The Blood List

by Sarah Naughton

Some time later – he didn’t know how long – Abel was there.

  Griff pointed him out, standing beside Frances as she spoke to one of the yeomen’s wives. At the sight of him Barnaby’s hand jerked and he spilled wine all over his gold doublet.

  Abel was dressed in the garb of a priest, but without those patches of colour provided by the chasuble or cassock. He was so black it was as if a part of the church had been cut out, through to the night beyond.

  His hair was now very short, emphasising his knobbly skull and the hard lines of his face, so drawn it was almost skeletal. He was glaring around the church.

  Instinctively Barnaby ducked behind Griff.

  ‘You’ll have to take him seriously now, Barnes,’ Griff muttered.

  ‘Yes,’ Barnaby murmured, peering over Griff’s shoulder. ‘I think that’s the effect he was trying to achieve.’

  The yeoman’s wife moved away and as soon as she had gone Abel gripped his mother’s arm and dragged her to him. He too had grown taller in the past six months and now loomed over her.

  They could not hear him over the fiddle music but his face was twisted in anger. Barnaby pushed Griff aside, intending to go to his mother’s aid, but Griff held him. ‘He’s bitterly jealous. Don’t make it worse. Come on, Flora and Mary are waiting for us.’

  He allowed himself to be led to where the girls were giggling in the shadows. Griff at once pulled Mary into an embrace but Barnaby wanted to go home. He’d had too much to eat and too much to drink, he’d offended Naomi, and now his brother was here. But there was no chance of escape. Some ceremony had been planned for him so he’d just have to wait. And it could be a long one because his father was currently busy honeying up to some rich landowner from Devon.

  ‘Does the birthday boy want a kiss?’ Flora whispered in his ear, making him jump.

  He presented a cheek but she turned his face and kissed him full on the mouth. Her lips were hard and insistent, like the beak of a chicken, and her breath had been soured with too many sweet things. As subtly as possible he eased himself away. Flora’s eyes snapped open.

  ‘What’s the matter?’

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I feel a bit sick.’

  She frowned and opened her mouth to speak, but just then the altar bell rang. Gradually the church fell silent. His father was standing at the lectern, although Barnaby wondered how he’d made it up the stairs because it was obvious that Henry was extremely drunk.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he began sloppily. ‘Friends, tenants and colleagues, I welcome you to the sixteenth birthday celebration of my son and heir, Barnaby Nightingale!’

  There was applause and cheering.

  ‘As many of you know, Barnaby’s babyhood had its share of drama and we only just managed to hang on to him!’

  Laughter filled the room.

  ‘But,’ his father’s face softened and Barnaby squeezed his eyes shut in preparation for what was bound to be mortifying, ‘we thank God and the saints every day that he was brought safely back to us. He has since become the son every man dreams of.’

  Murmurs of assent, aaaahs came from the women.

  Barnaby peeled open one eye to look at his mother but she was not looking at her husband: her attention was fixed elsewhere and she seemed anxious. Barnaby followed her line of vision to where Abel stood. The spit had been set up by the font in order that people might wash the grease from their hands, and Abel was standing beside it. As Barnaby watched he leaned over the blackened carcass of the pig and dipped his fingers into the holy water. After withdrawing them he crossed himself then stared down at his fingers, rubbing the tips together with a look of disgust, before wiping them dry on his black gown.

  ‘As is Nightingale family tradition,’ his father droned on, ‘to mark his coming of age the eldest son receives his own signet ring with the family crest, and the sword with which Great-Great-Great – I forget how many, for which I’ll blame the baron’s fine wine! – Grandfather Percival Nightingale fought beside the Black Prince.’

  There was more applause.

  ‘Come, Barnaby, and receive what is due to you.’

  His father spread his arms and the applause grew louder as Barnaby made his way to the front of the church. For years he had looked forward to this moment but now it just felt excruciating. It certainly didn’t have the solemnity he’d imagined it would. His father was drunk, Barnaby was minus his doublet thanks to the wine stain, and as he passed through the red-faced villagers he could hear someone being sick.

  ‘Come on, Barnes!’ his father cried. ‘There’s drinking to be done!’

  He mounted the stairs of the lectern and his father pulled him into an embrace that stank of beer and sweat. Releasing him, Henry fumbled in his pocket, drawing out a button and a cork before eventually chancing across the ring, then he held Barnaby’s hand high enough for the congregation to see, and slid it onto his little finger. At first it wouldn’t go, and in those moments during which his father pushed Barnaby marked how much taller and broader than his father he had become. Taller and broader than all the Nightingales present, in fact.

  The ring finally shunted into place. Next his father bent down and picked up the sword. It was a disappointment: the narrow blade notched and rusted, the hilt bare and worn. Nevertheless he stood straight-backed as his father took the hand with the too-tight signet ring and closed the fingers around the hilt before jerking Barnaby’s arm above his head, in the process nearly taking his own eye out with the rusted tip.

  ‘My son!’ he roared and there was prolonged, drunken appreciation.

  Barnaby forced himself to smile and nod graciously around the room.

  Only one face did not reciprocate. Abel glared at him.

  And then Abel took a step back, straight into the spit. Immediately the whole edifice collapsed, and the remains of the animal clattered to the floor. The applause was cut short.

  Abel took a step forwards.

  ‘Peace!’ Henry cried over the din. ‘There is plenty more food to go round.’

  Abel held Barnaby’s gaze for a split second then his bird’s chest swelled and his thin lips parted and he roared, ‘Blasphemy!’

  For a moment there was absolute silence, then Henry broke it.

  ‘Abel, please!’ he called from the lectern, his voice reedy in comparison to his son’s.

  ‘This! . . .’ Abel swept an arm around the church, taking in the plates strewing the floor, the overturned flagons and bottles, the mouths hanging open, spilling food onto the floor. ‘All of this is the work of the devil!’

  Still nobody spoke. Barnaby’s heart pounded to the rhythm of his brother’s footsteps as Abel stalked up the aisle.

  ‘With the brilliance of his countenance Lucifer has blinded you to this wickedness. The desecration of the House of God! The fouling of His altar, the besmirching of His holy water, the gluttony, the lust, the—’

  ‘Shut up!’ Barnaby shouted. He stumbled down the lectern steps.

  Abel raised his arm and pointed at his brother. ‘And this is he! Son of the Morning!’

  Somebody tried to stop Barnaby, plucking at his sleeve as he passed, but he carried on down the aisle, breaking into a run as Abel’s voice rose still higher:

  ‘For thou hast said in thine heart, I will ascend into heaven. I will exalt my throne above the stars of God: I will sit also upon the mount of the congregation, in the sides of the north. I will ascend above the clouds: I will be like the most High!’

  Barnaby’s head swirled with fury. He was barely three steps from his brother. He clenched his fist into rock, then drew back his arm, so far that his whole body twisted. This time he would kill Abel.

  But then something happened.

  His brother’s ghastly voice became suddenly muffled as a black curtain fell across his face.

  Abel pivoted round, struggling to uncover his face. Someone had tossed his own cassock over his head and now everyone in the church could see his braies. He was so painfully thin that they hung off hi
s hips, revealing the crack of his backside, and they were stained yellow at the seam. His spider-thin legs descended into a pair of holed grey hose held up with suspenders and boots that were far too big for him.

  The church exploded into laughter.

  Barnaby froze. Behind him he could hear his father splutter with mirth as he tried to speak.

  Then someone sprang forward and wrapped a scarf around Abel’s neck, tying it quickly at the back to secure the cassock over his head, leaving him to fumble with the knot as the place echoed with screams of delight. Children shrieked as he blundered towards them.

  After rebounding off pews and pillars and laughing villagers who thrust him away as if it was a game of blind man’s buff, he eventually swerved towards Barnaby.

  Somewhere he could hear his mother wailing, as the rest of the room bayed like a pack of hounds.

  Abel was close enough that Barnaby could hear his shrill curses, interspersed with sobs.

  He raised his arms and Abel blundered into them.

  For a moment they stood locked together. Abel’s bony chest shuddered against Barnaby’s. Barnaby let his arms close gently on his brother’s shoulders. He was surprised to find his anger had evaporated. The whole evening had been a disaster and this was a fitting way for it to end. Abel had lost any chance of one day holding a position of respect in the village: from this day forth he would be a laughing stock.

  Abel must have sensed who held him for he began to struggle.

  ‘Stand still,’ Barnaby muttered into his ear, ‘and I will untie you, brother.’

  Abel froze. Then he muttered, ‘You are no brother of mine, you are the devil’s brother.’

  And then Abel tore himself free with such force he tumbled head-over-heels across the back of a pew and landed on his backside amidst the burning pools of pig fat. He struggled to get up but his hands could get no purchase, and he screamed as the hot grease burned him. He began fumbling with the cassock and eventually managed to tear it off his head, then he stared wildly around him, his face scarlet, the tufts of his shorn hair sticking out at ridiculous angles. Barnaby walked across to him and stretched out a hand to help him up.

  Abel spat at him.

  ‘One day you will get what’s coming to you,’ Abel hissed.

  Enough, Barnaby thought. The compassion he had felt a moment before evaporated.

  ‘True enough I am not your brother,’ he said quietly. ‘I am the Prince of Fairyland and these,’ he swept an arm around the room, ‘are my loving subjects. Where are yours, Abel? Where is one who loves and admires you? Even our mother is ashamed of you. Take comfort in your grubby pamphlets and your Bible stories for they will be your only companions for the rest of your sorry life. You are just where you belong: slithering at my feet.’

  The laughter was dying now. The fiddler had struck up once more. Someone called for another drink. Barnaby turned and walked away and the crowd opened to receive him.

  9

  Ice

  A few days after the party winter fell like a hammer.

  The remaining leaves dropped from the trees so quickly that in less than a week the branches were bare and black and birds fell dead from their roosts overnight. Many farmers hadn’t even begun bringing their cattle in and, on their morning rounds, discovered some of the younger animals had died from the shock of it. The old ones stood huddled together in the fields, barely discernible in clouds of their smoky breath.

  A traveller on the road to Grimston was discovered, stiff as dry leather, crouching by the blackened embers of a fire.

  Barnaby woke to the crunch of Juliet’s feet on the grass as she brought in the washing.

  He was surprised to find himself fully clothed, then dimly remembered blundering about the room several times in the night as he grew colder and colder.

  He had no intention of stripping off again to wash in the steaming bowl of water she had left. The steam was no indication that the water was hot: the air in the room was so cold that ice had formed on the inside of the window. He got up and went over to it, watching her through the intricate lacy patterns of ice on the pane. She moved stiffly, folding the laundry as if it were made of wood.

  Behind her the forest was a huge black fist threatening the sky. He shivered a little at a thin breeze creeping between the glass and the frame.

  The crow was back, pecking for worms, and occasionally she would turn her head to speak to it. The creature must have sensed his presence for its head suddenly jerked up and it regarded him with an eye that was, even from this distance, disconcertingly human. Its dour black garb and judgemental gaze reminded him of Abel and he had a sudden desire to break its wings.

  He turned away, rubbing his face. The mirror above the wash bowl was misted but when he wiped it clear he wished he hadn’t. His face had a greyish tinge and there were shadows beneath his eyes he had never noticed before. Even his teeth looked yellow in the watery sunlight.

  Though he had slept late again the sleep was fitful and plagued with anxious dreams. Abel was gone; never to return in all probability. Leaving the party directly after his humiliation he had passed the night at the Boar and taken himself straight back to Cambridge the following day, without even collecting his things from the house. Other than unpleasant reruns of the incident in his dreams, Barnaby didn’t care: he was more furious at the way Naomi had behaved afterwards.

  After all that Abel had put her through she had actually helped him up from the pig fat, and tried to get the worst of the filth off him, while he snarled and slapped at her hands, finally pushing her over and ruining her dress. All the while she’d been throwing Barnaby black glances, as if it was he who had behaved badly! Though she had returned to work, they were barely speaking.

  In a foul mood he opened the door and walked out onto the landing. All was silent downstairs. Even though Abel had gone, his oppressive presence lingered in the house, congealing the air. His mother seemed constantly on the verge of tears and his father shuffled about as if he had aged ten years.

  Barnaby went downstairs loudly enough for Juliet to hear him, and sure enough he had barely sat down before she emerged from the kitchen with a bowl of porridge scattered with dried berries. He grunted that he should like a drink too and she disappeared again.

  He was halfway through his breakfast when there was a knock at the back door. Juliet came in from the kitchen.

  ‘One of your tenants is here,’ she said. ‘Your father has gone out already. Is your mother down yet?’

  ‘No. Who is it?’

  ‘Goodwife Armitage.’

  Barnaby stopped picking the berry skins from his teeth. ‘The furrier’s widow?’

  Juliet nodded, then added quickly, ‘The poor old woman doesn’t look well. She says she has been sick and—’

  He didn’t let her finish. Pushing back his chair, he stood up and stalked in the direction of the kitchen. The memory of her attack still stung every time he thought about it. Clearly she was here about the rent: her son had never returned with what was owed. This was his chance to pay her back for the humiliation she had caused him.

  The door was slightly ajar and he saw her at the table, her bony shoulders hunched over a bowl that Naomi was ladling steaming porridge into. This was too much. He glared at her but she didn’t even glance at him.

  The widow was about the same age as his mother, although far, far thinner. So thin that the sunlight shone red through the papery skin of the hand that held the spoon. Her hair was prematurely grey but the sun caught the odd gold strand, so perhaps she had once been blonde. Her dress was decorated with scraps of ribbon and lace, a silver charm and some shell buttons. With her broad, straight jaw and fine nose she might once have been handsome, but now she just looked haggard and ill.

  ‘Goodwife Armitage,’ he said, stepping over the threshold.

  The spoon stopped halfway to her mouth and she raised her head and stared at him with misty blue eyes. The intensity of her gaze was such that he couldn’t think what t
o say. Eventually she lowered the spoon back into the bowl.

  ‘Master Nightingale,’ she said softly. ‘I had hoped to speak with your father.’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s not here, and besides I handle much of the family business these days, so you may speak to me.’

  He put his hands on his hips, then felt self-conscious and lowered them to his sides, then he put them in his pockets. The way she was looking at him made him feel most uncomfortable.

  ‘I’ve come to discuss the rent,’ she said.

  He snorted, then felt silly and changed the snort into a cough.

  ‘I’m afraid we are very behind. I believe Luke told you that I have been poorly and unable to go gathering in the forest. He hopes to—’

  ‘We can’t wait forever,’ Barnaby snapped. ‘You must deliver what you owe by the end of the week or find somewhere else to live.’

  Crouching in the hearth, Naomi took a sharp intake of breath, but the widow’s eyes remained soft.

  ‘You are young to be so unforgiving,’ the widow said.

  ‘It is not that I am unforgiving,’ he said haughtily. ‘But if I allow you such a dispensation then all the other tenants will want it and then where should we be?’

  ‘Surrounded by happy and grateful tenants, I should expect.’ She was holding back a smile, as if she was teasing him. In front of Naomi.

  He took a deep breath and opened his mouth to repeat his directive that she must pay, but she spoke first.

  ‘You live in a sumptuous home, Master Waters,’ she said. ‘You are surrounded by beautiful things and,’ her eyes shifted to Naomi, ‘kind servants. And yet you seem troubled. Luke and I have little and yet we muddle along in perfect contentment. Are you not happy with your lot?’

  He snorted. ‘On the contrary I am extremely happy. My life is better than anyone’s.’

  ‘And do you appreciate it?’

  ‘Of course I do,’ he snapped. ‘I thank God every day for it.’

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘Really?’

  ‘Well, as often as I have time,’ he spluttered. ‘I am very occupied in learning my father’s business as I shall soon take over it.’