The Blood List

by Sarah Naughton

  The next morning his mother noticed that one of her bracelets was missing: a pretty thing made from seed pearls imported from the Orient. As soon as the loss was announced the girls checked their pockets and Naomi was clearly relieved to find hers filled with nothing but crumbs.

  A systematic search of the house began so Barnaby retired to his room to finish sharpening his rabbit-skinning knife. His father had more plans for him today but he had no intention of suffering more stultifying humiliation and would go and hunt coneys.

  The cry made him jump so that the sharpening stone slipped and grazed his knuckle. He swore and stomped out of his room, certain it had come from Abel.

  Sure enough his brother was standing on the landing, his face a mask of shock. He was pointing through the door of Juliet and Naomi’s bedroom.

  ‘What is it, my love?’ his mother called anxiously up the stairs.

  ‘Your b . . . b . . . bracelet!’ Abel stuttered. ‘I have found it!’

  Barnaby went to stand next to him so that he could see into the room. Naomi’s bed was nearest to the door. The bottom corner of her blanket had been lifted up and spread across the bed to reveal the shadowy space beneath. The bracelet was just visible, tucked behind one of the legs.

  Frances stepped out onto the landing and came to join them.

  They all stared at the bracelet.

  Barnaby’s eyes flicked to his brother, who was shaking his head wearily. Barnaby’s lip curled, but before he could speak his mother called down the stairs, ‘Naomi! Come up here, please!’

  The shock on the maid’s face when she arrived was only matched by the dawning horror of what the discovery meant. She had been dismissed for stealing before. Now all serving work would be impossible. If Frances chose to report her to the magistrate she could end up in prison. Possibly even hanged. But after telling the boys to go downstairs, Frances ushered Naomi into the bedroom and closed the door.

  Barnaby lingered to listen.

  The voices inside were low and even. No, Naomi was not unhappy with the work. Yes, she felt she was adequately paid – more than adequately. No, she had not taken Abel’s crucifix and she had never seen the bracelet before this moment. No, she had no reason to believe Juliet felt any malice towards her: after a shaky start the two girls were now very friendly. Frances sighed. ‘I do believe you, Naomi,’ she said, ‘and I hope these two incidents are merely unfortunate coincidences. Please be more careful from now on: check your pockets and keep your room tidy, and perhaps we can avoid any more unpleasantness.’

  ‘Yes, Madam,’ Naomi said miserably. ‘Thank you, Madam.’

  Barnaby hopped lightly down the stairs and was sitting at the table when Naomi came down. Her cheeks were flushed and she kept her head bent as she crossed the parlour into the kitchen. Abel’s glittering eyes followed her all the way.

  ‘Barnaby was listening at the door,’ he said as their mother descended.

  The next few days passed without incident, but the following Sunday Abel developed stomach cramps after breakfast and was too ill to go to church. His mother fussed over him so much they were late leaving the house, but they had not gone far before Barnaby doubled over and cried out in pain.

  Juliet flew to his side. ‘What is it?’

  ‘It cannot be the oysters,’ Naomi said quickly. ‘They were alive until the very moment they went into the pie.’

  ‘Oysters in July are always a risk,’ Juliet said, looking at her with reproach. ‘I’ll take him home, Madam.’

  ‘No, no,’ Barnaby said, straightening up with a wince. ‘It’s not far. I can manage alone.’

  He crept the few steps back to the corner and round it, then straightened up and strode quickly to the house, ducking beneath the line of the hedge to approach from the far side, so that he was only visible from the kitchen.

  The kitchen door was ajar and he squeezed through so as not to disturb the creaky hinges.

  The house was still and silent. Perhaps Abel’s sickness had not been faked after all: perhaps he was asleep.

  A creak from one of the floorboards suggested he was upstairs at least, but not in his bed. It had come from somewhere above the kitchen; his parents’ room perhaps. Now there was a scuffling sort of sound, as if papers or clothes were being moved about.

  Barnaby slipped out of the kitchen and, keeping close to the wall, made his way across the parlour. Stockinged feet padded overhead. There was more rustling and then the footsteps padded back into his parents’ room again. He crept to the bottom of the stairs. More rummaging sounds; the clink of metal against metal. Then Abel came out of the room, his nightshirt drooping off his narrow shoulders, his greasy brown hair uncombed and sticking up in spikes. He was carrying something: something that flashed in the dusty sunlight filtering through the window at the end of the landing.

  Abel went straight into the room adjacent to his parents’: Juliet and Naomi’s bedchamber. Barnaby ran lightly up the stairs and along the landing, glancing into his parents’ room as he passed. The chest that sat at the foot of their bed was wide open. This was where they kept all their most precious items, including a silk tapestry from India, silver plates, and two German mazers rimmed with silver that had been given to them on their wedding day.

  Outside Naomi’s door he stopped and, pressing his back against the wall, cautiously peered in.

  Naomi’s trunk, pathetic in comparison to his parents’ fine maplewood and leather one, lay open on the floor. All her things had been tossed out: a nightdress, some undergarments, a shawl, a Bible and a wooden doll.

  Abel was bending over the trunk, tucking something inside, and didn’t notice Barnaby step into the doorway. He set about gathering up the items he had tossed out, carefully refolding them and placing them back inside the trunk.

  ‘Feeling better?’ Barnaby said.

  Abel started, then spun around.

  ‘Why are you not at church?’

  ‘I must have caught your malady. What are you doing with Naomi’s things?’

  Abel’s mouth opened. His sly black eyes flicked sideways and then back to Barnaby’s face.

  ‘I decided to take the opportunity to search her room,’ he said. ‘To make sure she had not stolen any other items.’

  ‘And what did you find?’

  ‘I shall discuss it with our parents upon their return.’

  ‘No. You will discuss it with me, now.’ Barnaby took a step into the room. ‘What did you find?’

  Abel did not reply and as the two boys stared at one another Barnaby felt a red wall of fury descend across his vision.

  ‘What did you find, toad?’

  Still Abel said nothing.

  Barnaby entered the room and Abel scuttled backwards, coming up sharp against Juliet’s bed. Barnaby walked forwards to stand over him.

  ‘I know you, you sly dog!’

  ‘And I know you!’ Abel spat. ‘Son of the Beast! Spawn of Satan! Would that you had never been returned by the demons that suckled you! Would that you—’

  Barnaby punched him in the face.

  ‘THOU SHALT NOT NOT BEAR FALSE WITNESS AGAINST THY NEIGHBOUR, ABEL!’ He struck him again and a ribbon of blood flew out of Abel’s nose to spatter Juliet’s sheets. ‘THOU SHALT NOT BEAR FALSE WITNESS!’

  The last blow knocked Abel onto the floor and he sobbed in the spreading pool of blood.

  ‘Come!’ Barnaby snarled, hauling him to his feet. ‘The village shall know your baseness!’

  ‘NO!’ Abel shrieked. ‘Let me go!’

  He continued shrieking as Barnaby dragged him out of the room, and thrashed so much going down the stairs that halfway down Barnaby let him go and he tumbled the rest of the way.

  They lurched along the dusty road to the church, leaving a snail trail of Abel’s bloody snot and tears. After a few minutes the tower rose up in front of them and when its shadow fell across him Abel gave a howl of despair.

  The service had finished and the congregation were milling around the churchya
rd. His mother was standing by Mistress Waters and at Abel’s cry her head snapped up.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Barnaby panted. ‘And you’re lucky: the church was nearly full today.’

  With one last burst of effort he slung Abel’s arm further over his shoulder and pushed on.

  But his mother and father were now hurrying across to the lychgate.

  ‘We must hurry, Abel,’ Barnaby said through gritted teeth, ‘if we are to have our audience.’

  Abel squinted up through puffed eyes. ‘And now art thou cursed from the earth,’ he burbled, ‘which has opened her mouth to receive thy brother’s blood from thy hand!’

  But having dragged Abel’s dead weight so far, Barnaby had reached the limit of his endurance and when Abel dug his heels into the dust and resisted all efforts to go further Barnaby gave in and waited as his parents hurried towards them.

  ‘What’s happened?’ Frances shrieked. ‘Is he dying?’

  But Barnaby didn’t reply at once. He waited for Juliet and Naomi, who were now hurrying through the lychgate, eyes and mouths wide.

  ‘Barnaby!’ his father cried, close enough to see Abel’s injuries. ‘What have you done?’

  Still Barnaby waited, until the girls and his parents were before him, shocked and afraid. Naomi looked up at him with clear green eyes and for a moment he could not tear himself from her gaze. Then he turned to his mother and gave a grim smile.

  ‘Here is your thief,’ he said, and threw Abel down in the dust.

  6

  The Gift

  It was agreed that Abel should go away to study after all.

  Father Nicholas sent letters of recommendation to the dean of Emmanuel College in Cambridge, and Abel was accepted to study theology.

  The days before his departure crawled by. Letters had to be sent to the College, replies received, accommodation and transportation arranged, effects packed.

  Naomi had been given some time off, ostensibly to help her parents on the farm, but Barnaby suspected it was to keep her out of Abel’s way. He missed her calm efficient presence and the quality of her cooking. He missed the way she never bothered picking up his clothes from his bedroom floor and the fact that she always found time to put a sprig of buttercups in the window but never to warm his cup of milk.

  The morning after her last day Barnaby found a package with his name on it outside his bedroom door. He took it into his room and opened it on the bed. It was a beautiful corn doll with a pale green ribbon around its neck. A note with it read: thanc yoow.

  He turned the doll over. Then he smiled. He recognised the clumsy star shape in the centre of the base. Naomi had turned the wretched thing he had begun on the pew outside the cottage into something perfect and beautiful. He set it on the windowsill, looking out across the fields to the lake and the forest behind. The ribbon glowed in the sunlight: the pale green of summer grass, or of the lake bed on a burningly hot day, or of Naomi’s eyes when she raised her head from kneading the bread.

  In the fields surrounding the forest scythe blades flashed in the sunlight.

  Another few weeks and she would be back.

  August arrived and the weather turned unseasonably cold. Frances was frantically knitting undergarments for Abel, having heard rumours that there would be no glass in the windows of the classrooms, nor any heating of any kind. The students apparently were forced to sit on long bare planks without backs, with another plank set before them for a desk. Abel could not bear any discussion of the matter. He crept about pale and silent and thinner than ever, seemingly unable to muster the energy even to quote the scriptures.

  Eventually the morning of the departure dawned. Barnaby came down for breakfast to find his mother already weeping, his father stony-faced and his brother submitting listlessly to Juliet’s attempts to dress him. He breakfasted quickly, gulping down the porridge so fast it gave him hiccoughs. This was not the sort of atmosphere to linger in. And besides, even though Abel was a monster and deserved his banishment, Barnaby couldn’t helping feeling guilty that all the present unhappiness in the house had been caused by himself. And it would only get worse as the hour of Abel’s departure drew nearer.

  ‘I’m going out,’ he said, but no-one seemed to notice.

  He headed over to Griff’s, and found him in the fields. Griff suggested trying the cider that had been brewing now for several weeks and they retired to the brew-shed. The stuff was revolting but they drank determinedly until their bellies writhed and they were forced to run to the privy. Then they moved on to Griff’s father’s wine cellar.

  They emerged, blinking, into the daylight to find that it had been raining. The air had a fresh smell and the dust had been washed from the windows of the houses, making them glitter in the sunlight. Barnaby had lost track of time, assuming it must be well into the afternoon, and so safe to return home, but when he rounded the corner he saw a coach standing outside the house. Abel’s trunk was being loaded onto it. Abel himself stood limply, staring at the ground while his mother fussed and murmured, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Henry stood beside her, stiff and unsmiling.

  ‘He won’t be going yet awhile,’ Griff whispered. ‘Looks like the horses are still at the blacksmith’s for new shoes,’

  ‘Good,’ Barnaby whispered back. ‘They’ll be all the swifter to carry him away.’ His tongue was fat and slow from the cider and when they crept forwards along the line of cottages his steps wobbled.

  They sidled past the little group and had made it to the door before his mother called after them, her voice thick: ‘Aren’t you going to see your brother off?’

  ‘Of course,’ Barnaby said, enunciating carefully. ‘I was just—’

  Griff interjected, ‘He was just going to fetch his farewell gift.’

  His mother blinked in surprise.

  ‘That’s kind,’ she said. ‘But hurry now, the horses will be back soon.’

  The boys went inside and closed the door, pausing on the other side of it and leaning on one another’s shoulders to muffle the sound of their laughter.

  ‘So, what’s your gift going to be?’ Griff whispered when they had recovered themselves.

  ‘I suppose I could give him father’s razor for his tonsure,’ Barnaby said.

  Griff grinned. ‘I’ve got a better idea.’ He leaned forwards and whispered in Barnaby’s ear. A smile spread across Barnaby’s face. They stumbled upstairs.

  When they went back outside, the horses were harnessed to the coach and Abel was climbing the steps. The sun was low in the sky now and the interior of the coach was dark and forbidding. It was a shabby old thing. Here and there the leather had peeled away from the frame and the wood beneath was rotten and splintered. Griff whispered that Abel would be lucky to make Salisbury before it collapsed beneath him.

  Abel ducked his head and the darkness swallowed him. A moment later his pale face reappeared at the window. There was no glass, so if he wanted to keep out draughts when the coach picked up speed he would have to button down the curtains and sit in darkness.

  Henry stepped forward and said something to his son: Abel nodded. Then Henry held out his arm to help his wife over the churned mud at the edge of the road. Leaning into the coach Frances spoke inaudibly, then reached inside and embraced her youngest son for some minutes. Barnaby looked away.

  When she stepped back the coach driver gave a flick of the reins, clicked his tongue and the horses began to move.

  ‘Go on, then,’ Griff hissed. ‘Give it him.’

  Barnaby stumbled forwards, carrying a small package wrapped in a sheet of his father’s writing paper and bound with one of Juliet’s hair ribbons.

  ‘What’s that?’ his brother said thickly.

  ‘A . . . a parting gift,’ Barnaby said.

  ‘I want nothing from you.’

  Barnaby tossed the packet onto the seat beside him.

  ‘The very best of luck, brother,’ Barnaby said, then he stepped back and let the coach trundle on.

  Griff
caught up with him. ‘Did he open it?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘What? So, you didn’t get to see his face. What’s the point in that? Come on! If we cut around the back of the Boar we can catch him up before he reaches the edge of the village!’ He set off at a run.

  Barnaby hesitated a moment, then set off after his friend.

  The market was just clearing as they emerged onto the part of the square that joined the main road out of the village, and there were plenty of people still trying to get bargains from the traders as they dismantled their stalls. They dodged the old women and children scavenging squashed fruit from beneath the wheels of the stalls. One of the traders tossed an apple into the air, but before it could land in a young mother’s outstretched basket Griff plucked it from the air, leaving them arguing who would pay for the loss.

  As they passed the final stall Barnaby collided with a woman. It was the furrier’s widow. He almost knocked her basket of mistletoe from her hands, but managed to catch it in time and made sure she had a firm grasp on it before he ran on.

  ‘There!’ cried Griff.

  The coach was still trundling along at a pace they could easily match. Griff put on a burst of speed and was the first to catch up with it.

  ‘Hey, Abel!’ he called. ‘Did you open the present?’

  There must have been an answer from inside because then Griff said breathlessly, ‘Ah, don’t be like that about it, open it, go on!’

  Griff was tiring now. Strong as he was, his heavy limbs and great muscular shoulders from the plough weighed him down. As Barnaby caught up with the coach Griff fell back a little.

  ‘Open it, Abel!’ Griff called, but Barnaby was beginning to hope Abel would just throw it out into the mud. Now that he was sobering up he was starting to regret the gift. Jogging alongside the coach he held out his hand. ‘Give it back then, if you don’t want it.’

  Abel’s eyes narrowed, then he took the package from the seat beside him and began unpicking the ribbon. A strand of Juliet’s strawberry-blonde hair was caught in the knot and as it loosened the strand was caught by the wind and snatched away. The paper fell open to reveal a folded pile of white linen.