The Blood List

by Sarah Naughton

  ‘You are a good boy and I will see what I can do for you.’

  Barnaby managed to dampen his grin into a modest smile of gratitude.

  ‘Thank you, Father. I’m in your debt.’

  They reached the porch. The first person Barnaby saw was Naomi. She had gone to stand with her family by the churchyard wall. Her face was tipped up towards the sun as her brother foraged with a stick in the crevices of the crumbling wall. The sun had drawn a light sheen of perspiration out on her temples, making the skin glisten. It brought out the whorls of gold and honey and chestnut in her hair and gave her cheek a natural flush that contrasted with the powdered paleness of the finer girls. If she wasn’t so spiky he might even have desired to speak to her.

  ‘Right,’ Barnaby said, rolling up his sleeves. ‘A bargain is a bargain, and I will now go and discuss matters with Mistress Howells.’

  The old man’s laughter followed him as he made for the little group of his friends standing in the shadows of the yew tree.

  But before he’d got there he spotted Flora, standing near the imposing tomb of the Woodcrofts. She was alone. He changed direction.

  ‘Good morning Miss Slabber,’ he said, leaning against the cold stone of the sarcophagus.

  ‘Good morning, Master Nightingale.’

  ‘You’re looking very pretty, I must say.’

  The lie slipped easily from his lips and he was certain it would please her since she had clearly worked very hard on her appearance this morning. Too hard perhaps: the excessive powder had cracked and flaked at the corners of her eyes and mouth, as if she had a nasty skin condition. Perhaps that was why she did not now return his winning smile.

  ‘And you’re looking rather scruffy,’ she snapped. ‘Doesn’t your maid know how to use a flat iron?’

  Ah, yes, of course. Flora probably considered their hiring Naomi as an insult to her family.

  ‘No indeed. Nor much else I’m afraid.’ He smiled even more winningly.

  She gave a sharp little laugh, ‘I cannot imagine why anyone would be so foolish as to employ such a creature.’

  He caught his breath at the insult to his mother.

  ‘Have you lost any silverware yet? If so you will probably find it at Grimston market.’ Her mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘Soon enough she’ll be selling her own wares there.’

  He took a step back. ‘Flora, please. Don’t speak that way.’

  ‘What way? It’s only the truth. Don’t tell me you like her?’ Flora spat the word as if it tasted bitter.

  ‘No, not at all!’ he cried, then, feeling guilty, added: ‘Though she has done us no harm as yet.’

  ‘Ha! How quickly she has wound you around those bony fingers of hers! Well, not all of us fall so easily into her web. Thieves and liars get their just desserts in the end.’

  And with that she was off, marching across the graveyard, her velvet skirt whipping against the stones. Resting his head against the little stone dog at the feet of his ancestors, he considered how lucky it was that he hadn’t acted on his initial attraction to Flora. The ugliness of her words had made her prettiness seem all the more counterfeit. He would have to be more careful with his flirtations now that the girls he grew up with were becoming of marriageable age, otherwise he might find himself in a real bind. Mr Slabber, for one, would not tolerate anyone playing with his precious daughter’s feelings. He risked a glance at Flora’s retreating back, and saw with relief that she was heading for a gaggle of her girlfriends, not to report him to her father.

  His own father was deep in conversation with the priest so he went up to Juliet, who was talking to her grandmother, and wrapped his arm around her waist. ‘Ah, Jules,’ he murmured. ‘If only I could marry you. It seems to me that the rest of female kind is entirely mad.’

  She laughed and dropped her head onto his shoulder. Her hair smelled of ashes and the pungent aroma of the smokehouse.

  A moment later his mother was calling them to go home. Juliet hurried away but her grandmother caught Barnaby by the arm, her beady eyes glinting beneath her black cap.

  ‘Careful, pretty bird, or your song will break her heart.’

  He snatched his arm away, unsure if he was being insulted, and went to join the others.

  That night it was plain that something was afoot. Both boys were sent to bed early. They parted wordlessly at the top of the stairs and Abel went straight to his room and closed the door behind him. Barnaby, whose room was nearer the stairs, banged his door as if to shut it, then crept back out onto the landing and crouched in the shadows of the banisters.

  His father was standing by the fire while Frances sat stiffly at the table. Her back was turned to Barnaby but the fury radiating from her was palpable.

  ‘And how long have you two been plotting this?’ she said finally.

  Henry ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I told you, I haven’t been plotting anything. Father Nicholas approached me today after church. I’m only telling you what he said.’

  Frances gave a hollow laugh. ‘Don’t make me laugh, Henry. This would be a dream come true for you. And Barnaby. I suppose he’s in on it too . . .’

  Henry’s eyes flashed. ‘It’s nothing to do with Barnaby. Though I imagine he’d be more than happy with the arrangement, considering his mother seems almost unaware of his existence most of the time. Perhaps with Abel gone you might actually give him the time of day.’

  Silence throbbed in the room like a wound.

  Upstairs Barnaby’s heart pounded. Perhaps he should not have spoken to Father Nicholas. He and Abel would only have to put up with one another for a couple more years. He himself could ask to be sent away to university, if only he could get to grips with his numbers.

  When his father spoke again his voice was firm. ‘There is nothing so unusual about a second son going into the priesthood, Frances. Abel cannot cling to your skirts for the rest of his life.’

  She began to speak but Henry raised his voice over her. ‘He’s almost fifteen, and yet he has no friends of his own, no interest in girls, no hobbies besides the Bible. How else do you imagine he will make his way in the world? He has none of Barnaby’s qualit—’

  ‘Hush!’ She glanced quickly up the stairs and Barnaby drew back into the shadows.

  When he crept back his mother was standing, putting on her shawl. Henry watched her until finally she straightened and met his gaze: he blinked quickly and rocked onto his back foot.

  Her last words were so quiet Barnaby wasn’t even sure he had heard them correctly:

  ‘You took my first son from me. You will not take my second.’

  5

  The Bracelet

  The next morning Juliet woke him with a plate of cherry pancakes and a mug of warm milk sweetened with honey.

  Except that it wasn’t Juliet.

  It wasn’t even Naomi.

  Sitting up, yawning, Barnaby caught a glimpse of skirts swooshing through the open door.

  His mother’s skirts.

  Surprise cut the yawn short, leaving his mouth hanging open, and by the time he recollected himself and turned his attention to the pancakes they were quite cold.

  ‘Today is the feast day of St Paul,’ Abel announced when he went downstairs. The comment could only have been directed at Naomi, who was busy blacking the fireplace: Abel knew better than to involve Barnaby in his holiness and their parents were still upstairs.

  ‘And whilst I agree with our good Protector,’ Abel went on, ‘that all idolatry is wicked, I feel the Holy Spirit moving me to pray.’

  Juliet, who had appeared in the kitchen doorway with a tray of freshly polished silverware, rapidly retreated, but Naomi, who did not know better, continued with her work.

  ‘Come,’ Abel said, holding out his hand to her. ‘Kneel with me.’

  She took his hand and used it to pull herself up. Then she picked up her polish and her cloths and tucked them in her apron pockets.

  ‘I’m sorry, Master Abel, but I’m too busy at presen
t,’ she said.

  Barnaby looked up from his bowl of porridge. At the movement Abel’s eyes flicked to the left: he knew Barnaby was watching.

  ‘And what could be more important,’ he said, ‘than giving thanks to our good Lord?’

  ‘Feeding the pigs,’ she replied.

  Barnaby choked on the porridge, spluttering oats and dried fruit across the table.

  But his snort of laughter died as Abel grasped Naomi’s arm and yanked her almost off her feet. He had not realised his brother was so strong; or perhaps that Naomi was so frail. She gasped in pain.

  ‘You would mock the Lord?’ Abel snarled, spittle flying from his lips.

  ‘I need to feed the pigs now,’ she said quietly, ‘or they will not take another meal later and your father wants them fattened for slaughter. I will pray with you another time.’

  The last word ended on a cry as the grip on her arm tightened.

  ‘You are only worthy to pray with the swine,’ he hissed.

  But at the warning screech of Barnaby’s chair legs against the flagstones he let her go and walked quickly out of the room.

  The following morning Abel spoke to Naomi with barely concealed contempt and deliberately spilled his stewed berries over the white tablecloth as she passed them to him, leaving a large purple stain that would be almost impossible to remove.

  Naomi lowered her eyes and apologised for her stupidity and Abel flashed a sneer of triumph around the table.

  After breakfast Frances and Juliet went into the kitchen to discuss what was needed from the market that day, whilst Henry went upstairs to dress. Abel remained at the table, a sneering smile playing about his thin lips. Suspecting something was afoot, Barnaby lingered over his porridge. Sure enough, when Naomi came back to clear the dishes Abel said, ‘When you’ve finished washing the plates, Naomi, I should like a bath. In my room.’

  The bath was cast iron and large enough for a man to sit in with straight legs. It took twenty cauldrons full of water to fill it and the same to unfill it: twenty journeys up and down stairs with a full cauldron. In all Barnaby’s life he could only think of three occasions when it had been used because it was so much work for Juliet, who would be given the rest of the day off: and those times it had been placed directly in front of the fire.

  ‘I’m sorry, Abel, but Naomi is busy on my behalf today,’ he said.

  The smile slid from Abel’s face.

  ‘And what, pray, is she doing that cannot wait?’

  Barnaby took a large spoonful of porridge, chewing slowly and thinking quickly.

  ‘I’ve heard Naomi is an expert basket-weaver,’ he said when he had swallowed the mouthful. ‘I want her to show me some samples of her work. Perhaps it is something Father can sell in London.’

  Henry was coming down the stairs.

  ‘What’s that? Basketwork? Hmm, there may be some call for it.’

  ‘Very well, Father,’ Barnaby said, trying very hard not to grin. ‘I’ll bring back some of the best examples and we can discuss whether or not they might be a viable proposition. Come, Naomi. If we go now you have all day to show me the various techniques.’

  She blinked at him. ‘There is willow and cane up at my father’s house; if you would care to come there. Though the house is very rude and I fear you would not be comfortable.’

  ‘I don’t care. Come on.’

  As he sprang up from the table and scooped his jacket from the back of his chair, Abel gave him a look of the purest loathing.

  He whistled as they walked up the path, feeling more pleased with himself than he could ever remember. As soon as they were out of sight of the house he turned his steps towards Griff’s place.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she said.

  ‘You didn’t really expect me to make you show me your basket-weaving? Now go and have fun with that brother of yours and meet me back here at dusk.’

  ‘No . . . no,’ Naomi frowned. ‘You must come. Your father will be expecting to see something.’

  He laughed again. ‘Fear not, I shall simply tell him that you are a terrible basket-weaver and we should not make a penny out of you!’

  Her frown deepened. ‘I’m a good basket-weaver and if you won’t come then I shall have to go back.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘And make my brother’s bath?’

  ‘If that is what’s required.’ She turned to go.

  ‘He is so sour you can use the water for vinegar afterwards!’ he called after her.

  She turned and began walking back towards the house. With her wild hair imprisoned beneath the bonnet and the neat brown skirt his mother had given her she could have been anyone’s maid: drab as puddle water. And yet he did not find her drab. In fact he found her utterly perplexing. How could she be so wilful and infuriating one minute, and so docile and obedient the next? She was more exasperating even than Flora. And yet he couldn’t let her go back to be Abel’s slave.

  She was almost to the corner. He sighed heavily.

  ‘Naomi!’

  She turned, her back straight, chin lifted. ‘What?’

  ‘I should like to see some of your work. If you don’t mind.’

  She hesitated a moment then said, ‘I don’t mind,’ and walked back to join him. As she drew beside him, then passed him, he chuckled to himself at her audacity, then fell into step beside her.

  Soon they had reached the outskirts of the village. The wheat had grown much taller since he last came this way: it was waist-height now; emerald spears tipped with tight knots of grain lancing up towards the blue sky. He plucked a blade of grass, tucked it between his thumbs and blew hard. At the unholy screech crows erupted from the surrounding trees, like smuts from a collapsing fire. A field mouse scurried out from the protection of the grass and stopped dead in front of them. Naomi knelt and picked it up. It was almost completely round, with delicate shell-like ears and huge black eyes.

  ‘Beautiful,’ she said.

  Then it bit her. While Barnaby would have been inclined to throw the thing across the field, she just set it gently down and it scurried off back into the greensward.

  ‘I thought you farmers didn’t like mice,’ he said as they carried on.

  ‘I’m not a farmer,’ she said. I’m a maid, remember?’

  ‘Well, I’m hoping you’re a basket-weaver actually, or this will have been a wasted trip.’

  ‘Not at all,’ she said. ‘It has saved you from the chore of sleeping.’

  He opened his mouth but couldn’t think of a response.

  For once the witch tree was silent as they passed and she stopped to pluck a few green acorns from one of the lower branches.

  ‘Don’t,’ he said instinctively.

  ‘Why not?’

  He laughed with embarrassment. ‘The village girls say the spirit of the witch that was hanged here still haunts the place. She would not like you stealing her possessions.’

  ‘I’m sure the poor old woman would not begrudge the piglets a little snack. Thank you, Madam!’ she called up into the leaves, and they trembled a little as the wind breathed on them.

  ‘Stop it,’ he said.

  She turned to face him. ‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘There’s no need to be afraid. I’m sure she was nothing but a poor mad old lady.’

  ‘I’m not afraid.’

  ‘We’re all afraid of something.’ She looked away from him and walked on.

  ‘What are you afraid of?’ he called after her.

  She waited for him to catch up then said quietly, ‘Your brother.’

  He snorted. ‘He wouldn’t dare touch you, or he would have me to answer to. Plus he is feeble as a half-starved kitten.’

  ‘It’s not his body I fear,’ she said.

  They were halfway up the little path to the cottage when Mistress Waters came scurrying out, her face filled with consternation. ‘Naomi! What have you done now?’

  ‘Nothing, Mother,’ she called back. ‘Barnaby would like to see some of my basket-weaving.’


  For a moment the woman’s face brightened, then she frowned again. ‘It’s Master Barnaby.’

  ‘Not at all, Mistress,’ Barnaby called. ‘Plain Barnaby is fine.’ Then he grinned. ‘Though Handsome Barnaby is even better.’

  The woman blinked in surprise. ‘Very well, Sir, whatever you wish.’

  ‘Come on then, Handsome Barnaby,’ Naomi said under her breath.

  He followed her up the slope to the little stone cottage. It leaned markedly to the right, as if shying away from the forest on the other side of the lake. He himself wouldn’t like to be so close to it.

  The glass in the windows was so thick and undulating it was impossible to see through to the gloomy interior.

  ‘Perhaps you would like to sit out in the sunshine,’ Mistress Waters said, blocking the doorway with her body. ‘I can bring you some caudell.’

  The thought of warm, spiced egg yolks on a day like this made him feel nauseous. ‘Is there anything colder?’

  ‘We have no ice house and no cellar,’ Naomi said quietly. ‘So if the day is warm then the drink is warm.’

  ‘If you can wait I can put a bottle of ale in the lake to cool . . .’ Mistress Waters said.

  ‘Actually, caudell will be lovely,’ Barnaby said. ‘It is not so hot after all.’

  He waited on the wooden pew while Naomi went inside with her mother. The lake sparkled amicably today, inviting him in. Wavelets plashed musically against the bank as if giggling about their former misunderstanding. But he wasn’t going in today, not for anything. Though the good opinion of a serving girl may not have mattered much he was her master after all, and his father had always told him that it was important to retain the respect of the servants. Though how Henry could imagine that Juliet still respected him, after the numerous occasions she had helped Frances undress him after nights of heavy drinking, was anyone’s guess.

  The little brother suddenly appeared with a stool, set it down in front of Barnaby, then sat on it and fixed him with a steely-eyed glare.

  ‘Hello, young man,’ Barnaby said. ‘How are you?’