Lights were coming on all over the Hall. Dan went back to the spot where the man had been standing. The long grass around the trees was trampled, but it was too dark to make out any footprints. He crouched down and groped around on the off-chance of finding something. A twig snapped behind him. There was a searing pain on the back of his head and he toppled forward.
*
Dan opened his eyes, the world tilted several degrees, and he immediately shut them again. Not for long. Someone was slapping his face and whispering, “Wake up, you bugger.”
He opened his eyes again and, when the nausea had passed, recognised Abe’s blacked-up face.
“We have to get out of here. Stand up, blast you.”
Dan struggled into a sitting position and discovered the pain was not all in his head. Abe had dragged him into the forest, as the bruises on his back testified.
“Give me your hand,” he said.
Abe hauled him up.
“Did you fire that shot?”
Abe laughed. “Must ’a been Bloodie Bones.”
“Give me your gun.”
“Why?”
“Give it me.”
Abe knew that, shaken and in pain as he was, Dan could still give him a good pounding. He shrugged and handed the weapon over. It was cold. Dan returned it.
“Did you see who did?”
“Nah.”
“Because I owe whoever it was. So if you know, you’d better tell me, Abe.”
“I didn’t see him. I just found you lying there.”
By now the grounds around the Hall were full of shouting servants, their lanterns zigzagging across the lawn. Dan felt another wave of sickness and gritted his teeth.
“Let’s go.”
He was impressed by how surely Abe found his way, but well and truly sick of the forest by the time they hopped over a fence into a field. After they had crossed three or four more, Abe stopped on a low rise. To their left was a long, dark stretch of open land – Barcombe Heath. After a bit of effort to focus, Dan saw the silhouette of the church spire a little below and in front of him. They had taken a circuitous route to get there, away from Lord Oldfield’s search parties.
“You can make your way back from here.”
“What about you?”
Abe gestured in the direction of Dunnage’s farm. “I’m going that way.”
“Do you live with Dunnage?”
“In one of his cottages, near Tanner’s Field.”
“Do you think the others are all right?”
“Yeah. They’ll be well out of it by now.” Without another word he was gone.
Dan crept down to the church and scrambled over the low stone wall into the graveyard. Threading between the gravestones, he wondered why the gunman had come back to attack him. The man was well covered up, it was dark – he had no reason to think Dan could identify him. Even if Dan did, why would that worry him? What Barcombe poacher would turn in a fellow recruit in the army of Bloodie Bones?
Unless the gunman was Walter, and Dan had been too optimistic about the effect of his talk with Mrs Halling. What if he had stayed away from Dunnage’s not for his mother’s sake, but so he could make this attempt on Lord Oldfield’s life? If it had been an attempt to kill him. The gunman could not have known His Lordship was sitting up late, and even if he had, his aim had been hurried and he’d had only one chance at it. It seemed more likely that the shot was intended to alarm and annoy.
Still, Dan would have to check up on the youth in the morning.
He climbed over the gate into the forge yard. The back door of the cottage opened and the blacksmith appeared, candle in hand. His voice hissed into the darkness.
“Dan!”
Dan tiptoed into the kitchen and whispered, “Did the others get away?”
“Yes. All well. But what about you and Abe?”
Dan told him what had happened.
Singleton laughed. “Hope that put the wind up His Lordship.”
“I should think it did. But I don’t know why I had to get a bashing.”
“He probably thought you were one of Lord Oldfield’s men.”
“Well, I’d like to repay the compliment, so if you find out who it was, let me know, eh?”
“If it means seeing you in action with your fists again.”
“It will, I promise you.”
Dan felt shivery and was glad to get into the warmth of the forge. There was a bit of water left in the tank so he washed the blood off his head in it. As far as he could tell, the cut was not very big or deep, but it did hurt. He lay down on his straw, hitched the blankets over himself, and shut his eyes.
*
His headache had not gone by morning and it was not helped by the heat and hammering in the forge. A forge was a good place to gather and gossip, and there was plenty to gossip about: Lord Oldfield’s warren raided in the night and a shot fired at His Lordship. There were people in and out all day to tell Singleton and Dan what the two men already knew. They grinned, winked and nudged the blacksmith, well pleased with the secret that was no secret.
Singleton enjoyed his notoriety, but Dan kept his head down and went about his business, listening. While everyone knew who had robbed Lord Oldfield of his game, no one had a clue who had fired the gun at him. It looked as if the gunman was not going to step up to bask alongside Singleton in well-deserved glory.
Mrs Singleton kept out of the way and served their meals in silence. She noticed the cut on Dan’s head, but did not offer to tend it for fear of touching too closely on her husband’s nocturnal activities, nor did Singleton suggest that she should. He was well able to bear another man’s discomfort without offering to relieve it.
By mid-afternoon they had done all the jobs needed for collection that day. Singleton decided anything else could wait; he was going to the Fox to talk to Buller. Dan refused the invitation to join him and said he was going for a walk to clear his head.
He washed off the day’s grime, put on a clean shirt, dusted down his breeches, and set off for Anna Halling’s cottage. He had not made himself welcome last time. He did not suppose this visit would be any better.
Anna opened the door with floury hands and a face flushed with heat. To his surprise, she smiled and invited him in. The table was covered with cutters, mixing bowls and jars, and the smell of the first batch of scones rising in the tiny oven by the hearth filled the room. He sat down and helped himself to a currant from a twist of paper. She slapped his hand away.
“Don’t pick! They’re all I’ve got. Mr Travell let me have them in return for a jar of rosehip jelly…You’ve come at the right time. I’m making a treat for Walter’s supper, and no one deserves to share in it more than you.”
“Why, what have I done?”
“You spoke out of turn.”
“You talked to the boy then?”
“I wasn’t going to. I didn’t think my son could be so stupid. But what you said stuck in my mind: ‘There are some things boys can’t talk to their mothers about’. I couldn’t sleep for worrying. So I asked him.”
She paused, busying herself with adding milk to the mix. Dan guessed there had been a painful scene: a son’s denials, a mother’s recriminations, tears on both sides.
“He promised me that he will not go out again.”
“And last night? He stayed in all night?”
“Yes.” She removed a tray from the oven and put the next batch in. “He had nothing to do with what happened up at the Hall, and this time you will believe me.”
She gave him a look there was no arguing with and wiped her hands on a cloth. “How did you get that cut?”
“I walked into a chain hanging down from the rafters in the forge.”
“Let me take a look.”
What with the fragrant heat, the singing of the fire, her soft breath
close to his ear, and the light touch of her fingers on his scalp, he almost fell asleep. He watched drowsily as she went over to a shelf and selected an earthenware jar. She lifted the lid, releasing a whiff of honey and lavender. The salve, gently applied, was warm and soothing.
“I’ll put some in a cup for you. Put it on three times a day. It will help the healing. And don’t waste it. I don’t know when I’ll be able to make some more with the wood being closed off now.”
“The loss of Barcombe Wood is serious for you?”
“Many of the herbs I need grow there.”
“Nowhere else?”
“I might be able to get some on the heath and in the lanes, but not in the same quantities. I should be collecting and drying mushrooms for the winter now. Then there’s fuel. I’ll have to use more furze off the heath, and it burns much more fiercely than wood. There’s the rushes too. I don’t know how we’ll manage for light, though heaven knows we don’t stay up much after dark…” she stopped. “There, I’m grumbling at you. Try one of these, Mr Fielding. I’ll pour you some ale.”
“My name’s Dan. And I’d prefer water.”
“Then I’ll get some ale for Walter. He’ll be in in a minute.”
She went out to the scullery. Dan shut his eyes. There were moments like this in the kitchen at home, when Eleanor was baking and Caroline was not there to spoil things. If he let himself, he could imagine that it was Eleanor pottering about in the scullery, Eleanor who would bring him his water, Eleanor who would blush when he put his hand over hers and smiled up at her as he took it.
The front door latch rattled and in burst Walter. “Mother, I’m – what are you doing here?”
“I’ve come to see you.”
“Checking up on me?”
“Yes.”
Walter glared, then noticed the baking things. A boyish gleam lit up his face. His mother came back into the room with a tray of drinks.
“I thought I heard you. I’ve made you some scones.”
“So why is he eating them all?”
“Mr Fielding has had one. And I don’t think that is any way to talk to a visitor.”
“Didn’t ask him here, did I?”
He dropped into a chair by the fire and unlaced his boots.
Dan said, “They’re delicious.”
“Have another,” she said.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Walter gave in. His hand shot forward and he took one of the scones. After tasting it he could not hurt his mother’s feelings by having nothing good to say about it. So, against his will, he found himself siding with Dan in praise of her cooking.
“Have you seen Abe today?” she asked.
Walter flushed. “Yeah.” He turned to Dan. “He told me he’d seen you last night. Told me how you cut your head.”
Dan caught and held the boy’s gaze. “He came by the forge just after I did it. I walked into something.”
Walter dropped his eyes and muttered, “That’s what he said.”
“Are you going to Paulton with him tomorrow afternoon?” she asked.
The boy bit his lip. “No.”
Dan put down his cup. “I’d better be going. Walk to the end of the lane with me, Walter.”
He scowled, but could not refuse in front of a mother who had taught him better manners. While he pulled on his boots, Dan asked after Taylor’s girl.
“Kiomi is doing better than I had hoped. But the swelling hasn’t gone down and she still can’t open her eyes, so I don’t know yet if there is any long-term damage.”
“I thought I might drop in to see her on Sunday afternoon. Perhaps I will see you there?”
“Perhaps you will, after church.”
He took up his hat and pocketed the salve. Walter thrust his hands in his pockets and marched morosely beside him.
“Have you and Abe had a falling-out?”
“None of your business.”
“You have, haven’t you? Because of last night.”
“And whose fault is that? You with your interfering. You’ve made me a laughing stock.”
“Better that than an example hanging in chains on the high road.”
“Yeah, yeah. If it’s so dangerous, why are you doing it?”
“I’ve got nothing to lose.”
“He said I was a coward. A ninny tied to my mother’s apron strings.”
Dan felt for the boy’s anguish. He knew what it was like, following the crowd because you’re young and don’t know there’s another way to go, and even if you do you don’t have the confidence in yourself to take it. He had been lucky; he had had Noah to show him, though at first he had fought him every step of the way. Noah sent him to a day school a couple of streets away, where he had sneered at the neatly dressed boys, the tame boys, the boys he threw sticks and stones at, whose pennies he nicked, whose books he kicked in the mud. He took his canings without flinching and thought he was brave. It had taken him a long time to see the courage there is in picking yourself up off the floor, putting your clothes straight, and carrying on in your own way in spite of the feral creatures snapping at your heels.
“I’ll tell you what a coward is. A coward is the man who does what everyone else does because he’s afraid of what they’ll say. A coward is the man who thinks nothing of hurting someone who loves him just so he can look big in front of his friends.”
“Mother would never have known if it hadn’t been for you.”
“She’d have known all right – the day they came to arrest you.”
“What about when they arrest you?”
“Walter, if I’d got a tenth of what you’d got, I’d start caring.”
“That again!”
“Yes, that again. You have a home. You have a future. You have a mother who loves you. That should mean more to you than what a jackanapes like Abe thinks.”
“I still don’t see how you can tell me to do one thing and do another yourself. I don’t suppose you’re going to tell her you’re a poacher?”
“No. Are you?”
“I’m no oath breaker.”
Dan laughed. “Meaning I am?”
“You told Mother about me.”
“And did you a favour. Anyway, I’m getting bored with it. I don’t think I’ll stick it much longer.” That was as much as Dan dared say, but he hoped that if Anna did hear any rumours about his involvement in the gang, Walter, whom she was sure to ask first, would tell her what he had said.
They came to a halt at the end of the track. Dan glanced back at the house. Anna stood in the doorway, looking after them.
“Your mother’s waiting for you.”
“All right.”
Walter started back to the cottage, stopped and turned back. “Dan.”
“What?”
“Have you ever been in prison?”
“I’ve known people who have. They’re dead now.” Not a word of a lie in that.
Walter ducked his head and loped back to the cottage. His mother put her arm around him and drew him inside.
Chapter Thirteen
Kiomi’s face was swollen and pitted with red wounds, and there was a crusty, yellow discharge gumming up her eyes, but Anna assured Dan that she was healing normally. Kiomi herself was enjoying the attention. She had been given a doll, probably the first she had ever owned, which she was delighted with.
While Anna dressed her injuries, Taylor invited Dan to see inside his odd dwelling. Dan expected something like the seeping cellars of London, where for a penny a night you could share a lousy mattress on a filthy floor with half a dozen other unwashed bodies. Instead it was dry and warm, and the air was not stale. A number of small chambers led off a central passageway that ended in a wall of tumbled brickwork. There were alcoves in the walls where once corpses had been buried in all their finery.
<
br /> Dan peered into the shifting shadows beyond the faint glow of Tom’s rushlight. “Don’t you mind sleeping in a tomb?”
“There are no spirits walking here. We had a cleansing ceremony before we moved in.”
The alcoves were packed with gifts from the village: bread, milk, a side of bacon, potatoes, apples, a basket of nectarines, and a lifetime’s worth of blankets and clothes. There were shoes and stockings too, although Mrs Taylor and her children still went barelegged in their old boots. Dan guessed that many of these items would be discreetly traded away when the donors had lost interest in the family.
They went back to the fire, and Taylor brought out a jug of local cider, dry and strong. To be polite Dan took a couple of mouthfuls, and his host swigged the rest. Mrs Taylor tended the perennial stewpot, which gave out the savoury smell of onions and rabbit. Every now and again Tom threw a log onto the fire and gave it a kick to keep it going. Anna sat beside the little girl, making up stories with the doll. No one said very much and the time passed companionably until Anna got ready to leave. Dan said it was time for him to go too. He picked up her basket and offered her his arm. She hesitated, then took it.
“What do you think, Mr Fielding,” she said when they were out of earshot of the barrow, “Dr Russell called on the family yesterday. Tom Taylor would be furious if he found out.”
Dan had already guessed where the nectarines had come from. “That’s very good of the doctor. What did he say?”
“The child’s sight is not damaged, and once the swelling has gone down she should be able to see as well as ever. Isn’t that good news? And how kind of the doctor to go out of his way like that. He also said that he was impressed with the speed the wounds were healing and wanted to know what was in the salve. It’s only an old recipe of my mother’s.”
“I’d keep it to yourself. You don’t want him patenting it and selling it off as Dr Russell’s Balm.”
“I don’t think he would do that.”
“You’d be surprised what people would do.”
“I am surprised – that you should take such a dim view of people.”
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