The Blood List (17 page)

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 his 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.

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 to 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.’

She nodded, with that same slow smile. ‘And what do you think God would ask you in return for these blessings?’

He blinked at her, confused.

‘Well, that . . . that I express my thanks in worship, of course!’

He could hear that his voice was becoming shrill.

‘But what of your deeds, Master Nightingale?’ she went on quietly. ‘If you have the world’s goods and see your brother in need, yet shut your heart against him, how will
God’s love abide in you?’

It was here that she made her mistake. To parrot the Bible, as Abel always had, merely angered him.

‘You have heard my decision,’ he said coldly.

‘You will learn,’ she said, holding his gaze with her faded eyes. ‘When you have suffered yourself, you will learn.’

‘And what suffering am I to go through?’ he jeered. ‘Perhaps a mouse will nibble my calfskin gloves or my wine at dinner will be corked.’

As soon as he said it he felt bad and wished Naomi hadn’t been there to hear him.

‘I’m sorry, Goodwife,’ he said more gently. ‘But we are all struggling to get by in these hard times.’

The lie sounded as hollow as it was and clearly she was not fooled. All he wanted to do now was duck out from under that gaze of hers and so he gabbled a farewell and made for the door.
Hopefully she would ignore what he’d said anyway and he could just leave it to his father to deal with.

At the door he turned back. She was struggling up from the chair like a woman twenty years older. His impulse was to go over but Naomi got there first, throwing him a look of reproach as she
helped the old woman shuffle to the door. It was strange: he couldn’t imagine this frail, soft-tempered creature could be the same woman that had attacked him in front of the whole
village.

‘Might I ask you, Goodwife,’ he said, ‘why you felt the need to strike me that day by the square?’

He expected her to lower her gaze, to mumble apologies or denials, but she did not.

‘Your behaviour was wrong,’ she said simply. ‘You needed to be corrected.’

He opened his mouth to reply – w
ho did she think she was to tell him what to do?
– but in the end he said nothing. She was sick, probably dying. What satisfaction could he
possibly gain from berating her?