The Blood List (5 page)

But there was that wheezing sound again, and now Barnaby recognised it: it was laughter.

A moment later he spotted his brother, crouched beneath a gorse bush at the water’s edge, chuckling. His glittering black eyes swivelled up to something above his head. Barnaby followed
his gaze. Pushed deep into the interior of the bush and torn to shreds by the thorns was the Arabian shawl. Juliet claimed afterwards that it had been an accident, that Abel had thrown it
carelessly, but Barnaby knew the truth, and not just by the smirk that never left Abel’s face all the way home. Abel had scratches all over his arms.

That night Frances and Henry had gone to one of the baron’s dinners at the castle and Agnes was to babysit them. When she heard what had happened she sent Abel to bed with no supper and no
candle. As the night darkened and Abel’s whimpers of fear turned to sobs of terror she simply sat in the rocking chair by the fire, knitting quietly. Barnaby sat at her feet eating the
marchpane animals she had made for him, torn between satisfaction at seeing Abel punished properly for once, and a sick relief that it wasn’t him up there alone in the dark. From then on Abel
would have to be taken out of the room when Agnes called, and his mother blamed the old woman for the fact that Abel started wetting the bed again and didn’t stop until his twelfth
birthday.

No, Agnes would not be sorry not to have his mother and Abel at her wake. In fact she might very well spin in her freshly dug grave if they did turn up.

The hour of the feast arrived. As soon he and his father stepped out of the door Henry rubbed his hands: ‘We’re off the leash for the night, Barney, my lad, and I
for one feel like drinking a skinful and dancing a jig or two, how about you?’

Barnaby attempted a smile. His father had recovered from Agnes’s death quickly, saying that the loss of an old person was a natural thing and not to be grieved, but Barnaby still felt as
if he might burst into tears at any moment. The worst thing was that all his friends would be at the feast, including Griff’s mouthy cousin, Richard, who always seemed to feel the need to
outdo Barnaby when they were in the same company. If Barnaby drank a yard of ale, Richard would drink two, if Barnaby juggled three apples to impress the girls, Richard would juggle four.

The sound of fiddle music drifted through the evening air, accompanied now and again by the tinkle of bells. They quickened their pace, Henry keeping to the sides of the street to protect his
tan suede boots from the dust churned up by carts. Barnaby regarded the boots enviously. He didn’t see the point of wasting such finery on a man his father’s age. Still, a bit of
wheedling over some mugs of beer and Henry was sure to hand them over.

The fiddle music grew louder and a buttery glow lit the other end of the street.

Barnaby paused to adjust his clothes, delving into his boots and smoothing out his stockings – silk this evening, so wrinklier than usual – tucking his shirt into his breeches, then
pulling the sleeves down so that they puffed out of his jacket cuffs. It amused him to see his father attempting similar manoeuvres, to very poor effect: his jacket wouldn’t do up past the
third button, his breeches strained at the backside and his fussy collar only accentuated his double chins. Still, he was better looking than most men his age and there were enough women who still
flirted with him.

They strode up to the barn and passed through the wide-open doors.

Inside was ablaze with candlelight to prevent any spirits of the dead entering. A fiddler stood on a hay cart at the back, accompanied by an old shepherd with a pipe. A few children danced
beneath them, one an infant barely walking who kept falling on its well-padded backside and having to be lifted and comforted. Barnaby’s spirits rose when he spotted Griff, wedged into a
corner with some other boys, a large pewter mug in one hand and a slab of cheese in the other. When Griff spotted him he grinned and waved the cheese. With a farewell pat on his father’s
back, Barnaby went over to his friends.

He drank quickly and by the time the red sky had mellowed to the blue of night he was drunk. A gaggle of girls on the other side of the barn kept glancing over, giggling and whispering into
their hands. Among them was Flora Slabber, the butcher’s pretty daughter. Barnaby had always admired her golden hair and cherry red lips and he had just persuaded Griff to go over with him
when Richard appeared: stone-cold sober and with eyes that glittered with mockery at the shambling state of the other boys. Griff snatched his chance to get out of meeting the girls and went off
with Richard to get some food. Barnaby took the opportunity of escaping through a loose panel in the back wall and stood in the darkness, gulping down the cool night air to try and sober up. He
must keep his wits about him for Richard would certainly try and make a fool of him.

On this side of the barn there was nothing but farmland: lakes of silver in the moonlight, and beyond, the dark mass of the forest. He swayed gently as he stared into the blackness, trying as he
often did, to make out any movement between the trees.

Just to the left of the trees a shadow detached itself from the greater mass.

Two figures were coming across the field towards him. A disc of light surrounded the head of the taller one, like a halo. As they came closer he saw that it was hair. It was the Waters girl and
her brother. The moon had tipped each of her dark curls with silver.

So as not to look foolish he stepped forward at their approach and greeted them at once.

‘Miss Waters, I must thank you again for saving my life. My parents are very grateful. Although,’ he added with a grin, ‘my brother is furious.’

She came closer before replying, climbing the slope up to the barn.

‘The lake has strong currents,’ she said. ‘It’s dangerous for weak swimmers.’

‘I’m not a weak swimmer!’ he spluttered. ‘Last summer I swam a mile upstream to Braidwater.’

But she wasn’t listening. She had bent to adjust her brother’s collar and now straightened up and led him around the side of the barn to the main doors. He grimaced at her back. She
might be pretty but what a sour stick she was.

Then the loose panel flipped up and his heart sank as Richard crawled out.

‘Poor lamb!’ Richard cooed when he saw Barnaby. ‘Was it too hot for you, precious? Are you feeling faint?’

‘Oh, shut up,’ Barnaby sighed.

Richard smirked then took a step forwards and bowed low. ‘My apologies, Prince of Fairyland, please don’t turn me into a frog.’

Now Griff emerged from the panel. ‘You’re already slimy and warty, Rich, he wouldn’t have to do much.’

Barnaby shot him a grateful glance.

‘What you doing out here anyway?’ Griff said, coming over and handing Barnaby a cup of mead. Now that he’d sobered up a little the sickly honey smell made him gag.

‘Just getting some fresh air.’

‘Can you see anything, Griff?’ – this was Caleb, the blacksmith’s son, as he too came crawling through the panel. ‘Any lights or flames?’

‘Nah,’ Griff called back to him, ‘Looks pretty dark to me.’

‘What’s going on?’ Barnaby said.

‘Caleb’s brother got talking to a poacher in the Boar last week,’ Griff said ‘Reckoned he was out hunting in the forest and saw a coven of witches dancing with the
devil.’

Caleb came beside them. One of his eyes was dragged down at the corner where a piece of hot metal had struck him and almost blinded him. It remained half closed while the other widened.
‘It’s true,’ he said. ‘The poacher notices this light and thinks it might be the baron’s men so he creeps up and sees a ring of fire around the midden heap. All these
figures are dancing around it and at the very top of the heap, spinning and whirling like a wildcat, is the devil himself. The poacher hides behind a tree to watch them.’

‘Did he recognise any of the figures?’ Richard said, coming to join them.

‘Only the Widow Moone,’ Caleb said. ‘The rest were cloaked and hooded.’

‘How convenient,’ Barnaby said: he was used to Caleb’s tall stories.

‘Tell him what happened next,’ Griff said.

Caleb glanced around him then leaned into Barnaby. His breath smelled of mead and onions. ‘One of the women takes something from under her cloak. At first the poacher thinks it’s a
white cat, but then it starts to cry.’

‘It was a baby,’ Griff whispered.

‘You don’t say,’ Barnaby said.

‘The witch throws the baby up to the devil on the midden heap and the devil catches it and holds it above his head, chanting in this awful, hollow voice, and then suddenly these
creatures
fly down from the trees. But they weren’t birds.’

‘Or bats,’ Griff whispered.

Barnaby rolled his eyes.

‘Demons,’ Caleb whispered dramatically. ‘They fly down and land on the devil’s shoulders and start tearing at the baby, like hawks tearing a rabbit. A moment later the
crying stops.’

He paused and glanced around at his rapt audience.

‘Then . . .’ he went on, his good eye even wider, ‘the devil gets out this pen made of a raven feather, and stabs it into the baby. He brings it out all dripping with blood
then he gets out a parchment and calls out in this hollow voice, “Which of you offers up your soul to the Son of the Morning?” And one of the women calls out “I” and she
gives him her name and he writes it on the parchment. Then the next woman gives him her name and so on until all the witches’ names are on the parchment. Then he says, “These names will
be inscribed upon the very stones of hell where you will be enthroned as queens for the rest of eternity!” But suddenly the poacher feels something brush against him and he’s so scared
it’s one of the demons he cries out. All at once the fires go out and there’s total silence.’

The silence was mirrored by the group of boys gathered around Caleb, their round faces pale in the moonlight, their breath misting the cool air.

‘Well, the poacher starts running and doesn’t stop until he’s out of the trees and when he gets out of the forest he finds that the whole of the night has passed and it’s
already morning.’

There was a collective exhalation and the boys straightened up.

Griff nudged Barnaby in the ribs. ‘What do you think of that, eh?’

Barnaby gazed out towards the forest. It was just possible to make out a mist of bats swirling above the treetops, tiny as gnats from this distance. The story was probably no more than the
drunken ramblings of a lowlife criminal but it had still brought goosebumps up on his arms.

‘What happened to the parchment?’ he said. ‘That list written in blood.’

‘What?’ Caleb said.

‘If they all vanished when the fire went out maybe the devil dropped it,’ he said, a grin spreading across his face. ‘We should go and look for it tomorrow.’

‘Yeah,’ Griff said uncertainly.

‘Come on,’ Barnaby said, slapping his cowardly friend’s shoulder. ‘Let’s go and get more beer.’

But as they walked back towards the barn Richard stepped into his path.

‘Why not go now?’ he said.

‘What?’

‘Into the forest to look for the list. There’s nothing for you to be scared of, surely: not with your fairy friends to protect you.’

Barnaby sighed. ‘Come on, Griff.’

Richard’s clucking noises followed him across to the loose panel.

But then the plank swung up and Flora Slabber and her friends climbed through. When she saw Barnaby she blushed and started fingering the ribbons in her gold hair.

‘What are you all doing out here?’ she said coyly.

‘Barnaby was going to go into the forest to look for the devil’s list,’ Richard called, ‘but he’s too scared.’

‘You weren’t going to really, were you?’ Flora gasped.

Barnaby chuckled. ‘It’s just a stupid poacher’s tale to try and impress his drunken friends.’

‘Please don’t.’ She touched his arm, her liquid eyes filled with concern. Barnaby’s heart quickened slightly: she definitely liked him. He couldn’t help being
flattered, despite the fact that close up her face was unattractively caked in white make-up. It would certainly be fun to make her fall for him, if only to drive the other boys wild with envy.

‘Don’t worry,’ he grinned at her, ‘I’ll be fine.’

He stepped back from the plank and turned to Richard.

‘Are you going to keep me company, then?’

‘Ha!’ Richard crowed. ‘Don’t think that I’m holding your hand!’ but the forced laugh gave away his fear.

‘Barnaby, please!’ Flora whimpered, but without a backward glance he strode out across the field. A moment later he heard footsteps behind him. Richard fell into step beside him,
carrying a lantern. The smirk had gone.

‘I was only joking,’ he muttered. ‘Why don’t you just hide behind the first line of trees for a bit?’

Because you’ll tell everyone that’s what I did
, Barnaby almost said, annoyed that this option was now out of the question. Away from his audience Richard had lost all his
confidence. Every now and then Barnaby glanced at him from the corner of his eye and he saw Richard chewing his lips.

They had been walking quickly and were almost a quarter of the way there when two ghostly figures swam up out of the gloom. Richard cried out and clutched Barnaby’s arm. But then the moon
slipped out from behind a cloud.

It was only the furrier’s widow and her deaf son.

Richard bade them a good evening but Barnaby said nothing. The woman gave him the creeps. Whenever they were in the same place – in church or at the market where she sold berries and
mushrooms from the forest – he always seemed to catch her looking at him. Her brightly coloured petticoats and the way she wove flowers into her grey hair were pathetic and faintly
distasteful.

Her steps paused as they passed and Barnaby felt her eyes on him. He didn’t return her gaze, nor that of the boy, whose dark looks reminded him unfavourably of Abel.

They came to the edge of the forest’s shadow and Richard’s footsteps faltered.

‘It’s all right,’ Barnaby said. ‘You don’t have to come any further.’

Richard shifted from foot to foot and blinked rapidly at the trees.