The Bleeding Land

by Giles Kristian

  ‘Heya! Faster, boy!’ Tom yelled, ice-cold air scalding his teeth, his hands numbing on the reins as Achilles leapt six feet across the Tawd River, rattling Tom’s bones when he landed and dug in and tore on. All colour had seeped from the land, leaving nothing but melancholic shades of grey and black that exaggerated the terrain around him. The rolling Lathom hills seemed in the darkness to rise up and meet the sky, so that Tom had the sensation of riding through the bottom of a deep dark gorge, and horse and rider raced on, as though eager to reach the silver tideline of moonlight that marked the higher ground. With true colour absent they could only judge distance by shade and tone, but their senses were heightened in the snow-blurred twilight and Achilles galloped headlong into the dashing flakes, his black mane shattering and flying, as though Hell’s hound, Cerberus, was on to him.

  Tom caught the fleeting whistles and calls of a shepherd somewhere out in the murk, moving his flock to lower ground perhaps. The sheep’s nervous bleats were distant, lost sounds through the snow as Tom rode north-east now, joining a well-worn, wheel-rutted track. And still they did not slow.

  ‘Go on, boy!’ he barked, and Achilles screamed in reply as they tore through a copse of stark, snow-frosted oaks. Then Tom hauled the stallion up onto a muddy tree-lined drive that led to Baston House, the freezing air burning his throat and the wind roaring in his ears. He raised his face, filling his eyes with the imposing mass of brick and stone, the house looming against the coming night, windows glowing yellow, its chimneys spewing wood smoke which Tom could smell even from five hundred paces. Only now did he rein Achilles in, knowing that he must dissipate the stallion’s wild excitement if he was to have any chance of dismounting at the end of the slushy track.

  ‘Whoa, boy! We’re here, Achilles.’ The air seared his lungs as he dragged it into his heaving chest. The beast slowed, tossing his head wildly, foam flecking at his bit as he snorted and steamed. Tom glimpsed a stand of Scots pine a stone’s throw from Baston House’s arched entrance and decided that that must have been where Jacob had concealed himself after following his sister here. But Tom had not come to hide amongst the trees, and Achilles was still trotting when the young man pulled his left foot from the stirrup, hauled the leg over his saddle, and jumped down onto the churned mud and snow within the walled courtyard. ‘Stay here, boy!’ he called, striding the last twenty paces up to the huge oak door, his boots cracking wafers of newly formed ice and his fists balling at his sides.

  He did not stop to admire the smooth columns or the skilfully carved arch above which was moulded Denton’s crest of a rampant gold griffin, but took the three steps in one bound and began to pummel on the door, his breath fogging the porch. No one came. The chimney smoke and the light spilling from the windows did not necessarily mean that anyone was home – in this weather such a house would have fires burning day and night or have ice climbing the parlour walls. But Tom had noticed boot prints in the settling snow leading up to the steps and this told him beyond any doubt that Baston House was not empty. Fine boots, too, by the marks. And more than one pair.

  He battered the door again, this time using the heel of his hand so that the last strike was as hard and loud as the first. Then he heard muffled voices within, followed by a moment’s silence before the drawing of bolts hammered the expectant air. The oak door opened wide enough for a head to poke out.

  ‘What, sir, is upon the world that you need pound my master’s door to splinters?’ The face was round and fleshy, ample eyebrows knitted disapprovingly. But the door was no longer locked, which was all Tom needed. He thrust out a hand and strode forward, throwing the door wide and sending the servant sprawling onto the hall floor. ‘Where is Denton?’ Tom asked, glancing at the faces hung upon the dark oak-panelled walls, his left hand clutching his rapier’s hilt. ‘Where is your bastard master?’ he snarled at the corpulent servant, who was picking himself up and cradling a plump wrist, beady eyes wide with fright.

  Then a door opened on Tom’s right, leaking firelight into the candle-lit hall and throwing a large figure into silhouette.

  ‘Who the devil wants to know?’ Lord Denton said, his teeth flashing like a wolf’s.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  ‘IT’S TOM RIVERS,’ snarled a voice from behind Lord Denton. William moved aside and Henry stepped from the parlour into the hall, his rapier’s blade glinting in the flamelight. His face was a younger version of his father’s, handsome yet marred by an arrogance that manifested itself in the eyes and mouth.

  ‘I’ll kill you!’ Tom yelled at William, his sword hissing past its scabbard’s throat. He flew at Lord Denton, but Henry lunged and Tom had to parry, the blades singing before Henry leapt back. Tom slashed but this time Henry blocked and forced the blade wide, stepping inside to smash a fist into Tom’s cheek. Tom staggered backwards, stunned by the blow, but managed to catch Henry’s sword on his own rapier’s forte and turn it aside. Then he threw his arm high parrying a cut that would have cleaved his head down the middle.

  ‘Fetch my sword!’ Lord Denton yelled and Tom was aware of the fat servant edging past, his back scuffing picture frames that clunked against the corridor’s oak panelling.

  ‘I owe you, Rivers,’ Henry spat. Tom answered with a lunge that was parried, and a reprise that narrowly missed his opponent’s neck, but Henry’s riposte was good and would have skewered Tom’s chest had he not twisted aside at the last. Henry remised but Tom flicked his wrist, getting the debole of his blade across, and was lucky that that weak part of his sword deflected the blow. Both combatants jumped back, gasping, drawing breath for the first time since the fight was joined.

  Feet clumped across old floorboards and men spilled into the hall; five in all, roused from their duties and come to defend their master with knives and cudgels. ‘Kill ’im, sir!’ one of them yelled.

  The portly servant was amongst them and he edged forwards, glancing warily at Tom as he delivered his master’s sword: a fine weapon, Tom was not surprised to see, its hilt cup and recurved quillons decorated in relief with silver and gold.

  ‘I’m astonished that the little whore told you,’ Lord Denton said, circling a finger which his men took as a signal to surround Tom. Then he shrugged his broad shoulders. ‘But then, I was surprised by her appetite too.’ He smiled at his son. ‘She was a wanton little bitch. My cock still chafes.’

  Tom sprang forward but Lord Denton circular parried and forced Tom’s blade down until both points struck the floor, and in Tom’s peripheral vision he saw Henry leap in, saw the path of the sword hilt which slammed against his head, spinning his world in a blur, white light flaring. Then the others were on him, like the low dogs of the pack having waited their turn, and they began to rain blows down on him. He felt his knees give, then he was down, his sword lost, and they kicked and punched and struck him with knife hilts and clubs, and all he could do was clutch the back of his head, his forearms taking blows that could otherwise kill him.

  ‘Enough!’ Lord Denton bellowed. ‘Stand off!’ Tom swiped blood from his right eye and spat a wad of bloody saliva across the dark wood floor as he tried to rise, his pummelled flesh screaming.

  ‘I’ll kill you,’ he gnarred at Lord Denton, who shook his head in bewilderment, his long grey hair barely out of place and his hooped earrings glinting dully.

  ‘You are an eager young man, I’ll say that for you,’ William said. ‘Almost as eager as that whore.’ With one hand he straightened his doublet. ‘Seems you’ve got bigger balls than your father, Thomas, but not even half his sense. At least Sir Francis knows when to walk away from a fight.’

  ‘Let me gut him, Father,’ Henry growled. ‘He attacked you in your own house. The law will hang him in any case.’

  William shook his head disappointedly. ‘You have so much to learn, Henry.’ He stepped up to Tom and lifted his blade, so that Tom felt its point quivering a finger’s breadth from his cheek, as he eyeballed his enemy. ‘Look at him.’ Tom tensed, ready to knock the blade aside and mak
e a grab for his own which lay four feet away from his right hand. But he did not know if his pain-racked limbs would move as he needed them to. And if they did not . . .

  I’ll die on my damned knees, he thought.

  ‘This whelp has lost,’ William went on. ‘His dewy-lipped love came here, lay on my floor and spread her legs like a tavern whore.’ He grinned. ‘Begged me to save her father even as I fucked her. Whilst young Thomas here, ignorant of Miss Green’s . . . appetites . . . then fails to save her father and must watch the man piss his breeches and swing in the wind.’ He frowned. ‘Reminds me of one of the Greek tragedies,’ he said, glancing at his son. Tom could feel Henry’s hatred coming off him in waves. ‘And now,’ Lord Denton resumed, ‘the lad comes here with grand ideas of revenge, only to end up on my floor like his woman before him. If it were you or I, Henry, we would rather hang, would we not?’ Henry seemed to consider the point, then nodded, baleful eyes riveted to Tom. ‘If I’ve learned anything,’ his father went on, ‘it is not to give your enemy that which he most desires. That is how one wins.’

  ‘So what do we do with him?’ Henry asked with a shrug of strong shoulders. The servants glanced at each other, shifting uncomfortably, awaiting their master’s orders. They know full well that my father is a friend of the King, Tom thought.

  ‘We finish what the whelp himself started by coming here, of course,’ William said. ‘Hold him,’ he sneered at his men. Tom heard floorboards creak, sensed the knot of men around him tighten. Then each of them moved in, taking a grip of his pain-filled arms and shoulders and clutching fistfuls of his cloak and doublet. He thrashed for a few futile, agonized moments, but it was no use against so many. Grimly he thought of the bear he and Jacob had watched beset by hounds. And he feared this would end the same way.

  ‘Take him outside, Walter,’ Lord Denton barked. ‘The boy is bleeding all over my floor.’ The fat servant nodded, moving to the door and opening it to the freezing night. ‘And Henry, fetch my cloak.’ He stepped out into the porch and inhaled deeply of the crisp air, for a moment watching the snow plunge down in silent downy flakes. Then he strode down the steps and stood staring down the long path leading from his estate across the rolling tree-crowned hills towards Parbold village, as they dragged Tom out. The fat servant aimed a soft fist at Tom’s face, wincing as he scuffed his knuckles on Tom’s temple, so that Tom managed a bitter smile.

  ‘My sister hits harder than you, you swollen pig’s bladder,’ he growled, glaring at the man, challenging him to do his worst.

  ‘He’s right, Walter,’ Henry chided with a malicious grin. ‘You don’t do it like that.’ He huffed warm breath into his right hand, then clenched it into a tight knot and stepped up. ‘This is how you teach a cur,’ he said, and slammed a burly fist against Tom’s cheek, cutting it open. Immediately, bright blood began to drip onto the freezing earth. Tom clenched his teeth against the pain, refusing to cry out, his head reeling from the blow. He wanted to insult Henry as he had Walter, to taunt his tormentor. To show defiance. But he knew Henry hit harder than that whoreson servant.

  So he held his tongue.

  Then, gripping him tightly though he had given up struggling, Lord Denton’s men simply waited, their combined breath pluming by moon and starlight, fogging the space between them and their master’s broad back. Henry waited too, a half grin nestled on his face as though he was party to his father’s intentions, even though Tom suspected he had no more idea than Tom himself as to what was in Lord Denton’s mind.

  William turned, pointing his rapier down at the ice-crusted mud and suddenly Tom was being manhandled, dragged to the spot and thrust down, his face in the numbing filth, so that he could smell the cold earth. He felt a foot plant square on his back – Walter’s foot – as the others squatted around, pinning his limbs to the ground.

  ‘The thing about cold weather,’ William said, and Tom heard the rasp as he sheathed his sword, then caught a glimpse of him taking the cloak which Henry offered, ‘is that it always makes me want to piss. Must be my age.’

  There followed a silence but for the screech of an owl somewhere in the dark and his own breathing made ragged by the terrible pain in his ribs.

  ‘You may want to move your foot, Walter,’ Lord Denton suggested, and the pressure on Tom’s back vanished as Walter took two steps backwards, his muddy shoes in line with Tom’s sight. ‘Henry, make sure the papist whore-loving cur keeps still. I’ve had these boots but barely two weeks.’ Tom felt the cold bite of Henry’s sword on the nape of his neck and growled a curse. He tried to look up at his enemy but the steel point pressed harder and his exposed flesh instinctively recoiled from it so that his cheek pressed into the freezing mud again. His eyes followed Lord Denton’s high, bucket-topped boots as they strode around to his right and there stopped dead still, their water-stained toe ends level with his backside. He brimmed with furious anger, hot as a brazier of coals, but clenched his teeth on the curses that roared to be set free, in case they thought his clamouring born of fear. Do not give them the satisfaction, his mind commanded his body.

  Not so long as he was yet master of himself, if of nothing else, and so every muscle and sinew thrummed with impotent rage, at the injustice of it, at himself for allowing them to humiliate him like this.

  And then Lord Denton began to piss on him.

  The stream of hot liquid seethed, spattering onto his back and head, running across his cheeks and into the corners of his mouth and the cuts in his flesh, stinging like the devil. And now he bellowed, any vestige of pride sluiced away by another man’s piss. ‘I’ll fucking kill you all!’ he screamed. The urine was dark yellow and melted the settling snow around his head, the steam from it filling his nose with its foul stink. ‘I swear it! I’ll kill you! Get off me, you bastards! You’re a dead man, Denton! Get off me! God damn you! Let me go!’ They were laughing at him as the steaming stream sputtered, came thick again, then petered to the last drops. Some of it had splashed onto Lord Denton’s servants but none of them had dared move or lessen their grip. The liquid had soaked through Tom’s cloak, doublet and shirt. He felt it as warmth on the skin of his back and he wished he could close his eyes and die, but he knew he could not.

  ‘Do you not need to piss, Henry?’ William asked his son, shuddering theatrically as he tucked himself away. Tom strained his neck, trying to glare at his tormentors, his eyes his only weapons. And saw Walter’s black-toothed grin and some others watching Henry expectantly. But Henry shook his head, still pressing his sword’s point against Tom’s neck. His eyes were wide with awe.

  Because his enemy lies in the freezing filth, soaked with piss, Tom thought with grim rage.

  ‘That’s a young bladder for you, Walter,’ William announced, huffing into cold hands. ‘When you get to my age, lad, you’ll piss three times a night. Five when it’s as cold as this.’

  He walked back around to Tom’s head and stared down at him, eyes brimming with disgust at the young man’s sopping hair and the cloudy vapour rising from it into the frigid night. ‘Now then, Thomas Rivers,’ he said, rubbing his hands against the chill. ‘You have given the impression of being a headstrong young man and while boldness can occasionally serve a purpose, mostly it gets men killed. Much wiser and, more importantly, long-lived, is he who considers the terrain and the enemy before charging ahead.’ He glanced at Henry, letting his son know that he was supposed to be listening to this advice too. ‘Therefore, boy, try for a moment to think past your hatred.’

  Tom looked up, feeling the blade puncture the skin and scrape past his neck bones. ‘I’m going to cut your damned throat,’ he snarled.

  Lord Denton rolled his eyes and shook his head. He squatted and, baring his teeth, grasped Tom’s sopping hair, snarling it around his fist, then yanked his head upwards so that their eyes met.

  ‘You’re not listening, boy!’ he spat. ‘My advice to you is to ride away from here and put this whole . . . occasion behind you. Call it youthful abandon. An error of judge
ment on your part. But leave it alone. Bring your family into this and you’ll lament it so help you God. You’ll just be heaping shit onto shit. Do you understand?’ Lord Denton tilted his head to one side, like a fisherman trying to decide whether to keep his catch or throw it back in.

  Tom glared. Said nothing. The hate and the anger writhed in him like poisonous serpents. They churned and soured and boiled in his gut. He felt them twist his face into a grotesque mask, felt their malevolence blaze from his eyes.

  Lord Denton stood and dismissed the whole affair with a waft of his hand. ‘Let him go,’ he said casually and his men looked at each other. They nodded and Walter counted to three and each of them carefully released his hold on Tom before standing and edging back, as a man does from a wild animal which he has caught and is letting go. ‘Bring Master Rivers’s horse, Walter,’ William said as Henry also stepped back, keeping his blade between them while Tom climbed unsteadily to his feet, eyes riveted to the architect of his humiliation.

  ‘You are lucky I did not spill your pus-filled guts tonight, Rivers,’ Henry said, gesturing for Tom to mount his horse. ‘Go before I change my mind.’

  For several heartbeats Tom eyeballed Henry, fixing his enemy’s face in his mind, then, ignoring the piss-soaked tresses hanging against his own face, he turned from them all and snatched the reins from Walter. He mounted as smoothly as he could, given his many screaming pains, then dug in his heels and yelled coarsely. Achilles whinnied, snapping great teeth at the cold darkness, then surged forward, breaking into a canter which Tom spurred into a gallop. The stallion’s hooves thumped the snow-covered earth and together they sped away from Baston House along the well-worn moonlit path.