The Summer Fields

  A figure moves stealthily across the field towards her, stooped like an animal. When it is almost upon her, it rises up from the ground. The face is mired in blood, the hair stiff with clay and the eyes look like two black nails hammered into the skull. Satan incarnate has been sent as God’s angel to take her in payment for the life of the man she loves.

  Chapter 3

  Elen braces herself, expecting a blow. It does not come. She gets unsteadily to her feet, her temporary insanity gone. Not the devil incarnate. Ned Harley. She feels no fear, seeing him standing before her. Her prayer has strengthened her. He looks thin, defeated. He is no longer the swaggering, cunning fox who sniffed her out at Friedberg. And she is no longer the meek, frightened lamb.

  He casts his eyes down and says, ‘I come upon you, kneeling before me. Yet it is I who should throw myself to the ground and beg for your forgiveness.’

  It is difficult to read his expression by the weak light of the moon, but there is a slyness behind his plea. She takes a step back, checks over her shoulder. Should she make a break for the barns?

  Ned reaches out a hand towards her. ‘Help me.’

  He drops to the ground, grasping at her hem as he kneels. She pulls away and he lets the fabric stream between his fingers before falling forward onto all fours and creeping towards her.

  ‘I cannot help you,’ she says, backing away.

  ‘You must help me. I starve. Wherever I go, I am hounded and hunted. I cannot find my way home. I fled west but found myself retreating with the French. The first time I spoke, they knocked me around the head. I barely escaped with my life. I lay low for days, until hunger forced me to find food, but the locals thought me French and beat me again. I have nowhere else to go.’

  He crouches before her, his body heaving, his shoulders slumped and penitent. She remembers him proud and handsome, and an echo of the feeling she once had for him seeps into her heart. He is so cowed, his bind is so desperate that despite herself, she cannot completely reject him.

  She sighs deeply and says, ‘Go up to the barns. Tell all this to the doctor. He may take pity on your plight.’

  ‘He does not share your compassion. He will not help me.’

  His fawning ignites a flash of irritation in her and she says, ‘Is that surprising after the way you served me?’

  ‘Do you imagine a single night has passed when I have not regretted my foolish and terrible behaviour towards you?’

  ‘When? Back at Duntisbourne? Or later, when you tried to force yourself on me in Friedberg?’

  ‘I know I have been weak. My baser instincts are easily tempted, but look at me. See how I suffer for my past wrong doings. I am full of remorse.’

  ‘And what of your attack on Captain Mordiford?’

  ‘Captain Mordiford? Oh, may God have mercy upon me. Surely he was not that horseman who charged me after the battle as if to kill me. If I had known, I would have stayed my hand… but I had to defend myself.’

  ‘You cannot expect me to believe these lies. You knew it was he. He called out his name and you smote him as he lay trapped beneath his horse.’

  A thought seems to strike him and, forgetting his chastened tone, he says abruptly, ‘Mordiford lives?’

  ‘You give yourself away,’ she cries. ‘You tried to end his life.’

  Still on all fours, he drops his head like a wounded beast and begins to weep, but instead of wringing sympathy from her, the sound is so exaggerated she feels embarrassed for him. She can hardly stand to watch his performance.

  ‘I am a wretched beast,’ he wails between sobs, shaking his matted hair. As he moans and whimpers, he drags himself towards her as if he is using the last few ounces of strength in his body. ‘Take pity on me, Miss Griffiths, for I am truly sorry for my sins.’ He reaches up towards her like a drowning man lunging for a piece of flotsam.

  If I get the wretched man to his feet, she thinks, I can end this performance. She leans forward, takes his hand.

  ‘Oh, thank you, thank you, Miss Griffiths,’ he says.

  The next moment he snatches at her ankle and fells her with a swift tug. She puts a hand back to break her fall. The sharp edge of a stone nicks the skin of her palm. He crawls swiftly over her prone body, crouches above her, his fists pinning her shoulders to the ground. ‘Ha!’ he says triumphantly. ‘Now I have you.’

  What a fool she is to have trusted him. Now, she cannot move her shoulders but she can move her hands. Her fingers find the edge of the stone. She balls it into her fist, snaps her arm up and strikes him on the temple.

  It tosses his head to one side but does not throw him off. He shakes his head, spinning gobbets of blood onto her, then roars in her face, his breath foul. As the roar abates, he snarls and growls from deep within his chest.

  She thinks: he will sink his teeth into my face and tear my flesh from my throat.

  Her knees are free. She jerks one up, smashing it between his straddled legs with a crunching velocity. He buckles. She shoves him, scrabbling away as he rolls back, his fists clasped between his legs.

  ‘You vixen,’ he yells.

  She’s on her feet again. Which way to run? If she sprints towards the barns, Mordiford is unprotected in the hut. If she runs to him, Ned will follow. The captain cannot save her, cannot save himself.

  Her hesitation costs her dear. Ned is up. Her skirts, her wretched skirts. Without them she may outrun him over the longer distance to the barns and rouse the others but there’s no time. She must dash for the sanctuary of the hut where Mordiford lies, perhaps reach it before Ned, shut the doors, bar him out.

  Ned lumbers over the grass towards her. She snatches up her skirts, running for the deep shadows behind the hut. She can work her way round to the entrance in the blackness. The land rises steeply. The eavesdrop of the hay barn is chocked with weeds. Brambles clutch at her clothing and tear at her legs.

  She pushes on. Her skin throbs, pierced by nettles that pepper her hands and arms. She reaches the corner of the hut and stops, listening. She can’t hear him in the eavesdrop, but he’s out there, waiting for her.

  Slowly she peers around the corner of the hut. The feeble light from the lamp within spills from the doorway, illuminating a semi-circle of caked mud at the entrance. She makes a dash towards it.

  A column of blackness breaks from the shadows and rushes towards her. She grabs hold of the door, swinging it shut. Ned rams the planking with his shoulder, knocking her into the hay and muck inside. She can just see Mordiford. He tries to sit up, his face deathly white, streaming with fever. Ned is on her again, grabbing, hurting. Mordiford is struggling off the stretcher. He has his good leg on the ground. He is reaching towards his kit, which lies beside him.

  Ned has her by the hair, and is wrenching and pulling at her. The hang-sword rattles as Mordiford fights to free it from the scabbard. He takes his full weight on his leg and bellows out in pain as he falls, clattering to the ground.

  Ned snaps his head round. ‘Well, good evening, my lord,’ he pants, dragging at Elen’s hair. ‘A little busy just now. I will attend to you as soon as I can, sir. I have unfinished business here first.’

  Elen lashes around in the dust of the floor, trying to sit up. The roots of her hair scream with white pain. She is pinioned, locked, can’t move her head to see Mordiford. All she can see is Ned: the bloodshot eyes, the crazed, rugged cut across his temple, oozing with fresh blood.

  His shirt is ripped and open. How can he be so strong when his body is cadaverously thin? It is his rage. His rage makes him super human. Suddenly Ned releases her hair but instantly his hand is on her throat. She tugs at his fingers. Her heels drum and push against the floor. His nails bite into her skin.

  The other hand is pulling her skirt up, his nails scraping her flesh, his fingers gripping her thigh, dragging aside her chemise. His hold on her neck tightens. She can no longer breathe. She gargles, desperately trying to force out a breath. Her lungs will burst. She can hear her own blood thumping in her ears.


  Mordiford’s shouts come to her, muffled as if she’s being held underwater. She stares up at Ned. Let me breathe. Blackness is coming, pushing in around the edge of her vision. Everything is stretching, bowing. She thinks, I am dying… she thinks, thank God, this terror will end.

  Suddenly the pressure on her neck stops. She takes a huge gulp of air. Ned is still on her, but he is sitting up, staring down at his stomach, his face crumpled in a baffled frown.

  She follows his gaze. He has something in his hands. He holds it so delicately. When he uncurls his fingers, they run with blood and there, in the palm of his hand, is the bloodied tip of a sword.

  He opens his mouth to speak. Blood wells up behind his teeth, breaches them and pours down his chin. He coughs, showering her with blood, then sinks backwards, onto his heels. Slowly his body deflates. His torso sags, his head lolls forward. He does not fall but she knows he is dead.

  She smears at the blood on her face, trying to sweep it from her eyes. The iron tang on her lips makes her gag. She slides her legs free of Ned’s weight.

  Mordiford is on the floor, motionless. The arm that drove the blade into Ned’s back is thrown wide. He is dead. She struggles towards him, gathering his head up into her arms. Deathly pale, eyes closed. She presses her fingers into the side of his throat. Nothing. She can feel nothing.

  And then… yes, the smallest flutter. And again. Her head sinks onto his and she begins to rock. He lives. They both live. They are invincible. Now they can sleep, sleep in the muck and dust of the floor. Together they can sleep.

  Chapter 4

  Something is irritating her face, making her lip twitch. Elen snaps awake, dashing the fly away. A brilliant shaft of early morning sun cuts through the planking of the door, momentarily blinding her. She shifts her head, yawns, and then it all floods back in.

  She looks down at Mordiford who lies with his head on her lap. As he sleeps, the muscles of his face wince and frown. Waves of pain must be piercing his dreams. Her eyes move down to the wound on his leg. It is black with flies.

  Instinctively she sits forward to brush them away. Then she sees Ned. Even in death he kneels, his head hanging down to his chest, his hands resting on his lap, palms up. If not for the handle of the sword buried in his back, he could be praying. She sees the sunburn on his neck, a rim of pale skin along the hairline. He looks so normal, she shudders – it is as if he might at any moment murmur ‘Amen’, and turn to face her.

  She hears voices. The door to the hut opens wide, flooding it with sunshine, the sudden rush of morning air sending the flies droning up in a tumbling cloud.

  ‘Good grief!’ Dr Argyll says. ‘What horrors have occurred here?’

  Mr Barker pushes past him and hurries over to where she lies with Mordiford.

  ‘He is alive,’ she says.

  Mr Barker looks down at Mordiford, reaching out to touch him. Mordiford wakes with a start. The surgeon’s eyes dart back to Elen’s torn clothing, up to the finger marks on her neck. He takes her hand, turns it this way and that, tracing the scratches with his finger. He looks angry, furious. ‘Are you all right, my dear?’

  ‘I think so.’

  He helps Mordiford into a sitting position to release her. Mordiford is groggy, disorientated. She pulls the hem of her dress down as she slides free.

  Mr Barker continues to stare. He has seen the marks on her legs, the deep bruising; the tears in the hem of her chemise. His breathing quickens. Elen struggles to her feet. Everything about her is stiff, everything is sore. The nettle stings bubble her flesh, tingling and burning as if a flame has passed over them.

  Dr Argyll moves across to where Ned Harley kneels. He catches sight of the sword and looks up at Elen, a frown on his face. She says nothing. The doctor puts a hand on Ned’s shoulder. Stiff with death, Ned topples sideways, his head striking the floor with a sickening crack, making the doctor step back. Mr Barker turns, getting to his feet.

  ‘This poor devil is certainly not all right,’ Dr Argyll says. He does not know him, Elen thinks suddenly. Ned is so changed, the doctor has not recognised him.

  ‘What in God’s name happened?’ Mr Barker says to her. ‘How was this man killed?’

  ‘I was attacked. The captain saved my life – and my honour.’

  Mr Barker nods his head and purses his lips. His expression is one of pity, sympathy but something else. Embarrassment, yes, that’s it. He thinks he knows the details and doesn’t want to dwell on them, doesn’t want to ask. He reaches out and gives her elbow a comforting squeeze.

  She looks over at Dr Argyll. He has crouched down, peering into the face of the corpse. He stands slowly, wiping his hand with a kerchief and inspecting his fingers as if he fears the pollution of death may still cling to them. He will not look at her. She reads the fractional narrowing of Mr Barker’s eyes.

  ‘There is doubt on your face, sir,’ the surgeon says.

  She feels an odd fear, not in her, but over there, in the body lying stiffly on the floor. There’s a watery looseness in her knees, a horrible sensation that perhaps Ned would not have raped her, would not have killed her, and yet he is dead. She looks at Mordiford for support, but he lies against a stook of corn, barely conscious.

  ‘Not doubt. Anxiety perhaps,’ Dr Argyll says.

  ‘What anxieties can you have?’ Mr Barker says. The doctor jerks his head towards the door. Mr Barker frowns, moves nearer to the doctor who leans in, and says in a quiet voice, ‘Should we not be concerned that a crime has been committed here?’

  She turns away, she does not want to hear, but Mr Barker has not mastered the whisper.

  ‘Of course we should,’ she hears him say. ‘Miss Griffiths’ skirts and stockings are filthy and torn. There’s bruising on her neck and thighs, where some hand has grasped her. That alone tells us much of last night’s story. Attacks of this sort have long been a favoured form of retribution for enemy soldiers for centuries.’

  ‘I was not referring to…’ and the doctor swallows the word. She does not hear it.

  ‘Then to what precisely do you refer?’

  Dr Argyll drops his head. ‘Murder.’

  ‘Holy Mary mother of God, Argyll,’ Mr Barker hisses back. ‘What point are you trying to make? A vagrant, probably a French deserter, finds an unguarded dwelling and goes in looking for food. Instead he finds a wounded man and an attractive young woman. He takes his revenge.’

  She can stand it no longer. She has to speak.

  ‘That is no vagrant,’ she says. Both men turn. Dr Argyll looks guilty for being overheard, Mr Barker does not. ‘He’s not French either, Mr Barker. He’s a private in the English army and I know the man.’

  ‘You do?’

  ‘His name is Ned Harley.’

  Dr Argyll looks back at the crumpled body in astonishment. ‘Ned Harley?’ he says. ‘Surely not.’

  ‘Who?’ Mr Barker says with some impatience.

  ‘He was footman to the Earl of Duntisbourne and valet to Captain Mordiford,’ Elen says. ‘I’m afraid both myself and the captain had plenty of reasons to want him dead.’

  The men fall silent. Mr Barker takes a handful of almonds from his waistcoat pocket and chews them thoughtfully.

  ‘Well,’ he says presently. ‘I imagine we will hear a full account of the night’s events by and by. I cannot imagine for a moment that either of you planned or executed a brilliant murder. This was clearly self-defence.’ He turns to the doctor. ‘Look, Argyll. Tens of thousands of men have died in the last month. One more is not going to make a difference.’

  ‘Supposing the orderlies make trouble for them?’ Dr Argyll says. Finally he looks Elen full in the face and adds, ‘I am sorry, my dear. I make no judgement here. It is a worry, nothing more.’

  ‘Then we will keep the true identity of this man a secret between us,’ Mr Barker says. ‘Let us encourage the orderlies and privates who remain to believe my initial summing up of the situation.’

  ‘We must make sure he carrie
s nothing on him that could lead to an identification. No clue in his clothing or distinguishing marks,’ Dr Argyll says.

  Elen remembers the undercroft that crisp winter’s morning, Ned drawing his shirt up to show her his well-muscled abdomen. She is swept with a muddy emotion. Not fear of exposure – all she has to do is wait for the doctor to remember too. No, that is not what sullies her. It is her shame that she lusted after a man who proved to be so utterly vile.

  ‘He did have an anatomical peculiarity,’ Dr Argyll says. Mr Barker groans. Dr Argyll continues, ‘He was swaddled as a child. He had no navel.’

  Elen thinks grimly, Ned may not have had one in life but he certainly has one now. She cannot say it, cannot explain how, from the moment she saw the tip of the sword in his hand, she felt relief. It was as if God had punished him for that superstitious belief in his own invincibility.

  Mr Barker rolls his eyes heavenward, shakes his head. He takes a pace over to the body and leans forwards, peering down. ‘We must examine him to make absolutely certain,’ he says. ‘But from the angle of the sword, I would say we have nothing to worry about. The orderlies can take him down to the Danube and fling him in with the rest of the dead.’

  She almost protests. She stops herself. Everything she fervently hoped for has come to pass. And there it is again, that tang of disgrace, crawling up her tongue.

  Mr Barker’s next statement startles her like a gush of cold water. ‘Come, we must get Captain Mordiford up to the main barn and remove that leg with immediate haste.’

  Elen feels the same helpless horror as when Ned had his hand on her throat. Mr Barker must slash and saw at a leg already agonisingly painful, every nerve fibre grazed and seared with pain from weeks of suffering. She cannot be there. She must be there. She must let Mordiford crush her fingers in his agony, let him sink his teeth into her arm. She must hold him as his body bucks and quivers under the saw.