Mercy pretends to ignore them but Ellis knows she’s listening.
‘Tell me, then,’ Ravens goes on, ‘why you’re squandering good coin on this papist scum when there are local boys going hungry?’
‘We always use travelling labour for the hay harvest, you know that.’
Ravens snorts. ‘Aye, for hay cutting, but not shepherding. Keep them in the fields or, better still, turn them out, send them on their way. There’s little enough work as it is. Why should we go hungry to feed them?’
‘We cannot bring the grass in yet – it’s too wet. Am I to pay them to sit and do nothing?’
‘As far as I can see, that’s all they’re good for. My boys would do twice the work with half their years. Their sort don’t belong here. Why give them reason to stay?’
Bestwicke makes a grumble of agreement. Tom is sending daggered looks towards Ravens.
‘Where I find workers is not your business,’ Garrick says.
But Ravens is only encouraged. ‘There’s a papist plague on this country, I tell you. Folk thought there was an end to it when Cromwell had his way over there, but seems to me there’s more and more of them each year. What right have they to take our work? This is our land and they’re not welcome here.’
‘Calm yourself. I need your mind on the work,’ Garrick says, handing the sheep he’s washed to Mercy.
‘It’s not just the Irish,’ Bestwicke says. ‘I’ve heard there are vagrants in the old cottage now. They’ll be up here begging for charity before the week’s out.’
‘And no doubt the master will spare what he can, as would any good Christian,’ Garrick says.
‘But why should he?’ Ravens counters. ‘Why should we give away what we’ve worked for when these people have not the sense and pride to do the same? They travel the roads, settling on our land, taking our work. We don’t need strangers round here.’
Ellis feels the slice of Ravens’s words and knows that some part is meant for him. Anger begins to flex a fist in his belly.
‘A little kindness cannot be a bad thing,’ Dority says. ‘And Master Booth has a kind soul.’
‘More fool him,’ Ravens replies. ‘See how he likes it when his land is swarming with papists. Let’s see how his pastor preaches hellfire then.’
Ellis glances at Mercy. She is feigning concentration on the sheep in her hands but her lips are pressed together in a tight line. Why does she stay so silent? A single word from her would end this and return everyone’s attention to the work. Does she refuse to play the mistress out of some twisted loyalty to Ravens?
He wades to where Ravens has the next sheep ready for him. It’s a ewe this time, a bedraggled shearling with an untidy fleece. He takes it by the horns and pulls it towards the water. It makes a half-hearted attempt to resist, bleating, hooves sliding on the wet bank, but then staggers into the brook and begins to kick and swim.
Ravens is ranting now: ‘Why don’t we find some Spaniards for harvest? Or ask the gypsies to clip the sheep?’
Ellis turns his mind to the work, leaving Bestwicke and Ravens to debate the worst kind of worker – the Irish or the gypsies. He feels the sharp edges of a storm cloud gathering and shuts his ears. He cannot afford to lose his temper.
The sheep is weak, struggling to keep its head above water and he has to hold it up by its horns as he begins to work the dirt free from its fleece. It rolls its eyes and bleats piteously. Instinct tells him something is wrong. He runs his hands over its flanks. Towards the rear, he can feel the flesh is uneven and soft; the creature makes a low grumble as he presses there. Its fleece is matted. The stink of rot rises.
‘Hold!’ he calls. Garrick, just about to collect another animal from Ravens, signals a halt.
Ellis drags the creature to the far bank where Mercy meets him, and hauls both himself and the sheep out of the water. He knows he’s right before he sees it – the sheep is fly-struck.
There is a patch of filth-stained fleece on its hindquarters and as he parts it, a great ooze of maggots spills from a festering wound. It’s worse around its backside, the skin there already putrid and stinking of rotting meat. No matter how many times he’s seen it – and there have been plenty – the sight of a maggot-infested sheep still makes his stomach turn.
‘Oh, Lord . . .’ Mercy whispers, under her breath.
The sheep is frightened and confused, straining to bite at the wound it cannot see.
‘Hold her,’ he says to Mercy, and she takes the ewe between her legs, calls Bracken to her side in case she loses her grip. He goes to his waistcoat, fetches his knife and is back in seconds. Before Garrick reaches them and before she knows what he intends, he lifts the ewe’s jaw and draws the knife deep across the veins in its throat.
He feels the sinews split. An arc of violent crimson catches the sunlight. Drops of it patter his face. He tastes it on his lips.
The sheep slumps to the ground, twitches and quivers, burbling its last breath.
Mercy is speechless, staring at him in undisguised shock. There are spots of bright scarlet on her cheek.
The women are all gawping, the children fallen silent. Ravens snorts, makes a weird, twisted smile.
Garrick reaches them, dripping wet and fuming. ‘By Christ, what are you thinking? You’ve no right to destroy another man’s property. I should dismiss you for this.’
‘I only did what must be done.’
‘You’ve no right.’
‘It was as good as dead.’
‘No one makes that decision but me.’
‘It was fly-struck. It should never have been in the brook. It might have poisoned the water.’
All eyes fall to the stream as if expecting a plague of flies to rise from it, but of course there is nothing.
‘The wound was too far gone. We could not have saved it.’ He appeals to Mercy. ‘Tell him.’
But she is still looking at him with disgust. He feels fury rising. It has been a long time since he felt the strength of it. She saw the wound. Why will she not speak up for him? She knows Ravens has failed in his duty, knows the man is a drunkard, an incompetent, but would she punish him in Ravens’s place? Would she stand by and say nothing while he is cast out?
There is a buzzing in Ellis’s ears, a dark pressure simmering in his chest. Ravens is leaning against the byre, enjoying the scene. Ellis goes towards him, knife still gripped. Ravens squares up.
Ellis shoves him, leaving a bloody handprint on one shoulder. ‘This is your fault. That sheep should never have been in the water.’
Ravens holds up his palms. ‘Don’t blame me if you’ve a taste for blood.’
‘You’re drunk. Drunk and useless.’ Ellis pushes him again, harder this time, and sees the response in Ravens’s eyes. He wills him to throw a punch, to be the first. ‘What are you afraid of?’ he says, under his breath.
Ravens is mocking. ‘You think I’m afraid of you?’
Ellis pushes him once more. He sees the clench of Ravens’s jaw, the slight flare of nostrils.
‘Don’t do that again.’
He does it again.
‘Stop this!’ Garrick shouts. ‘I’ll not have fighting among my men. Stop now or I’ll turn you both out.’ But neither is listening.
Ellis is deafened by the rush in his ears. He longs to feel the crunch of bone, the give of flesh, the warm wet slick of blood on his knuckles. Before he knows it, the knife is at Ravens’s throat.
Then Mercy is between them, pushing them apart, one hand on his chest. He feels her touch like a punch.
She throws him a pleading look, then drops her hand and takes hold of Ravens’s forearms. ‘Please, Henry, stop this. Ellis is right. That sheep was done for. I would’ve done the same.’
‘You take his side over mine?’ He pulls away from her.
‘It should not have been in the brook. You
should’ve stopped it.’
Ravens’s mouth twists into an ugly grin. He looks from her to Ellis and back again. ‘I see how it is. You’re just like the rest of them. Whore.’
The word alters her face, like a slap. She draws herself up, almost as tall as him. ‘You will not talk to me like that.’
‘That’s enough,’ Garrick interrupts. ‘How dare you speak so, Henry? Take it back.’
But Ravens is staring at Ellis, eyes fiery with hatred.
‘Apologise,’ Garrick insists. ‘We’ve work to do.’
‘Well, then, let’s see how you do it without me.’
Ravens spits at Ellis’s feet, then turns and gathers his things, slings his shirt over one shoulder and stalks away down the path towards the village.
‘The alehouse has a keen customer there,’ Bestwicke mutters.
Ellis, fists twitching, muscles coiled and shaking, watches him go.
Chapter 18
Agnes is a creature of habit. I used to think, when I was very young, that if she did not wake to kindle the fires, the day would not begin. If she did not fetch the water in before nightfall, the moon would not rise. If she did not dig the kitchen beds soon after Candlemas, the first lambs would not come and spring would stay sleeping beneath the snow. I believed that she commanded the rising and setting of the sun, the whole order of my world dictated by the many small tasks that filled her days, weeks and years.
Even when Pastor Flynn taught us about God’s will and I began to understand just how much the turning of the seasons and our survival through each one is a matter of His mercy, I still took comfort in the familiarity and ritual of Agnes’s routine. I still do. So, when I return with the men to Scarcross Hall for our midday meal and she’s not waiting in the kitchen to greet us, I know something is amiss. Though we have not spoken of it again, she has not been the same since the night we confessed our fears to one another.
We have had a long morning herding the flock into the lower pasture in preparation for clipping, and the men are hungry. There is no warm loaf on the table, no slab of cheese or pots of beer. A steaming cauldron of pottage bubbles over the fire, hissing and spitting into the flames.
The men are tired and grumbling. The rain has been pouring all morning, and if it does not stop, we shall have a hard time with the shearing. The clippers will be here within the week, skilled men who are in demand and will not sit idle waiting for the clouds to clear. It’s the same every year. Ambrose and I spend a lot of time watching the sky.
Ever since the argument between Henry and Ellis, there’s a new tension in the air. Henry returned, as I knew he would, chastened and contrite, full of promises I suspect he’ll not keep. The two men keep their distance, circling each other, like bristling dogs.
‘Why did you take his side?’ Ambrose asked, later, when we were alone.
I told him the truth: ‘Because Ellis was right.’
In a way, I was glad to witness the flash of anger in Ellis – first proof of something real and human, after so many weeks of dour silence. But the cold-hearted calm with which he dispatched the animal was unnerving. I still cannot make sense of him.
I take charge, telling the men to sit while I rescue the pot from its stand, fetch bowls and spoons and find the bread, still warm beneath its linen wrappings in the pantry. I leave them jostling for a serving and go upstairs.
Agnes is not in her room. I find a heel of pie and a slab of white, crumbling cheese forgotten on her bed. I collect both and make to return to the kitchen, but when I reach the top of the staircase I notice that the door to the old bedchamber is ajar.
I pause a moment, listening, straining to hear above the rumble of men’s voices from below.
‘Agnes?’
No answer.
I leave the food on the top step, creep to the door and peer through the gap.
She’s there, sitting in the gloom on the far side of the bed, her back to the door, motionless and silent.
I watch for a few seconds. There’s something peculiar about her stillness, as if she’s deep in daydream. Agnes never rests in daylight hours.
The board creaks beneath my foot and breaks the spell. Entering, I find the room in chaos. Boxes and crates have been shifted about. A large chest has been dragged into the centre of the room and thrown open, mildewed fabric spilling like entrails. The fire screen is pushed up against the wall, the boy’s dead eyes hidden. The air is choked with dust and there is a sharp scent of charred wood. Despite the milder weather, it’s chill.
Agnes turns slowly. ‘Mercy . . .’ she says, voice thick with emotion. I see now, her eyes are red. Her apron and cap are streaked with soot and dirt. There is a small wooden box opened on her lap.
‘What’s the matter? What are you doing in here?’
‘I . . . I was looking for something.’
I indicate the upturned crates, the stack of split pails that have tumbled across the floor. ‘I can see that.’
I walk over to the bed and she quickly shuts the box and stands, but not before I catch a glimpse of something inside. ‘What have you there?’
She looks to the casement where, through one opened shutter, the dull light of a rain-washed sky filters through streaked panes. Then, ‘Oh! The pottage!’
She skirts the bed, trying to secrete the box beneath her shawl.
I bar her way. ‘I’ve seen to it.’
‘I must go down. The men will be waiting on their dinner.’
‘I said, I’ve seen to it. Agnes, tell me what’s the matter. What have you there?’
‘I was looking for something, that’s all. I forgot the time.’
‘Can I see?’ I stretch my hand towards the box but she holds it out of reach.
She hesitates, defiance in the set of her mouth. But her eyes tell a different story. I can see her thinking, trying desperately to concoct an explanation.
‘We agreed – no more secrets,’ I say.
‘You’ll think me an old fool. It’s just some shoes that belonged to you when you were a babe. I kept them . . .’
She opens the box, revealing a pair of child’s slippers, made of the finest leather, stitched with gold thread, nestled on a scrap of red brocade. They are no bigger than my palm, barely worn.
‘I don’t remember them,’ I say. ‘Why have I never seen them before?’ I go to touch but she moves away and shuts the box.
‘You were too young,’ she says. ‘I’d forgotten about them. Then I couldn’t find them. I thought they might be in here.’ Following her gaze I see that she’s placed a talisman in the grate, amid the waste of soot smuts and the tiny white bones of a dead bird that must have tumbled down the chimney. She has begun to push a large chest across the fireplace to block it. ‘Then I thought perhaps they might be beneath the bed and, sure enough, that was where I found them.’ She looks with distaste at the old oak bedstead, its rotting drapes and worn bolster. ‘I’ve never liked that great thing. If it were up to me, I’d burn it. We never use it now, not since—’
‘But it’s not up to you, is it?’ The sound of Father’s voice makes us both start. He’s standing by the open door, leaning heavily on his cane. ‘That bed is as much a part of this house as the stones in the walls.’
He takes a few steps into the room, sniffing the musty, charred air. ‘What has happened here? Why is this room in such a sorry state?’
Agnes is staring at the floor. I’ll have to answer or Father will blame her and they’ll fight.
‘We shut up this room some time ago, upon your word. Don’t you remember?’
‘I think I would recall that. It’s a fine chamber, with fine views. Why would I have allowed such a thing?’
‘We used it to store the fleeces last year when the barn was damp. You suggested it yourself.’
He goes to the casement, almost tripping on a pile of old linen
s, and tugs at a rusted shutter. It refuses to open.
‘Mercy, take this.’ He thrusts his cane in my direction and pulls on the catch with both hands. It gives, showering him with dust and cobwebs. He seems not to notice. Outside, the sky is heavy. Rain patters against the thick leads and low cloud obscures the valley.
‘There . . .’ he says. ‘I always did say this was the finest view from the house.’
Agnes and I exchange glances. He turns back to the room, surveys the jumble of battered old chests, pallets covered with teasels of greasy fleece, the scatter of grime at the hearth, the rusted blades of three old scythes that have somehow made their way here. In the dim light his face is lined and haggard. I’m taken aback by the desolation in his eyes.
‘How did it come to this?’ he says. ‘We must do something about it. Where will we put our guests?’
‘Father, we never have guests.’
‘What are you talking about? I’ve a great many friends. Your mother and I . . .’ His hand lifts, flutters slightly, drops to his side. He’s staring at the box in Agnes’s hands. I can see his confusion, then the moment his eyes spark and temper takes him. He glares at her with venom. She cowers behind me.
‘No one will remove the bed, do you hear me?’ he says, stifling anger.
‘Yes, Father, but—’
‘This room will be cleaned and put to rights. The Applegarth woman will do it.’
‘Father—’
‘That’s my final word. I’m still master here, Mercy, no matter what you think. I’ll not speak of it again.’
I know there’s no point in arguing with him. I watch, wordless, as he stalks across the room and snatches the box from Agnes’s hands, then turns and walks the length of the gallery to his own chamber. He slams the door, the noise echoing in the empty hall below.
Agnes, wiping away a tear of frustration, is resolute. ‘I won’t do it.’
‘He’ll have forgotten about it by morning.’
‘Perhaps you should tell him.’
‘Tell him what? That we’re afraid of rats in the walls?’
‘About the coins and the dead lambs. You heard what he said. If he will be master of this house still, he should act like the master. It’s time. I’ll not suffer in silence. That man knows more than he lets on. You must speak with him. He’ll not hear it from me.’ Agnes is herself again. As she reaches the door she looks back at me over her shoulder. ‘I don’t care what he says. This room should be locked up for good, and if you’ll not see to it, then I shall.’
The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story' Page 13