The Binding

by Bridget Collins

  I could hear him breathing. There was an inch of bark in his hair, almost the same colour, and a streak of greenish mould on the back of his neck.

  I said, ‘What did you do?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What are you being punished for?’

  He turned his head, and hesitated. His eyes were wide and preoccupied. He wanted to tell me, but he couldn’t – or he could tell me, but he didn’t want to … ‘It doesn’t matter,’ he said. ‘I’m never going to do it again.’

  It started to hail. Both of us hunched instinctively against the nearest tree, but it was still too early in the year for it to give much shelter. Splotch crouched against Darnay’s knee, shivering. The hailstones hammered on my scalp and shoulders, melting into freezing trickles. ‘We’d better go back,’ I said, through the patter of ice. ‘We can get something hot to drink—’

  ‘You go. I’m going home.’

  ‘Darnay—’

  ‘Leave me alone. I’m fine.’

  He didn’t give me time to answer. Before I had time not to believe him he’d leapt the stream and was halfway across the next field, his feet slipping in the mud, his clothes already soaked and dripping. Maybe I should have followed him; but somehow it went from too soon to too late, without the right moment in between.

  XVI

  Darnay didn’t mention going back to Castleford again. Sometimes I wondered whether I’d misunderstood. Maybe he’d meant occasionally or for a few days at a time; surely this had been too long a stay to be a punishment? I tried to imagine Darnay’s father, but it was like one of those fairground boards with a hole for the face: I could picture the clothes, the gold watch and stovepipe hat, but his features were a blank. Then I tried to imagine what Darnay could have done, to be threatened with the insane asylum. It was like picking a scab, at once painful and irresistible: it occupied me while we planted turnips and cleared the stones and rolled the grass fields, niggling at me, itching in the corner of my dreams while I was asleep. Sometimes I wondered whether I should tell Alta – but tell her what? Tell her that something was wrong with him, but that I didn’t know exactly what? It was easier to keep it hidden, and to stare at her with a glazed, idiotic expression when she frowned and asked me what I was looking so thoughtful about.

  The only cure was when I was actually with Darnay. When we were together, none of it seemed important. All that mattered was Splotch’s newest trick, or the fence I was showing him how to repair, or whether we could bag a couple of pigeons on the way home. Darnay, to my surprise, had never fired a gun. He was bad at it, laughing at himself when the shots went wide, and in the end he’d shoved the gun at me, saying, ‘Go on, Farmer, you know you’re dying to show me how it’s done.’ Alta mourned the pigeons when they thudded into the undergrowth, but she ate pigeon pie with gusto, whether or not Darnay happened to have dinner with us.

  Spring widened into summer, like a river turning from a clear spate to a slow green ribbon. Alta was busier, now that the calves were weaned and she had butter and cheese to make; and then there was the sheep shearing, first ours and then at Home Farm and Greats Farm, so that for a few days we only saw Darnay briefly, when he came to see Splotch. But the day after the sheep were sheared, Pa unexpectedly leant on the pigsty wall next to me as I was feeding the pigs, and said, ‘You’ve done a good job, these last few days, lad. You can take the rest of the day off if you want it. I’ll get Alfred to do your chores.’ He reached over to scratch the sow’s back with a piece of twig. ‘You’d better wait for young Mr Darnay, so he doesn’t get under our feet here.’

  It was unheard of, a holiday for no reason in the middle of summer; but I didn’t argue, and when Pa added, without looking at me, ‘Oh, and take that sister of yours with you,’ I realised that it was for Alta’s sake, because they were afraid Darnay would lose interest. It didn’t matter, or not really. I’ve never felt as free as I did that afternoon, as we wandered further and further, up through Lord Archimbolt’s woods (that should have been ours) and past the New House. Splotch always came back when she was called, so we let her wander; but we forgot to call her for a long time, and when Alta asked, ‘Where’s Splotch? Splo-otch!’ she was too far away to hear. At first we didn’t worry. Splotch was clever – much cleverer than other dogs, Darnay said – and always knew where she was. But after nearly an hour I could feel the anxiety building in my chest. Those man-traps were centuries old and rusted open, but she might somehow have caught a paw in one, or cut herself. Or she might be trapped somewhere, down a foxhole or face to face with a grumpy badger …

  ‘Let’s split up,’ Alta said. ‘We’ll go that way, to the stream. Meet you in half an hour, Emmett.’ She had a dainty little pocket watch that Darnay had given her for the Turning. She brought it out now with an actressy flourish, as if the whole point of the exercise was to show Darnay how grateful she was for it.

  ‘Good idea. You go that way, Alta,’ I said, grabbing Darnay’s arm and swinging him round before he had time to respond. ‘We’ll go uphill. We’re faster. The two of us can cover more ground.’

  As we walked away Darnay gave me a sideways look, with a glint in his eye, but he didn’t say anything except, ‘Splotch’ll be all right, Farmer. Don’t worry.’

  ‘I’m not.’

  We struggled up the wooded bank and found ourselves at the edge of the drive to the New House, just in front of the lodge. It was even more overgrown than it had been before, with a thick curtain of ivy half burying it, but the door was ajar. It was the perfect place to root out a rat – and the perfect place to get stuck, and sit marooned under the floorboards, whining for help. ‘Come on,’ I said, pushing the door open.

  The floor was so dusty it crunched under our feet. There was a table in the middle of the room, two chairs – one with its seat collapsed – a heap of rotting unidentifiable canvas, piles of ancient rain-warped ledgers and wooden boxes. It smelt of damp, even now it was summer, but the sunlight streamed down from a hole in the ceiling and a warm breeze blew through one of the smashed windows. I took a look round, listening hard, but everything was still. And the floor was stone, without floorboards to get stuck under.

  ‘What about upstairs?’ Darnay said.

  The staircase was rickety but more or less complete. At the top, the floor gaped like a toothless mouth, and sunshine blazed down through a matching hole in the roof. It looked as if something huge had fallen all the way through. I edged forward and called, ‘Splotch!’ There was no answer. ‘I don’t think she’s here.’

  Darnay moved round me and took a few steps across the dusty floorboards. He grimaced. ‘This is exactly the sort of place she’d like. And I’m sure I heard something.’

  ‘Rats, probably.’

  ‘Splotch! Come on!’ Nothing moved, except a slow plume of dust that rose and spun in a shaft of sunlight. He edged past the hole to the far corner of the room, where a tall clock lurked in the shadows. ‘Splotch!’

  I followed him, treading carefully. ‘Alta’s probably found her by now,’ I said.

  ‘What if she’s got stuck here?’

  ‘There’s nowhere to get stuck,’ I said, looking round. All that was left here was the clock, and a few mouldy pictures; one last cupboard squatted in a corner, but the door and drawer above it had gone. If Splotch had been here we would have seen her.

  Darnay tugged his lower lip. ‘All right,’ he said, at last. For a moment I thought he was going to add something else; then he sneezed three times in a row. ‘Let’s go.’

  We went back the way we’d come, along the edge of the hole. I felt the planks start to sag under my feet, and grabbed the window sill to steady myself. Darnay reached out without touching me, letting his hand hover where I could grab it if I needed to. ‘Careful.’

  ‘I am being careful.’

  ‘It was just a piece of friendly advi—’ He stopped. I glanced back at him; he was staring out of the window.

  I started to say, ‘Is she out there?’ But before I could finish
my question he grabbed me, pulling me back and sideways into the corner. ‘What’s—’

  ‘Be quiet!’ He slammed me against the wall. My head hit the side of the clock, and it rang gently with the noise of wood and rusty chimes. Darnay pressed himself into the space next to me. ‘My uncle,’ he said. ‘Coming in. Don’t move.’

  I frowned. He pointed to my gun and drew his finger across his throat. I leant back, my heart hammering. As long as we didn’t move … As long as he didn’t come upstairs …

  The door opened and closed. I concentrated on breathing silently, pushing down the panic. There were footsteps in the room below. For a chilling second I thought he was coming up the staircase; but no, he was pacing back and forth. What was he doing? A breath of pipe-smoke rose up, sickly sweet. I swallowed, trying not to cough. I felt Darnay’s eyes on my face, and gave him a tiny nod: I’m fine.

  The door opened again. Someone else. I clenched my jaw, resisting the urge to lean forward and see who it was. Light feet, a feminine rhythm.

  ‘There you are. And you’ve been poaching, haven’t you?’

  My heart stopped.

  ‘Oh, sir, I’m afraid I have,’ a voice said.

  I collapsed back against the wall, drenched in sweat, soggy with relief. It wasn’t Alta. It was … I blinked, suddenly recognising the lilt of her voice. Perannon Cooper. But – Perannon? What was she doing, poaching? Her brothers, yes – but Perannon never came into the woods at all, she was only interested in boys and fashion plates, she was planning to move to Castleford as soon as she could. It didn’t make sense.

  ‘I saw you,’ Lord Archimbolt said. ‘You’ve got a big – plump – juicy – pheasant in your bag.’

  Perannon, shoot a pheasant? I slid a sideways look at Darnay, but he was frowning at the floor.

  ‘Oh sir,’ she said again. Her accent was broader than it should have been; she sounded like her grandmother. ‘You caught me. You’re too clever for me.’

  ‘That’s right. You’ve been a very naughty girl.’

  ‘I’m very sorry, sir.’ There was a little quaver in her voice.

  ‘Say it!’

  ‘Oh, sir. I’ve been a very naughty girl.’

  ‘And you know what happens to naughty little girls like you, don’t you?’

  ‘Oh …’ She breathed out, with a hiccup. ‘Oh please don’t, Lord Archimbolt, I’m only a naughty little poacher, I promise I won’t—’

  ‘Bend over. And take up your skirts.’

  Embarrassment flooded through me like boiling water; and then, an instant later, the insane desire to laugh. I screwed up my face, trying to repress it; beside me, Darnay put both hands over his mouth and took a long, shuddering breath. If he caught my eye … I curled my toes into the floor and clenched my fists. If we made a sound …

  Thwack. A belt on bare skin. Then Perannon said, without emphasis, ‘Oooh.’

  I nearly burst out laughing, then. Who would have guessed that Perannon was such a bad actress? I willed myself not to look at Darnay. That was the most important thing. But I could feel him shaking with the effort to stay silent. One shared glance, and we’d both be on the floor.

  ‘Six of the best, young lady!’

  Thwack. ‘Ooh.’ Thwack. ‘Ooh.’ Thwack – an infinitesimal pause, as if she wasn’t concentrating – ‘Ooh, please, sir!’

  ‘Now, have you learnt your lesson?’ A pause, and the rustle of fabric. Then he gave a long piggish grunt, and something started to creak rhythmically. Perannon moaned, slightly out of time.

  Darnay shifted. ‘That was only four,’ he murmured, so low I only just caught the words.

  I snorted. He slapped his palm over my mouth so quickly that I felt his skin against my teeth. ‘Sssh,’ he said. ‘They’ll hear you.’ I bit him, not quite on purpose. He pulled away, and we stood shoulder to shoulder, both of us breathing in juddering gasps, fighting not to laugh out loud.

  ‘Good girl,’ Lord Archimbolt said, ‘good girl. I mean, bad girl.’

  ‘Oh yes, oh sir, oh that’s lovely, I am sorry, I won’t do it again.’

  Now they were making wordless noises. That was better – less funny. Like animals. The table was creaking louder and louder, and there was another sound, too, the scrape of wood on bare flagstones … I was about to lean forward but Darnay moved before I could, bending and tilting his head to see through the hole in the floor. Creak – squeak – scrape – creak – ‘Uh!’ – squeak – scrape—

  He slammed me back against the wall, and stood with half his weight pressed against me, breathing hard. For a moment we were both frozen, horrified by the noise we’d made; but nothing changed in the pounding downstairs. Darnay muttered, ‘The table’s moving. They’re right underneath. If they look up they’ll see us.’

  I gritted my teeth. The clock-case dug into my back, right between my shoulder blades. Darnay had his hand on my chest, holding me where I was, our faces close. It was difficult to breathe; his ribcage was crushed against mine, and the heat coming off his body made my head spin. I thought about pushing him away, but I didn’t dare. Creak – squeak – scrape, came the sounds from downstairs. ‘Uh – ugh—’

  Now Perannon was grunting too. I shut my eyes, trying to block out the sound: but suddenly I could see her in my mind’s eye, all too clearly, working up to a passionate climax that might or might not be fake. My eyes snapped open again. I tried to think of something, anything else.

  But there was no escape. And standing like this, with Darnay’s breath on my neck, sweat crawling in my hair … I could feel the tension running through him. His hand was burning through my shirt, right over my heart. When I undressed tonight I’d find the print of it on my skin. No, that was idiotic. I tried to think of something cool – cold water, ice – but even with my eyes fixed on the ceiling all I saw was the fine sheen of moisture on Darnay’s forehead, the dampness of his shirt-collar. And Perannon would be wet between her breasts, between her legs—

  I dug my fingernails into my palms as hard as I could, and kept staring at the ceiling. I thought about the peeling plaster, the scrolls of paint that hung like parchment. I counted the chipped roses that garlanded the cornice – one, two, threefourfivesix—

  But it was no good. I could feel the heat pooling in my groin, a familiar, delightful ache at the pit of my stomach. I bit the tip of my tongue until my mouth tasted of salt. But the blood pulsed, harder and harder, until I was tingling all over and weak at the knees. My body was betraying me, whatever I did. I swallowed, more loudly than I meant to, and Darnay shifted to look at me. I didn’t meet his eyes. If only he’d step back. If only he wasn’t so close to me.

  Maybe he wouldn’t notice.

  I was blushing, my skin as hot as sunburn. If only he’d stop looking at me.

  He leant sideways, so that his mouth brushed my earlobe. ‘Are you getting excited, Farmer?’

  I wanted to die. Right here and now. I wanted the floor to collapse, killing all four of us. I kept my eyes on the ceiling and pretended I hadn’t heard.

  ‘If it’s unbearable,’ he murmured, as intimate as a voice inside my head, ‘feel free to … er … deal with it. Quietly.’

  ‘Shut up.’

  ‘Would you like a hand?’

  ‘Go to hell, Darnay.’

  In spite of myself I glanced at him. He was laughing silently, his forehead pressed against the wall. After a moment he caught my eye and winked. I took hold of his shoulder and squeezed slowly until I felt my fingers dig into the space between his bones. He twisted away, still grinning at me, mocking me, daring me – to do what? Hitting him would be too noisy.

  ‘Oh – good girl – oh yes – uh, uh-huh, urgghh—’

  After the crescendo came a pause. We stood frozen, listening. At last there was the rustle of fabric, the clink of a belt buckle, and the lighter chink of coins dropping into a purse. Perannon said, ‘Thank you, Lord Archimbolt.’ Her accent had magically disappeared; now she sounded like me or Alta. ‘Same time next week?’
r />   ‘That’s right, lass.’

  A few light footsteps, and then the door slammed. Darnay and I swapped glances, waiting: it would be stupid to relax too soon. But a few minutes later – after a yawn, and the crackle of a match, and a new blue cloud of pipe smoke drifting up through the floor – the door opened and shut again. Darnay eased sideways to stare out of the window.

  He exhaled, in a large unguarded breath that seemed to go on forever. ‘Well,’ he said. ‘My uncle always said he came down hard on poachers.’

  We exploded with laughter at the same moment. It was a relief to be able to give in to it. We bent over, convulsing, and laughed so hard we choked. It took a long time before we were steady enough to clamber back across the hole on to the wider bit of floor, and then Darnay paused, shaking his head. ‘I can’t believe that just happened,’ he said, through his giggles, and gave a sudden splutter that sent saliva flying through the sunlight. It set me off again to see him like that, and we staggered in a zigzag like drunks, clutching our ribs. ‘I was sure I was going to sneeze.’

  ‘Don’t fall into the hole—’ I reached out and grabbed Darnay’s arm. Together we stumbled precariously down the stairs and out into the leafy sunlight.

  ‘I bet you’re glad I don’t treat poachers like that.’

  I shook my head, trying to catch my breath. ‘Don’t.’

  He sobered up before I did. When I finally managed to pull myself together, he was standing staring back at the lodge, a smile still playing around the corners of his mouth. ‘Who was that? I mean, the girl.’

  ‘Perannon Cooper.’ His glance at me was unreadable. I added, ‘I didn’t know she was a whore.’

  ‘Perannon Cooper? You – like her, don’t you?’

  I remembered, with surprise, that I’d used to. ‘Not any more.’

  ‘No, well …’ He gave me a crooked smile, as if he thought I was lying.