The Bleeding Land (52 page)

‘He is alive, Edmund,’ his mother said calmly. ‘I can feel him. As can you.’

Bess looked at Mun, her brows arched above anguish-filled eyes. Mun gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head.

‘You are tired, Mother,’ Bess said. ‘We are all so tired.’

Lady Mary ignored her, turning back to Mun, her proud features besieged by unspeakable sorrow. ‘Find him, Edmund,’ she said. ‘He will perish out there in this weather.’

‘There is no one out there, Mother,’ Mun said, walking over
and
putting his hands on her shoulders. But she stepped back, shrugging him off.

‘Find him,’ she said again, eyes boring into his.

‘Tom has turned his back on us,’ Mun said, anger flaring in his chest like powder in the pan as he turned to Bess. ‘On all of us! He rode against us at Kineton Fight. He is not who he once was. He is our enemy.’

‘He is my son!’ Lady Mary snapped, eyes suddenly ablaze, and Mun remembered his father saying those same words the night before he died. Then the fire in her eyes receded and she took Mun’s hands in hers, thumbs white, squeezing. ‘My children are all I have. And one of them is out there in the snow. My boy is out there. Go to him, Mun.’

Mun did not know what to say. Part of him wanted to tell her that Tom had changed, that he was no longer the boy she had known. But his mother’s grief had clouded her mind and to disperse the fog he would have to hurt her more, which he could not bear to do.

‘My lady, I will take a turn of the grounds,’ O’Brien said. ‘Don’t feel the cold, a big Irish lump like me. If we can’t drink it or punch it God knows we ignore it.’

‘No, Clancy,’ Mun said, stepping back from his mother but still holding her eye, ‘I’ll go.’

‘Then I’ll come with you,’ his friend said.

Mun shook his head. ‘There is no point in us both freezing. If he is out there, I will know where to look,’ he said, sharing a knowing glance with Bess. ‘Make sure Isaac keeps the fire blazing. And don’t let that Irish troll drink all the Madeira,’ he said, pointing a finger at O’Brien.

‘Be careful,’ Bess said. Mun nodded, then left them to the warm parlour and, rather than wait for Isaac to tell one of the grooms to ready Hector, he threw on his fur-lined cloak and went out into the night.

After the relative warmth of the house the frigid air struck him like a blow, its savage fingers clawing at the vulnerable
parts
of his body – his eyes and ears, hands and feet – as he walked across to the stables. It was early in the season for snow but there it was, beginning to settle on the lawns, hiding the scars of battle like a shroud over a torn corpse. Making it clean again. Sentries stood hunched at their posts, cupped hands to mouths, feet stamping. Some shielded match-cords inside spare hats to keep them dry, the ends glowing sullenly in the white-flecked gloom. Those that recognized Mun touched their hat brims or called greetings, no doubt wondering what could bring the master of the house out into the grim night, though none asked, and when he came to the stables three young men jumped up from the brazier beside which they had been huddled.

‘Sir Edmund,’ one of them spluttered, eyes wide, ‘no one told me you would be needing a mount.’

‘Be at your ease, Vincent,’ Mun said, raising a palm, then gesturing at the inviting fire. ‘I’m taking Hector for a turn round the grounds. I’d wager the sentries are busier trying to keep warm than looking out for rebels. But we can’t take chances on those hedgeborn curs sneaking up on us in this snow, can we?’ Vincent frowned, clearly doubtful that any such thing was likely, and though Mun did not need to explain himself, he smiled, adding, ‘The truth is, Vincent, it has been a few days now and I didn’t want old Hector to think I had forgotten about him. We have been through much together.’

Now Vincent grinned, for the boy loved horses more than he loved his own mother. ‘He misses Achilles, too,’ he said, then blanched suddenly because mentioning Achilles was a mane’s hair away from mentioning Tom.

Mun forced a smile. ‘At your ease, lad. I’ll saddle him myself,’ he said. In the Prince’s Regiment of Horse he had grown used to doing such things himself and had not slipped back into the routine of letting servants attend his every need. ‘And don’t worry, I’ll have him back in his stall soon enough.’

Hector nickered softly, as though he really had missed his
master
, and Mun put his face against the stallion’s muzzle, their breath coalescing in short-lived clouds. ‘Hello, boy. I’ve missed you, Hector,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Do you want to come with me? Up to the woods like we used to?’ Hector nickered again and Mun rubbed his muzzle and patted his heavily muscled neck. ‘Good boy,’ he said, then fetched his saddle from the rack.

He wore a wool skullcap beneath his broad hat whose brim was catching the snow. Beneath his thick cloak he had strapped on his back- and breastplate and he had brought his two pistols and his Irish hilt, for in days like these only a fool would go anywhere unarmed. Though he had left his carbine behind. In truth he was certain that the woods behind the house would be empty and silent. Even the creatures that lived there, the deer and the foxes, the badgers, polecats and weasels, would be lying low, sheltering where they could. But although the night air was biting on his face, the rest of him felt relatively comfortable, for he could feel Hector’s body warmth seeping into his legs, even through the saddle, and he was glad to be in the stallion’s company once more. Together they had been to Hell. And come out again.

‘Sir Edmund! Is there something I can do for you?’ A shrouded figure loomed out of the snow, tramping up on his right, and Mun recognized Major Radcliffe.

‘Good evening, Major,’ Mun said, touching his hat’s brim. ‘Thank you but no. I needed some air.’

The old veteran nodded, rubbing Hector’s glossy black shoulder, his breath pluming. ‘It can be hard,’ he said, ‘coming home to loved ones after seeing the things you’ve seen. Doing the things you’ve done.’ His one eye was wide beneath his snow-covered hat. ‘Battle leaves its stain on a man and no amount of scrubbing will get it out.’

‘I haven’t thanked you properly, Major,’ Mun said, deflecting the man’s concern. ‘Without you the house would have fallen.’

Radcliffe batted the praise away with a big hand. ‘The rebels
were
a bloody shambles. Their young officer had the makings of something but he’d have been better off with Essex and the rest of them instead of with the misguided shower that thought to take your father’s house.’ He grinned. ‘Truth be told, Sir Edmund, your mother didn’t need me. M’lady could have scattered that rabble like bloody chaff in the wind. She’s a formidable woman. Brave as any man I’ve ever served with. Your sister, too. And talking of such things, I hear that you saved the King’s own colours no less. If I may say so, good to know one apple did not fall far from the tree. Your father would have been proud.’

The mention of his father was like a knife in Mun’s heart but he dipped his head in thanks for the words. ‘We are lucky to have you at Shear House, Major,’ he said. ‘I will make sure you are provisioned, that your garrison has match, powder and ball enough to keep the damned rebels from our door.’ Then he flicked the reins and touched his heels to Hector’s flanks. ‘Good evening, Major,’ he said, moving off into the snow-muted gloom, feeling the veteran’s one-eyed gaze on his back.

By the time they had climbed the old paths between the rocky, gorse-covered ground and ridden into the beech wood behind the house, the cold was beginning to touch his bones. Half memories of simpler times touched him too, but with ghost fingers, and he shrugged them off, giving them no purchase. He would not indulge things that were dead.

‘We’ll turn back soon, boy,’ he said to Hector, making fists of his gloved hands then opening them again, doing similarly with his toes, clenching and unclenching. Even the lower slopes of Parbold Hill were no place to be on such a night. ‘Just a little further, that’s all. Then we’ll go back before we freeze.’ The wood was eerily quiet, made more so by the snow that was settling on the ground and along branches and piling up in the crooks between bough and trunk. Mun could not recall such silence. These days his world was filled with the boisterous cacophony of army life, of camps and soldiers, of cannon,
musket
and drum. But here there was just silence, as there must have been before God created the animals. Before He created men to tear the world apart with their wars.

They cut east, the house on their right now below the ridge where the treeline thinned. And after what would have been two hundred paces on foot Mun had decided to end the charade and turn round. When he heard it. The crack and spit of a fire somewhere on his left. He could smell it too, now that he knew it was out there, though he could not see it, nor even its glow, and supposed it must be behind some rock that he could not make out for the snow.

Hector tossed his head and whinnied, then nickered, a foreleg pawing the snowy ground.

‘Easy, boy,’ Mun soothed, pulling a pistol from its saddle holster. Then his blood froze.

‘Hello, brother,’ said a voice in the darkness. He pulled Hector round and pointed the pistol at the figure that had materialized like an apparition. The man was dishevelled and thin and sick-looking. His arms were crossed over his chest, hands clawed, and his head was pulled in and to the side, giving him the look of a starving London beggar.

‘Tom?’ Mun holstered the firelock and dismounted, holding Hector’s reins in his left hand.

‘I’m cold, brother,’ Tom mumbled, and even in the gloom Mun could see that his lips were blue. Dropping the reins, he took off his cloak and stepped up, throwing it around Tom followed by an arm that invited him to mount Hector.

‘Can you ride?’ Mun asked.

‘I said I was cold, not dead,’ Tom said, blue lips pulling back from his teeth. And with that Mun helped his brother up into the saddle, then climbed up behind him, putting his arms around Tom to grip the reins.

Then he turned the stallion round and began back the way he had come.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

TO AVOID BEING
seen by the sentries mun had taken them down a steep, dangerous track that brought them out in the orchards north of the house. Then they had crossed the rear lawns, skirting the walled rose garden, where Tom knew a handful of men were stationed for he had watched them playing cards and heard their pipe music on the breeze. He could not see them now, though, through the heavy snow, and only the smell of their tobacco smoke gave them away. And neither were he and Mun challenged as they came to the north-west edge of the house and entered through the dairy. There he waited, wretchedly cold, unable to stop his shivering, as Mun asked a young girl Tom did not know to fetch Jacob. When eventually the boy appeared, he did not seem to recognize Tom, and Mun made no introductions before telling the lad to take Hector back to the stables.

‘You have forgotten me already, Jacob,’ Tom said, sniffing and cuffing his nose, still unable to stretch himself out, as though his tendons had shrunk in the cold.

‘Master Tom!’ Beneath the shock of copper hair Jacob looked amazed and appalled in equal measure. Then Mun nodded for the boy to be on his way, warning him not to breathe a word of who he had seen, and as Jacob opened the dairy door he took
one
last look at Tom before disappearing into the night.

‘Smells of death,’ Tom said when they had passed through the kitchen and the buttery.

‘The last of the bodies was taken to the village yesterday. As for the traitors who killed them,’ Mun added pointedly, ‘we flung them in a ditch, may the Devil take their souls.’ They were in the dark corridor that would come out in the hall across from the parlour and Mun stopped and turned, eyes like shards of flint. ‘Father was killed at Kineton Fight. Emmanuel too. They died trying to protect the King’s standard.’

Tom felt his legs buckle. His right shoulder scuffed against the oak panelling but he kept his feet, glaring at Mun, who did not move to help him.

‘You were there?’ Mun asked, unfastening the shoulder strap of his back- and breastplate.

Tom nodded. ‘I was there.’ Memories of that bloody day slashed like a blade through his mind’s eye. Mun gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, but the disgust in his eyes was loud and clear and Tom thought he was about to say more, when he turned his back on him and strode into the hall, handing his armour to Isaac who stared wide-eyed at Tom. And suddenly, Tom wanted to be anywhere but where he was, would rather stumble back out into the bitter dark than face his mother and Bess, knowing now what they had lost. But it was too late to run even if his legs could have carried him, as Mun opened the parlour door. So Tom followed him in.

When Bess saw him her eyes filled with tears and she hurried over, throwing her arms around him, and the smell of her hair made him feel, for the first time in perhaps a year, safe. Yet it was a scent that wrenched his heart.

Over her shoulder he saw his mother, hands clasped beneath her chin, sad, tired eyes absorbing the scene.

‘You’re shivering,’ Bess said, ‘come by the fire.’ He let himself be led, saw Mun grimace at Bess’s helping him, then noticed another man in the room, sitting on a chair, cradling a mug.
He
was a big man with red hair and a burning bush of a red beard and he stood, draining the mug and dragging a hand across his mouth.