Abel lifted it out and unfurled it into a long strip.
‘What is it?’
Barnaby was about to take it from him when Griff put on a burst of speed and caught up with the coach.
‘Do you like it?’ Griff panted.
‘What is it?’ Abel said again.
Griff started laughing.
Abel frowned down at the linen.
‘Give it here,’ Barnaby said and made a snatch for it with his free hand, but Griff caught hold of it and held him back.
‘You want to know what it is?’ Griff cried. ‘It’s one of Juliet’s breast bindings!’
Abel blinked rapidly as he tried to understand. Then disgust contorted his features. He dropped the linen as if it were a burning rag about to set the whole coach alight. It landed in his lap and he gave a shrill scream, batting and plucking at the thing until finally he managed to send it flying out of the window.
The garment snagged on a splinter of wood and caught there, streaming out as the coach picked up speed, like the ribbons of a wedding.
The boys skidded to a halt.
‘It’s a breast binding, you fool!’ Griff howled in delight. ‘The last chance you will ever get to touch one!’
He screamed with laughter as the coach wheels rumbled out of the village.
Barnaby forced himself to laugh as loudly as Griff: the harsh sounds bouncing off the walls of the houses and rebounding on them until there were legions triumphing in Abel’s humiliation. And then he really was laughing, tears of relief that streamed down his face. Abel was gone, hopefully for good, barring a few visits home at Christmas and Easter. Barnaby never had to encounter that grim spectre in the hallway, face it over supper or block out the hissed prayers and curses. His father’s guilt would fade and his mother might even begin to soften towards him.
There was a movement to his left.
Someone said his name.
He turned.
The furrier’s widow struck him hard on the side of his head, knocking him onto his back in the mud.
For a moment there was absolute silence. Even the market traders stopped what they were doing to stare.
The widow stood before him, her chest heaving. Barnaby was so shocked he could only blink at her as she raised a shaking finger and pointed it into his face.
‘SHAME ON YOU!’
Then she turned, picked up her basket and hurried back through the crowd of shocked onlookers.
7
Farmer Nightingale
It rained for the rest of the summer. Barnaby fidgeted in the house, hunted coneys and played dice with Griff when he wasn’t busy on the farm. Juliet befriended a crow. It came every morning for bread soaked in milk, tapping on the kitchen window and scaring Barnaby half to death. Once, when she was too busy to make the milk straight away, the bird hopped across the kitchen table and began tapping the milk jug with its beak. This astounded Barnaby. He started trying to train the bird; spending hours attempting to get it to bring him things in return for hazelnuts. The bird seemed to catch on very quickly, preferring shiny objects like cutlery and buttons and coins. Once, when the Widow Moone had turned up selling her crazy charms, he had got it to fly over, drop a coin into her basket and return with a clove-studded apple. The widow had cackled and said it was a clever little devil that she could use herself.
On one of the few fine mornings he was sitting on the back step, shuffling three cups around on the slate beside him while the crow looked on, its beady eyes fixed on the cup under which he had hidden a hazelnut. He shuffled them faster, swishing them in and out of one another, bluffing and double bluffing, while the bird’s head darted this way and that.
A disturbance in the sunlight of the path made him look up. His hand stopped moving.
Her hair was loose again. It had grown longer since the last time he had seen it free from the prison of the bonnet, and rippled as she walked, flashing bronze and copper and honey and chestnut.
A stabbing pain in his hand reminded him that the bird was waiting for its reward. It stopped pecking him as soon as he looked down and jabbed its beak on one of the cups. Barnaby raised it to reveal the hazelnut, and the bird hopped away, satisfied.
‘Good morning, Master Nightingale,’ Naomi said, stopping a few feet away.
‘Good morning, Miss Waters,’ he said, squinting up into the sunlight.
‘Is Juliet at home?’
‘No, but I am.’ He stood up and leaned on the doorframe. ‘I don’t suppose you feel like making me some warm milk?’
She smiled. ‘Of course. Right away.’
He waited for her on the step, throwing nuts for the crow and feeling mightily pleased with himself. Though she’d pretended it was Juliet she was here to see, Naomi’s cheeks were definitely red when they spoke and her eyes had sparkled. He’d always prided himself on his ability to see when a girl liked him: they usually did.
But when Naomi returned with the milk – cold and unspiced – she said, ‘When will Juliet be back?’
He frowned. ‘No idea. You’ll have to wait.’
‘I haven’t got time.’
Her cheeks were still red, but now he saw that her shoulders were too, and her forearms. She was sunburned, not blushing.
‘I needed to tell her something.’
‘You’ll have to come back tomorrow then.’ He concentrated on throwing the nuts, without looking up.
‘It’s important.’
He didn’t answer. His good mood had evaporated and he aimed the next nut at the crow’s flank. It flapped off, squawking in outrage.
‘Do you think you could pass the message on to her?’
He shrugged. He knew he was being a pig but couldn’t seem to help it. For goodness’ sake, he told himself, she’s only a servant: what does it matter what she thinks of you?
‘There’s something wrong with the wheat,’ Naomi went on. ‘Black rot in the grain. It happens when there’s been too much rain. People say it doesn’t matter, that it tastes the same, but it makes you sick. Badly. If you eat too much of it it can kill you. Barnaby? Are you listening?’
‘Poison in the wheat,’ he intoned. ‘I’ll tell her. You can run on home now.’
Though he didn’t look up, he felt her stiffen beside him. Then she turned and walked quickly down the path. The crow was nowhere to be seen so he went back inside to oil his bow.
On her return, after Barnaby had passed on the message, Juliet discovered a few specks of black in the latest batch of flour and decided there was to be no more bread until it was back to its normal appearance. Barnaby’s father was annoyed but Frances conceded that it was up to Juliet, so long as she provided an alternative. They managed on potatoes and rye after this, but the crow was unimpressed with this change of diet and, to Barnaby’s disappointment, stopped visiting.
The only thing to look forward to was apple harvest time, when he usually helped gather in Griff’s father’s crop.
But the bad weather ruined the harvests. The wheat rotted in the fields and the tree fruits were wizened and blighted.
Barnaby went round to Griff’s anyway and they managed to find a way of amusing themselves by pelting one another with the rotten fruit. Once Griff managed to strike him full in the chest with a slimy plum, leaving a huge crimson stain on his shirt.
On the way home he ran into Naomi. He was shocked at how exhausted she looked. Her hands were covered with blisters, puffed and milky like the eyes in a roasted lamb’s head.
Her head was bent, so he stood in front of her to block her path. She looked up and gasped. Her hand flew to his chest. ‘What have you done?’
Surprised, he glanced down. It was only the plum stain. ‘Griff and I were having a battle with his father’s fruit.’
Her face darkened and she drew away from him. He realised that he had made her feel a fool. To change the subject he gestured at her blistered hands.
‘But those are genuine injuries.’
‘From the sickle,’ she said coldly.
‘It’s harvest time. As you might know if you actually did any work.’
He opened his mouth to speak but she had already marched past him and away down the lane to her house.
As the sun rose the next morning he was waiting by the Waters’ strips of land, armed with a sickle he had borrowed from Griff. To his great good fortune the day had dawned dry and clear and his heart leaped as two figures approached, silhouetted against the low red sun. But the slighter figure was not Naomi, after all, but some spotty youth he didn’t recognise.
Farmer Waters stopped dead when he saw Barnaby.
‘Eh-up, Master Nightingale. Is there a problem? I haven’t touched any of your father’s strips if that’s what you’re—’
‘Not at all, Mister Waters,’ Barnaby interrupted. ‘I only thought I might be able to help you with the last of the harvesting.’
Waters stared. Then he scratched his head and shifted uneasily from foot to foot. ‘Ah, well, that’s very kind of you but, as you can see, I have help and I’m afraid it’s all I can do to pay my nephew a decent wage.’
‘I wouldn’t require payment.’
‘No?’
The sun was rising quickly now and a shaft suddenly shot over the farmer’s head and straight into Barnaby’s eyes, making him wince and stammer.
‘I . . . er . . . I saw Naomi yesterday and—’
‘What’s she been telling you?’ Waters cut in. ‘That I can’t manage me own land? She’s no right to go—’
‘She said no such thing!’ Barnaby said hastily. ‘I saw her hands, that’s all, and th . . . thought I might be able to spare her any more suffering.’
Farmer Waters looked at Barnaby thoughtfully.
‘Well, in that case,’ he said eventually, ‘you’re most welcome.’
If Barnaby had regretted his offer when he saw Naomi would not be present, he regretted it even more once the work began. The ground was waterlogged and tramping across to the uncut strips they were soon up to their knees in cold sludge. The wetness made the sickle even harder to control: like a horse, it seemed intuitively to know that there was an inexperienced hand controlling it, and it bucked and twisted and once nearly sliced into his ankle. By contrast Waters and his nephew moved in a slow and fluid rhythm, and the corn laid itself down before them with whispering sighs. To Barnaby’s eyes it didn’t seem as gold or as tall as it ought to have been and there were strange black excrescences, like rats’ droppings, where the grain should have been. By mid-morning he was extremely grateful Naomi wasn’t around. His corn lay in ugly tangles and he was only halfway down his first strip when the other two had finished their fifth and paused for breakfast. They shouted over at him to join them but he could not bear the humiliation and soldiered on, though the palms of his hands were raw.
As the sun rose higher the other two men stripped off their shirts and Barnaby was surprised to see the impressive muscles of the spotty youth: far more clearly defined than his own since there was less flesh to cover them. He was staring at the boy’s back, rippling as he picked up another huge armful of corn, when there was a shout.
His heart sank.
The other two straightened and wiped the sweat from their brows. Waters’ nephew walked to meet Naomi as she approached, carrying a large ceramic jug and two cups. She began to say something and then stopped abruptly. Barnaby bent his head and carried on working, trying to keep the sickle steady.
‘Ale, Barnaby!’ Waters shouted.
With a deep breath he laid down the sickle and tramped over to the others. Waters and the boy were sharing one of the cups and Naomi handed him the second without looking at him. As she poured the ale she slopped it a little and the cool liquid soothed his burning hand.
‘Master Nightingale came to help us,’ Waters said.
Stop now, Barnaby thought, don’t say any more, don’t say what a useless farmer I would make.
‘That was very good of him,’ Naomi said, fussing with the beaded handkerchief that covered the jug.
To Barnaby’s horror he saw that the youth was smirking and glancing across at Barnaby’s half-finished strip, clearly itching to say something that would belittle him in front of Naomi. The thin lips parted, but Barnaby drowned him out.
‘The ale is lovely! Did you brew it yourselves?’
‘Aye,’ Waters said and launched into a lecture about the best grain mix and the excellence of his yeast, which had been in the family for several generations.
Barnaby nodded as if he fully understood. At home it was the servants that drank ale, the family stuck to wine, or beer if it was hot. He glanced at Naomi and she rolled her eyes. The boy was now scowling.
‘Patrick,’ she said, going up to him and touching his arm in a familiar, almost intimate gesture, ‘Mother wants to know if you will dine with us.’
‘If you’ve enough,’ Patrick said gruffly.
‘Is Mother back from Stalyridge then?’ Waters said to his daughter. ‘How’s Aunty?’
‘Not good,’ Naomi said, glancing at Barnaby. ‘The blood’s still coming, day and night. She’s got it into her head that it’s witchcraft and she won’t be better until the old women hang. She wanted Mother to go to the aldermen and report it as maleficium but I told her not to.’
‘If they be witches,’ Patrick said, ‘’tis right to speak up against them.’
Naomi scowled at him. ‘Or perhaps Aunty Catherine just has the same sickness that took our grandmother.’
‘Don’t get involved, girl,’ Waters said to his daughter. ‘It doesn’t do to be seen to be protecting them. Now then . . .’ To Barnaby’s dismay he handed the mug back to his daughter and picked up his sickle. ‘Let’s try and finish before nightfall.’
Barnaby’s heart dropped to his boots as he returned his mug, picked up his sickle and trudged back to his forlorn strip. He realised too late that she must now know how poorly he had performed. Risking a glance over his shoulder he saw she was smiling. He blushed furiously, then turned back and continued with his inept labours.
They did finish before nightfall, thanks mainly to Patrick, who seemed impervious to pain or exhaustion. Even as the sun sank behind the forest he was still swiping the blade with the same vigour he had displayed at dawn.
It was only Naomi’s appearance with more ale and an invitation for Barnaby to join them at supper that finally ended the day’s exertions. They drank in silence as the shadows turned indigo. As the air cooled, the fragrance of moist, cut corn mingled with the wild garlic and honeysuckle of the hedgerows. Bats darted overhead making the clouds of midges swirl in panic.
He would have liked to accompany them, if only to annoy Patrick. But his hands were swollen and bleeding, his legs were jelly, and all he wanted to do was collapse in his bed.
‘Thank you, Mister Waters,’ he said, finishing his cup. ‘For suffering my clumsy efforts. I hope I was some help.’
‘Certainly you were, Master Nightingale!’ the farmer gushed. ‘But don’t go telling your father that I’m the one responsible for all them blisters!’ He laughed and Barnaby quickly thrust his hands into his pockets.
‘Certainly not,’ Barnaby said. ‘I shall say they were caused by too much dicing at the Boar.’
Waters laughed and even Patrick lifted his lip to show a brown tooth.
‘Goodnight, Farmer Waters,’ he said with a bow. ‘Patrick . . . Naomi.’
He did not linger to see her reaction but as he walked away, trying to stride rather than hobble, her voice drifted after him with a soft chuckle, ‘Goodnight, Farmer Nightingale.’
The journey home felt ten times longer than usual and occasionally he had to lean on a wall for rest. He finally wobbled through the door as the clock struck ten.
‘Barnaby!’ his father cried, rising from his chair by the fire. ‘Where have you been all day? We were worried.’
You might have been, Barnaby thought. His mother was at the table, engrossed with another of his brother’s letters. She did not raise her head at his entrance.
Letters had come from Abel twice weekly at first, but they soon tailed off to once a week, then once a fortnight, and this was the first missive since early September.
Juliet appeared in the doorway with a plate of mutton and a mug of wine.
‘Alleluia!’ Barnaby cried, throwing himself down in a chair and stretching his hands to receive the meal. ‘You are my own, true darling!’
The first bite of mutton was the most divine morsel that had ever passed his lips.
‘It seems the Lord Protector himself came to speak to them,’ his mother said without raising her head from the letter. ‘Abel says he was very wise and devout.’
‘And a traitor,’ his father muttered.
‘He says that Mister Cromwell described how far steeped in sin is our society and that the reformation had not gone far enough to strip away the excesses of Catholicism.’
‘Really,’ said Henry drily. Barnaby licked mutton fat off his fingers as noisily as possible.
She read a little longer, then gave a fretful sigh: ‘He says he hopes to become an instrument of purification: Oh Henry . . .’ She put the letter down and took off her glasses. ‘I do hope he’s not being led along the wrong path.’
‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ Henry said, batting his hand. ‘Just settling in, that’s all. They’ll set him straight soon enough.’
Frances sighed again and tucked the letter back in its envelope. ‘I’m going to tell him to come home for Barnaby’s birthday so we can make sure he’s all right.’
Barnaby shot his father a panicked look. The party was always the high point of his year and this year, his sixteenth and therefore special, promised to be even better than usual. It was to be held in the church. The pews were to be pushed back and a hog spit placed before the altar. A considerable amount of alcohol had been ordered, and Lord Pembroke had provided five sheep and ten chickens (mainly, Barnaby’s father said, in gratitude to the village for not turning against him and his Catholic family after Cromwell’s victory over the King). Abel’s dour presence would ruin the whole evening.
‘I’m sure that’s not necessary,’ Henry said. ‘You need to give him the chance to make his own way in life.’
The Blood List Page 11