The Blood List

by Sarah Naughton

  Frances gave a non-committal murmur.

  Barnaby tossed back the dregs of the wine, belched and struggled up, unable to repress a groan.

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ his father said. ‘Not coming down with something, are you?’

  ‘I’m fine,’ he croaked. Then, using his father’s shoulder for purchase, he pivoted himself towards the staircase and, with intakes of breath and little squeaks of discomfort, made his way up to bed. If this was an honest day’s work, he thought as he mounted the stairs like a geriatric, then you could keep it.

  The next day he was walking stiffly over to Griff’s when he met Flora Slabber returning from the market. Though she did not seem so pretty as the last time he saw her it pleased him to see her blush deeply when she saw him, and he fell into step beside her.

  ‘What have you bought?’ he asked.

  ‘Just a few cakes for me and Mama, and some material for a dress. Mama says I shall have a new one for your birthday party. I chose blue velvet because the colour works so well with my hair.’

  ‘Yes,’ Barnaby said, ‘I’m sure it does.’

  They passed the apothecary. Sitting by the wall outside was the cart belonging to the furrier’s widow. He recognised it by the bright paintings that adorned the side: of flowers and wild animals and strange creatures half hidden in the long grass. The widow had taken to wheeling it around the village even on non-market days, trying to sell her wild berries and mushrooms. Today it was brimful of rosemary. Flora inhaled deeply. ‘Oh I love that smell,’ she said.

  He went over to the cart and snapped off a sturdy twig, then came and tucked it behind her ear, making her giggle. They continued along the street arm in arm.

  He felt a bit guilty for stealing from such a poor woman but pushed it from his mind. Not only had she attacked him in front of the entire village, but she was also behind with her rent, though his father hadn’t yet turfed her out of the hovel she’d built on their land. Whenever Barnaby remembered that awful afternoon, floundering in the mud surrounded by the crowing of the villagers, he was flooded with shame and fury.

  But before they had gone much further there was a strange cry behind them. It sounded as if a drunk was calling his name but when he turned he saw the widow’s deaf son jogging to meet them. He was a dark and swarthy youth but muscular and well-built, with quick black eyes.

  ‘Masser Nighthingale,’ he said, stopping in front of them, ‘I am glad I saw you.’

  Barnaby straightened and lifted his chin, embarrassed to hear the sound of his name so mangled in front of Flora.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ he said loudly.

  ‘My mother is sick,’ the boy said in his strange thick tongue. ‘And I do not possess her knowledge of the forest. We owe your father two months’ rent. I have received a commission to paint the church but until I get paid in a month’s time we cannot pay you. I am sorry.’ He spoke slowly and seemed to be enunciating his words very carefully, but plainly he wasn’t stupid. His bright black eyes held Barnaby’s and Barnaby blinked. For one so afflicted the boy was certainly bold. Barnaby could feel Flora waiting for his response.

  ‘What’s your name?’ he said imperiously.

  ‘Luke Armitage.’

  ‘Well, Mr Armitage, your mother is almost two months behind and I think that is lenience enough.’

  Flora leaned across and whispered to him, ‘He is reading your speech from the movement of your lips.’

  Sure enough, Luke was staring at his mouth. He brought his hand up to cough into it, then left it there as if quite naturally rubbing his jaw. Sure enough the boy’s brow furrowed.

  ‘I shall expect the rent by Monday.’

  ‘What did you say?’ the boy said.

  ‘MONDAY,’ Barnaby said loudly.

  The boy nodded curtly, then turned and walked back to his cart.

  Flora’s titter was like the squealing of the widow’s cart’s wheels as the deaf boy made his way home. Barnaby’s conscience pricked him and he almost went after Luke to tell him he could take another week. But it had started to rain. Flora grabbed his arm and they hurried on.

  8

  The Party

  It seemed to take forever to arrive but at last the day of Barnaby’s birthday party dawned, clear and bright and chilly. It was the first really cold day of the year and the air was soon fragrant with peat and woodsmoke. The roads out of the village were treacherous with ice and Henry said how lucky they were that the wine had arrived the previous day or the carts may not have got through.

  The only possible event that could mar the day was Abel’s arrival, but as the afternoon wore on with no sign of him, Barnaby dared to hope that the roads were too bad for him to travel. It wasn’t as if his brother would actually want to come; he had been summoned by Frances.

  As the shadows deepened and the lamps were lit Barnaby went to his room to put on his party clothes. On the bed was the new outfit his father had ordered from France. Barnaby had chosen the cut and fabric, and the few adornments (fine without being fussy), but seeing it for the first time made him draw in his breath.

  The doublet of embroidered, glazed linen glittered like gold in the candlelight. Slashed to a high waistband, it revealed the white lawn shirt beneath, with its mother-of-pearl buttons. The breeches were dove-grey velvet, tied at the knees with black ribbons, and the black boots were so polished they reflected his own face back at him.

  He began to strip off, whistling to himself. Juliet came in while he was pulling on the shirt. In her hand was a small package.

  ‘It was lying on the step this morning,’ she said softly.

  She held it out for him but he didn’t take it.

  He knew what it would contain. Beneath the wrapping of white linen there would be a bunch of forest flowers: forget-me-nots and buttercups, pansies, cornflowers, goldenrods and mouse-ears, occasionally a delicate briar rose. Too fragile to last more than an hour or so without water, they would already be drooping, the edges of the petals browning and curling.

  The bundle would be tied with a strip of blue cloth embroidered with roses. These roses had been stitched, clumsily, by his mother when she was barely sixteen. Stitched onto a swaddling cloth to wrap her firstborn son. It must have been painstaking work: hundreds of tiny pink flowers with yellow seed heads and a whisper of green at the base. It was the most loving thing she had ever done for him. But it hadn’t been for him; not really. It had been for the child that was taken away. They had wrapped the changeling in it when they left the creature on the midden heap, and when Barnaby was returned he was wrapped in a coarse blanket that smelled of dung.

  This dreadful ritual, of returning the swaddling, strip by strip, binding those mean little flowers, had been enacted every birthday morning for as long as he could remember. Henry seemed to take an odd pride in it – that his son was so adored by the fairy realm – but it always upset his mother, so that over the past few years Juliet had been careful to find and hide it before anyone else could discover it.

  ‘I don’t want it,’ Barnaby said. ‘Put it in the fire.’

  Her eyes widened. ‘Oh no, no. You must not insult them like that! It is their gift to you.’

  ‘It’s not. It’s just some spiteful villager mocking me.’

  For years he’d thought it was Abel – though the trick seemed too clever for his brother’s mean little mind – but now Abel was gone.

  ‘I mean it. Take it away.’ He went back to fastening the buttons of his shirt, but the arrival of the package had put him out of sorts and his fingers were trembling.

  Juliet hesitated, then, muttering unhappily, tucked it into the pocket of her apron.

  ‘Come,’ she said. ‘Let me help you.’

  As she bent her head to fasten the tiny round pearl buttons of the cuffs he noticed that her hair was greasy and she smelled faintly of stale sweat. Naomi had still not returned to work, her brother having fallen sick a few weeks previously, and after getting used to having help, Juliet s
eemed to find being on her own again doubly hard. Barnaby had sent various provisions up to the Waters’ farm – dried fruits imported from Turkey, loaves of rye bread, cakes made with apples from Griff’s orchard. Now he felt guilty for making Juliet do all that extra baking.

  ‘What are you wearing tonight?’ he said.

  ‘This probably,’ she said. ‘I’ll be helping out with the food so whatever I wear will get greasy and spoiled.’ She went over to refresh the fire.

  He thought for a moment, then pulled out one of the ribbons woven into his cuffs, and went over to where she was kneeling.

  She jumped as his fingers touched her hair.

  ‘Stay still,’ he murmured, then he gathered up a section and tied it with the ribbon.

  ‘But what about your jacket?’ she said, looking up at him. The crackling flames of the kindling had burned her cheek a deep scarlet.

  ‘Only my father would notice, and I don’t care how handsome he finds me.’

  As she stood and brushed the ash from her apron he remained where he was, gazing at his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. His hair had grown long and the loose curls rested on his shoulders, which appeared broader thanks to the cut of the jacket. He ran his fingers through it, careful not to snag a fingernail on the birthmark at the nape of his neck, which always bled so easily. His face was losing its childhood plumpness. He kept expecting to see the narrowing of the jaw and the arch of the nose that ran through the Nightingale line, but so far they had not materialised. In fact his jaw appeared to be squaring and widening, and his nose was as straight as it had always been. Presumably this was from his mother’s family, though he couldn’t think of any good-looking Woodcrofts. Perhaps such features only became acceptable when mixed with those of the Nightingales.

  Juliet began fussing with his collar, trying to fasten the top button, but he stopped her hand, he did not wish to feel constricted tonight, especially since there would be considerable quantities of food and drink passing down his throat. He was about to drop his hand, but then he happened to glance into her face.

  The adoration in her eyes was like the sudden headrush of strong liquor. Without pausing for thought he bent forwards and kissed her.

  He had grown so much taller over recent months that when he pulled away she was low enough to lean her head against his chest.

  He couldn’t think of anything to say and stood swaying there slightly as her chest rose and fell against his belly.

  ‘Never let me go,’ she said softly. ‘Not even when you marry. I want to be with you always.’ She looked up at him. ‘Promise.’

  His voice was as high as a child when he spoke. ‘I promise.’

  When she left he sat down heavily on the bed and stared at the distorted reflection of his face in the polished toes of his boot. It sickened him. He had been so intoxicated by her adoration that he had acted thoughtlessly. He loved Juliet like a sister and to make her believe that he had stronger feelings for her was base and cruel. He did possess those feelings, the time had come to accept the fact, but they were not for Juliet, and they were not for Flora.

  Eventually he got up and, rather subdued, made his way downstairs.

  His parents were sitting by the fire, speaking in low voices, and both looked up when they heard his feet on the stairs. At once his father’s face flushed with pride. The old man looked ridiculous, in some absurd conical hat with an ostrich feather that waggled in the up-draughts from the fire. His belly was too large for his gaudy doublet and he had undone the last buttons, which only drew attention to the problem. Barnaby was so busy taking in this mortifying ensemble that it was several minutes before he felt his mother’s eyes on him. He was surprised to see her expression of warmth and, yes, almost affection.

  She rose and came over to him and he saw she was wearing the brooch his father had helped him choose for her five Christmases ago, before he had given up trying to please her. It glittered in the firelight, like a tiny flame of love in her breast.

  He bent to receive her light kiss on his cheek.

  ‘Any woman would be proud to call you her son,’ she said as she drew away, smiling.

  Then his father was at his side and leading him to the door.

  ‘Aren’t you coming, Mother?’ he said, turning back.

  She was still smiling, but more wistfully now. ‘I’ll wait for Abel a while.’

  ‘Oh. Goodbye, then.’

  As Henry opened the door a gust of snow struck their faces.

  It was an unpleasant journey. The sleet found its way inside their shirts and shoes and several times they almost slipped on their backsides. But the sight of the church dispelled any despondency.

  Its windows glittered and lanterns hung from every nook and crevice in the walls. Garlands of scarlet and pink amaryllis hung around the necks of the gargoyles protruding from the porch and more lanterns clustered in the yew tree. A couple of farm children decked out in their Sunday best chased one another between the rapidly whitening gravestones. Barnaby hurried forwards, drawn on by the spicy perfume coming from a copper pan steaming on a brazier just inside the doors.

  A girl poured a cup of mulled wine for each of them and they passed through the porch. Henry turned and grinned at Barnaby, slapping him gently on the back. ‘Happy birthday, son.’

  Barnaby grinned back and pushed open the door.

  It was so bright inside he had to squint. Lanterns hung from every beam and candles crowded every surface not already occupied by cups and flagons and bottles. There was noise, and warmth, and the mouth-watering smell of roasting pork. When the fiddler saw him he struck up a fast jig and soon they were surrounded by dancing.

  Grinning and greeting his tenants, his father led him through the crush and up the central aisle. They mounted the altar steps to cries of congratulation and the raising of wine glasses.

  The altar cloth had been replaced by a linen tablecoth, upon which stood pewter plates and wooden bowls. There was sugar cake and gingerbread, lemon posset and trifle, breads and wafers with slipcoat cheese and quince jelly, a whole baked salmon, a pottage of veal.

  To line his stomach Barnaby began with bread and cheese, nibbling when he could whilst his father led him around a crowd of portly red-faced men he didn’t recognise. He shook their hands and made pleasantries while his father introduced him as the Nightingale with whom they would soon be doing much of their business.

  Then he saw Naomi. She was standing with her mother by a table that had been laid out for the villagers. There were fewer meat and sweet dishes here: only tongue hash and herbed giblets, one or two fruit fools, and the rest vegetables. Naomi was bending down to feed her brother spoonfuls of pie, most of which was ending up on his smart white smock. He looked thin but his cheeks were pink and his eyes bright.

  ‘Don’t you agree, Master Nightingale?’

  One of his father’s business colleagues was speaking to him.

  ‘I feel much as you do,’ Barnaby said, nodding sagely. This seemed to satisfy the man, who waggled a chicken wing at him and mumbled, ‘Sensible lad.’

  The chicken must have gone down the wrong way because now he started coughing. The coughs soon became gasps for air and the merchant’s face turned purple.

  ‘Are you all right, Wat?’ his father said, banging the man’s hulking back and trying to understand his choked grunts. The merchant’s eyes were bulging now and there was fear in them.

  ‘Barnaby!’ his father shouted. ‘Go and fetch some farmhands, we must knock out the blockage!’

  But before Barnaby had gone more than two paces the merchant gave a sudden violent cough and a glob of masticated meat sailed across the apse to spatter the newly limewashed walls.

  The man’s colleagues gathered around him as his face lightened from puce to pink to its original sallow yellow. He was handed a drink, and another chicken wing, which made him laugh so much he began coughing again. Barnaby took this as his cue to escape, pocketing a few choice morsels from the table as he did
so.

  As he descended the steps he caught sight of Griff, waving frantically from the other side of the nave and gesticulating towards the backs of Flora and another girl, who were giggling and whispering nearby. He held up a finger – one minute – then made his way over to the villagers’ table. Kneeling down beside the boy – Benjamin, was it? – he drew a sugared plum from his pocket. Benjamin’s eyes widened. The sugar sparkled in the candlelight, as if it was a ruby.

  ‘Now, then,’ Barnaby said, ‘I believe that only hale and hearty boys are allowed sugared plums, not puling sickly ones. Isn’t that right, Naomi?’

  She smiled down at him, her eyes shining.

  ‘Oh, yes, Barnaby, sick children can only have gruel and watered milk.’

  ‘I am quite well!’ Benjamin cried. ‘Ask Mother!’

  ‘Is he?’ Barnaby said to Naomi.

  She pretended to think for a minute, while Benjamin’s eyes grew larger and anxious, then finally she nodded. The plum was handed over and the boy sank his teeth into it with utter savagery.

  ‘I’m glad he’s better,’ Barnaby said, standing. ‘We were all worried.’

  ‘Thank you for all the things you sent,’ she said. ‘Benjamin looked forward so much to Juliet’s visits. I’m sure he made himself remain sick for longer so as to keep them coming!’

  ‘Will you be back to work soon?’ he said. Naomi’s smile faded. ‘Of course. You may tell your parents I will return tomorrow if they wish.’

  ‘No, no,’ he said hastily. ‘They did not tell me to ask you, I just . . .’

  But she was no longer listening. Someone was summoning her to take round trays of sausages and she began picking her way through the crowd to the food table without a backward glance.

  There was a tugging at his sleeve. ‘Got any more?’ Benjamin said.

  Barnaby handed over the last of the treats from his pocket and went over to join Griff, who had managed to commandeer an entire cauldron of fruit punch.