by Lesley Lodge
Wayland held his gaze steady in their direction until one by one all three cast down their eyes. Behind his father, the boy shifted very slightly in his corner, unnoticed except by Wayland. Then Jack Whitman moved forward, breaking the uneasy silence, scraping an iron bucket back over the stone threshold. ‘Anyways, this horse needs water while you think on it,’ he said.
Wayland moved quickly to block the man’s path. ‘Is that cold water, from the village well?’ he asked.
The man nodded.
‘You’ll kill ‘im with that. See, he’s feverish. Never mind keep him – let’s make sure he don’t die.’
Wayland turned to focus on the horse. There was no head collar or bridle, just the coarse rope the men had used to steer him in. He noticed though some small cuts around its mouth, a telltale sign to Wayland of an over–used bit. There was no saddle either. He reached his hand out and the horse moved forward to nuzzle him. All three men drew back from Wayland – the old beliefs in blacksmiths’ magic were not completely dead yet for all the efforts of the Puritans. Such superstition fed the villagers’ reliance on him. The horse shuddered as Wayland ran his hand over its wet flanks.
‘Saddle mark?’ he asked. One of the men quickly scraped away the mud where a brand was likely. Wayland noticed then that the horse was not some uniform bay or chestnut but a rare dappled grey. His interest piqued, he appraised the horse more closely. Its slightly dished nose indicated breeding finer than that of the commonplace workhorse yet its general build was too slender for a soldier’s mount.
‘We did search round for his rider. But we reckon he’s long gone. Don’t he count as a straggler then? We want to keep ‘un.’ Again, it was Martin, the man with the bucket, who’d replied. Wayland caught a quick sideways glance between the Beale brothers. ‘With your say–so,’ Martin added.
Wayland dipped his hand into the water and traced his thumb over the horse’s withers. He thought he could feel a lumpy pattern, but he said nothing. In theory, any final decision on keeping the horse would be down to the local magistrate but in practice – as these men knew – it was likely that as blacksmith Wayland was best placed to set about discovering the facts in this sort of matter and the magistrate, if later involved, would go along with Wayland’s decision.
‘Leave him with me,’ he said. ‘I’ll make enquiries. Make sure if there’s anyone to claim him. If not, well, we’ll see. Give me a few days then.’ He settled the nag in a spare stall.
The tallest man, Whitman, glanced at the others then nodded. One by one, they shuffled out. The door swung back into place, smothering the light again, leaving only the pink glow of the furnace and a grey square from the one sooty window. The boy crept out and poked the fire back to life. Wayland said nothing. Neither Wayland nor his son had been talkative by nature even before Rebecca’s death and Wayland saw no point in trying to force it now. If the boy had not said a word about his mother’s murder, he wasn’t likely to start talking over a rider–less horse.
‘Here,’ he said, passing the boy a sizzling iron, ‘take the edge off the water with this then fetch this horse some cut grass. Mind you fetch only the long stuff.’
The barest hint of a smile appeared on the boy’s face and he set out, eager to tend the horse. After some minutes thinking through this new puzzle the men had given him, Wayland resumed hammering. His pounding had a more regular beat now.
* * *
In the past, Wayland would enjoy such small mysteries as these that the villagers would bring him. They stretched his mind, took him away from the repetition of his daily work. That was before though, before the war, before Rebecca’s death and before his son had stopped talking. Since then Wayland’s thoughts so often turned to the revenge he’d take, so many kinds of revenge – if only he could find the man who’d killed her. Trouble was, these scenarios of vengeance would stop short, with a jolt, coming always to the same end: the reality that he was powerless and the only man he’d even heard mention of as maybe – only maybe –responsible was dead. Died of consumption some months after, is what they said. That much several villagers had told him, separately, but he did not always believe it. Truth was he did not want to believe it. They were, he thought, a little too keen to attribute the blame to a dead man. He had such a strong to hope it was untrue. For surely God must grant him some better revenge than a disease that took a man’s life with barely a whimper let alone a howl of repentance.
Wayland’s mood and some strong disinclination on the part of the villagers had hitherto kept most men and all the women away. Still, now they had come to him and within the hour he found to his own surprise that he was not displeased. He grudgingly admitted to himself that the mystery of the horse and its origins might intrigue him, lift his mood a little even.
So it was that only a couple of hours later he found himself riding out of the village, seeking not – as he would truly have wished – his wife’s killer but some fallen rider. As his own bay mare picked her way past the narrow crop strips, he tried to fathom what sort of man might own such a valuable horse but fail to claim it. He’d have to be nursing some strong reason. Or maybe he was dead or wounded. Or perhaps it was fear: suppose he’d been thrown near the village but dare not face its inhabitants. All strangers were viewed with fear and hate in these days. Or was the owner guilty in some way perhaps? Wayland forced his mind to stop such speculations, lest he was imposing his own fantasies of revenge on the rider–less horse when surely there was more likely some simple explanation such as an accident. He pushed his thoughts in a different direction and began instead to wonder if the unknown man would be for Parliament, for King or for neither. Not that he cared too much one way or the other but these days it still paid to know which side a man favoured.
Wayland was at first easily able to trace the tracks made by the runaway horse, accompanied as they were by three sets of men’s footprints, albeit they were jumbled sets. About two miles out from the village, though, the crops gave way to open common land. Here the earth was harder and the grass shorter. This area was dappled with a great many sheep droppings and there the men’s footprints ceased. He decided to sweep the area, searching in a widening arc. Gradually, the grazed down earth gave way to scrubland and that in turn to young woodland. Noticing some broken branches, he urged the mare on through the gap until she took a sudden swerve, snorting heavily. He pulled her head back round until he saw what it was that had upset her. A raven had shot up from the shrubs and was still flapping violently. The mare reared up now in an uncharacteristic burst of energy. Wayland clung on, clumsily shifting his torso forward to avoid unbalancing his mount. He soothed her with a few quiet words and a stroke of her neck. Unlike many men, Wayland held no superstitious beliefs about ravens but he did dislike them for their stink of carrion and their habit of pecking the eyes out of newborn lambs. He looked around for any more birds for he knew they seldom travelled alone but he found no more. That was when he saw what looked like a pile of clothes, stuffed under a clump of twigs. He slid quickly off the horse, snapped a short stick from a nearby tree and used it to poke the top off the pile. Blood stained the clothes. The topmost clothes had a faint pink colouring to them. Deeper down into the pile, though, there was blood, a darker red, almost black. And it was wet and sticky. The clothes were small. They were the clothes of a youngish lad.
3.
Wayland’s heart began to pound while his calloused hands fumbled through the clothes. They had definitely belonged to a young boy. He didn’t recognise them – but of course the war had taken him away for nigh on three years and most villagers had shunned not only him but also his boy since his return. He doubted he could recognise any of the village lads, let alone their clothes now. He called out and searched around but could find no sign of their owner. He thought about it: wouldn’t a wounded child run home – if he could. There was no child to be found so perhaps the best thing to do was to return to the village, put the word around
, check if anyone’s child was missing. No–one had told him of any missing child – but then no–one had told him anything these months past, until his visitors today. The magistrate should know though. He rummaged through his jacket pouches, found some twine and parceled up the clothes to make a compact bundle he could tie to the saddle, behind him. He mounted up and put his horse into a brisk trot back to the village. He had to work at steering the mare on – she laid her ears back, reluctant, as they passed by his smithy and she expected her stable. At the magistrate’s house he dismounted and thumped his fist on the door. Nothing. He knocked again, shouting out this time.
‘Magistrate! I’ve important news! Open up!’ He had to repeat this several times.
At last, there was the noise of bolts being drawn and the door opened. Stane, a runner for the magistrate, peered out. A smallish man, his already tight–skinned face stretched further into a sneer and his cheeks puffed out with self–importance.
‘Yes?’ he said, his tone seemingly chosen to convey weary indifference, ‘What is it?’
But Wayland had already turned his back on him and was unfastening the clothes. ‘Not you,’ he said, without looking at Stane, ‘the magistrate.’
‘Well, then you’re out of luck,’ Stane replied, ‘he’s out of town’.
Wayland was generally slow to anger and his usually calm approach was key to his easy way with horses. What little tolerance or respect he had ever had for rank, though, or for those who assumed to rank had been greatly diminished during the war. He’d seen first–hand too many poor decisions made with such terrible consequences for those they commanded. He moved in closer to Stane. ‘I reckon you’ll have to do then,’ he said firmly.
Although Wayland was not especially tall he was broad and with the angled sun behind him, his substantial shadow covered Stane, the doorway and part of the wall. Stane backed off. ‘Say what you have to say then,’ he said.
Wayland gave Stane a brief account of the runaway horse and how he’d found the clothes. He handed the parcel over. Stane picked it up, holding it out by his fingertips at the top of the pile, away from him. ‘They’re only peasant clothes,’ he said, ‘I doubt the Magistrate will be bothering himself with these. He’s got better things to do. Have you not heard?’
‘Heard what?’ Wayland asked, despite a strong suspicion that it would be some scaremongering nonsense about the Royalists raising more rebellions or the like. It was.
‘They say the King’s men have left Maidstone. And that they’re marching on London.’
‘Last I heard, London’s a good few miles from us here in Essex.’ Wayland said. Wayland had fought on the Parliamentary side during the earlier civil war, had killed, wounded and been wounded, all in the name of Parliament. But that was under orders and if the truth were told he had little time for the moralising and self–justifications of either side.
‘Fool,’ Stane said, with a snort, ‘d’you not see that if the King’s men take London they’ll likely win and all will be turned upside down again?’
‘If this, if that… I’ve no time for it all. This, these blood stained clothes, may concern a child’s safety. And that I do care about.’
Stane put the little pile aside on a shelf just inside the door. Grudgingly, he undertook to inform the magistrate on his return – and slammed the door.
Walking back through the village, leading his horse, Wayland felt a strong surge of frustration at this further unresolved issue. He decided to take matters into his own hands. He began knocking on each door he passed. Some houses were empty, their tenants off about their business, he supposed, or perhaps they were simply not minded to open the door. Of those who did answer he asked if they knew of any missing child. None did – or at least, none would admit it – and neither did Wayland’s grim features and brusque manner do much to encourage any one of them to gossip or speculation. Disappointed, Wayland set off home.
Just as he reached the smithy, though, his son ran out across the cobbles to meet him, arms flying everywhere, tears on his face. He opened his mouth and Wayland felt his heart jump. Just for that second he thought the boy might speak. But no, he beckoned instead, urging Wayland on and scurried back into the smithy. Wayland broke into a run, tugging his mare behind him. He saw immediately that it was the runaway horse. Lying down in the stall it was shaking and sweating. It was moaning too, a high–pitched, continuous noise that had Wayland worried. He covered the horse up to its neck with an old blanket and piled some straw on top. Then he moved over to the forge and stoked up the furnace. Jonathan stayed with the horse, stroking its neck, while Wayland put a small pan of water on to boil. He scooped some of his own mealy oats from his cooking store, rustled through his herb bags until he found the herbs he was seeking. He took a handful from the bag but found he had to pause to think. His wife had been the real expert with such things. He ran the names of herbs through his mind. Rebecca would always recite some part of a long rhyme she had, to prompt her memory. Now most of that rhyme eluded him. He chose a mix of the most likely herbs, not too many lest they be the wrong choice. He stirred these in with the oats and hot water, making a warm mash. The horse was sweating now as he spooned the mixture into its mouth. Then, with a little of the left over hot water, he made the boy a light porridge. The boy refused to budge from the horse’s side so Wayland brought the bowl over to him.
‘Don’t you worry, we’ll get him through this, Jonathan, my son,’ he soothed the boy, ‘I’ve seen this sort of thing before.’
He put together a quick meaty broth for himself and began to stoke the furnace with the idea of using what was left of the day to tackle a small job he’d had for a while: making a set of cleaver–heads. He found he couldn’t settle, though. His thoughts were whirling. He felt shortchanged by Stane. He could think of no explanation for what he’d found, other than some dreadful accident or maybe even a crime involving someone’s son. He thought of his own fierce love for Jonathan and his heartbreak when he’d come back from service, so relieved that the war was done, only to find Rebecca gone and the boy struck dumb. He wanted this new mystery solved – and he wanted it done now. Later might be too late, he thought. He began to wonder whether with that much blood on the clothes their owner could be alive. He cursed himself for not staying to search round more thoroughly when he found the clothes.
It was now late afternoon – some hours of daylight remained. It was clear the boy would not leave the horse while it remained poorly. He laid the bellows aside, saddled up again and set off. Just at the edge of the scrubland some yards before the place where he’d found the clothes he hobbled the horse and left her browsing some green shoots. He kept an eye out for the raven or any of its mates as he searched again but none appeared. After a while, he found the patch where the clothes had lain. There were still rusty dots in the flattened grass. This time he looked more closely at the weeds and shrubs around, hoping for signs of trampling. Only after a long while did he find what he was looking for: some leaves and twigs flattened, others snapped. He bent down with some difficulty; blacksmithing had kept his arms strong, much stronger than other men’s arms, but twenty years of bending and lifting had weakened his back. For the first time in many years he attempted to crawl. Hawthorns scraped his jerkin and his knees slid a little in the wet, black earth but he persisted. The trail was clearer at this lower level. He pushed on through the undergrowth.
He smelt it before he saw it. They say blood has a metallic smell but Wayland worked with metals and he knew the difference straightaway. Just to one side lay a contorted form, a small arm flung out towards him.
4.
It was near dusk when Wayland reached the magistrate’s house the second time, cradling the small body to his chest. His knock, one–handed now, had less strength than earlier but this time, to Wayland’s relief, the magistrate himself opened the heavy door. Wayland wondered briefly whether the magistrate had actually been away or whether
Stane simply hadn’t bothered to tell him Wayland was there last time. William Geddingly, a cloth merchant, had been appointed magistrate only last year as part of Cromwell’s determined push to replace the king’s chosen men wherever possible. Geddingly was a Puritan and took his responsibilities as magistrate most seriously – as indeed he did all responsibilities. Over the years his cares had etched deep worry lines into his rather long face and these now deepened further as he took in the sight of Wayland and his burden. From his house he dragged a small wooden bench onto the stone path outside so that they might examine the body outside in what light remained.
Between them, they laid the boy on his back and Wayland leaned in more closely. The boy’s face was twisted as though still frozen in pain. The nose had been split open and dried flesh hung down onto his left cheek. He must have been about eleven, twelve at most. The hair, where it wasn’t either bloodied or dirtied with mud and the like, was still reddish brown. With such wounds to the face it seemed impossible to figure out what he could have looked like before his injuries. Wayland studied the features and thought for a good few minutes. Despite the obvious difficulties barring any easy identification he was troubled by some hint of familiarity, of recognition maybe. But try as he may to recall any further, somehow all precision of thought evaded him. Not a relative, no. Maybe a playmate of Jonathan’s from happier days. Some child his wife Rebecca had cared for and that Wayland might have seen, sitting at their hearth one winter, laughing and teasing with Jonathan, their own son. He was not at all sure though. So he said nothing.