriedly put on her skirts, sickened by the man’s stink that clung to her, filling her nose and throat. Appalled at the wetness between her legs.

  When she was dressed again, Lord Denton turned back to face her and she saw a faint twist of disgust at his lips.

  ‘Are you repulsed by me, Lord Denton? Or by yourself?’ she dared, lacing up her bodice.

  ‘Get out of my house, girl,’ he said through a grimace.

  She walked towards him, suddenly terrified that she had upset him. ‘I am sorry, my lord,’ she said, ‘I did not mean to—’

  ‘I said get out!’ he barked, so that Martha stopped suddenly, afraid to move at all.

  ‘You will keep your word?’ she asked, feeling now more desperate then ever, because of what she had given for that word.

  Lord Denton glanced down at the tapestry still on the floor, then glared at Martha.

  ‘Who are you to make demands of me?’ he asked bitterly.

  ‘But your word, my lord! You said my father would not spend another week imprisoned.’

  ‘And so he will not,’ Lord Denton replied, a grin twitching his moustaches, ‘for he is to be executed for his crimes. In four days, I believe.’

  ‘No!’ Martha screamed, flying at him. She clawed at him, gouging his face, but William was still a powerful man and he knocked her arms aside and clamped a hand around her throat, using his free arm to fend off her flailing hands.

  He’s going to kill me, she thought. Then the parlour door opened and Henry came in, his face flushed from riding and his boots trailing mud across the floor.

  ‘Father?’

  ‘Get out!’ William yelled, spittle flying from his mouth and spraying Martha.

  For a heartbeat Henry took in the scene, eyes wide and mouth hanging open. His gaze flicked down to the tapestry and back up to Martha and his nose twitched as though catching a scent.

  ‘I will not tell you again, boy!’ his father growled.

  Henry dipped his head and backed out of the room, shutting the door behind him.

  ‘Listen to me, harlot, and listen well. If you do not stop meddling in affairs that are beyond you, I will make it known that you came here and whored yourself.’ His grip was strong. She could not breathe. ‘I am sure Tom Rivers will be interested to hear that I fucked his dirty little harlot.’ Blackness was flooding her vision and she felt hot urine running down her leg.

  Then she felt herself fly backwards and hit the floor, where she lay for what seemed like a long time before her senses flooded back in.

  ‘Never come here again,’ he said, grimacing at the small puddles on the oak floorboards.

  Martha climbed unsteadily to her feet and fled from him, back into the entrance hall where dead faces stared at her accusingly, then out of the great door where she found her horse waiting for her, its reins held by a young boy who would not look her in the eye. She put her coif to her nose and breathed in her own familiar smell, trying to be rid of his because she thought she would vomit. Then she mounted the mare, wincing in discomfort, and rode from Baston House. And she did not see her brother, Jacob, sitting on a chestnut colt among a stand of Scots pine.

  CHAPTER SIX

  AT FIRST THE snowflakes had clung to one another, plunging from the ashen heavens like duck down and melting on the muddied track and on hat brims and cloaks. But now the wind had picked up, scattering the snow into finer flakes that swirled around chaotically, some of them even ascending back into the desolate, wan sky. It was a cold, bleak, hopeless day, but that had not kept the crowds away and now they were gathered, huddled like sheep against the chill. Having come from miles around, men, women, even children
stamped feet and huffed into hands, a cloud of freezing breath rising from them along with a constant murmur like that of the sea. For nothing could keep them from an execution.

  Most had come up from Parbold, Lathom and Newburgh villages, Bess supposed, following the ancient tracks to Gallows Ledge on Hilldale like so many before them. Like those early pilgrims traipsing up to Golgotha beyond Jerusalem’s walls, she thought, wondering then what it was about death that so drew the living. But many, too, had come from farther afield, from Eccleston and Leyland, perhaps even from Preston. Excited folk had traversed fields and woodland on foot or on horseback, tramping over the sandstone foothills of the West Lancashire countryside or through the valley of the River Douglas, wrapped against the day. To watch George Green hang.

  They had set off from Shear House before sunrise, arriving in time to see two women executed first, one for being a witch and the other for murdering her husband. The witch had died quickly, thank God, her neck snapping like an old twig, but the other woman had jerked and kicked and fouled herself and it had taken two men hanging from her ankles to break her neck, at which the crowd had groaned and gasped, horrified and thrilled in equal measure.

  Her mother had whispered a prayer for the women’s souls and her betrothed, Emmanuel Bright, had clutched Bess to his chest at the last to spare her the grisly sight. But to her shame Bess had looked anyway, transfixed by the murderess’s lolling tongue and bulging eyes. Now the women, whose chins, forearms and hands darkened as the blood pooled in them, were forgotten and all eyes were turned towards the main event.

  ‘How is he, Edmund?’ their father asked, nodding towards Tom who was pushing forward, leading Martha by the hand because she had wanted to see her father, or rather wanted him to see her. Before the end.