The Blood List (10 page)

‘I feel for him every day, Father,’ Barnaby said. ‘And that’s why I have been giving it some thought.’ He had to work quickly: people were already massing at the
door, waiting for the priest’s attention.

‘I don’t know if you have noticed but Abel is extremely devout.’

‘I had noticed.’

‘He seems to have memorised the new Bible and regularly quotes from it.’

The priest snorted. ‘His time would have been better spent studying the original Latin.’

‘That’s exactly what I thought, Father.’ He slowed his steps even more and the dust motes caught in the shafts of light barely moved as they passed among them.

‘He has the passion for the Lord’s word, but not the education.’

He stopped and faced the priest, who squinted into the sunlight as he tried to make out Barnaby’s face.

‘What if he went away to study theology? In time might he not make a fine man of God?’

Father Nicholas shook his head. ‘I fear not. I worry that his soul is twisted with envy and spite.’

‘Yes, but away from my presence perhaps those meaner aspects would fade.’

The priest frowned and rubbed the patchy stubble on his chin.

‘What do you want from me – a recommendation? I cannot in all conscience . . .’

‘Not that, no. I just ask you to plant the seed in my father’s head that this might be the answer to my brother’s difficulties. Coming from me Abel will reject it out of hand.
But I believe a spell away from home, immersed in his great love, religion, and safe from all the complications of family, would be very beneficial to Abel. After all, as second son it would be a
natural career choice . . .’

Had he gone too far? No, the priest was thinking, his milky eyes hooded by his drooping eyelids. He was very old, surely older than Agnes. If he died there was a risk that Abel might end up back
here as the parish priest, wielding more power even than Barnaby with all that he was to inherit. But it was a risk worth taking. Surely Abel’s inadequacies would be obvious to all his tutors
and if he
was
given a parish it would be some remote hamlet with a handful of decrepit parishioners and a church the size of a chicken shed.

Father Nicholas looked up at him, then reached a hand up and patted Barnaby’s cheek. His fingers were so cold and gnarled it was like being brushed by the twigs of the ancient yew in the
churchyard.

‘You are a good boy and I will see what I can do for you.’

Barnaby managed to dampen his grin into a modest smile of gratitude.

‘Thank you, Father. I’m in your debt.’

They reached the porch. The first person Barnaby saw was Naomi. She had gone to stand with her family by the churchyard wall. Her face was tipped up towards the sun as her brother foraged with a
stick in the crevices of the crumbling wall. The sun had drawn a light sheen of perspiration out on her temples, making the skin glisten. It brought out the whorls of gold and honey and chestnut in
her hair and gave her cheek a natural flush that contrasted with the powdered paleness of the finer girls. If she wasn’t so spiky he might even have desired to speak to her.

‘Right,’ Barnaby said, rolling up his sleeves. ‘A bargain is a bargain, and I will now go and discuss matters with Mistress Howells.’

The old man’s laughter followed him as he made for the little group of his friends standing in the shadows of the yew tree.

But before he’d got there he spotted Flora, standing near the imposing tomb of the Woodcrofts. She was alone. He changed direction.

‘Good morning Miss Slabber,’ he said, leaning against the cold stone of the sarcophagus.

‘Good morning, Master Nightingale.’

‘You’re looking very pretty, I must say.’

The lie slipped easily from his lips and he was certain it would please her since she had clearly worked very hard on her appearance this morning. Too hard perhaps: the excessive powder had
cracked and flaked at the corners of her eyes and mouth, as if she had a nasty skin condition. Perhaps that was why she did not now return his winning smile.

‘And you’re looking rather scruffy,’ she snapped. ‘Doesn’t your maid know how to use a flat iron?’

Ah, yes, of course. Flora probably considered their hiring Naomi as an insult to her family.

‘No indeed. Nor much else I’m afraid.’ He smiled even more winningly.

She gave a sharp little laugh, ‘I cannot imagine why anyone would be so foolish as to employ such a creature.’

He caught his breath at the insult to his mother.

‘Have you lost any silverware yet? If so you will probably find it at Grimston market.’ Her mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘Soon enough she’ll be selling her own wares
there.’

He took a step back. ‘Flora, please. Don’t speak that way.’

‘What way? It’s only the truth. Don’t tell me you
like
her?’ Flora spat the word as if it tasted bitter.

‘No, not at all!’ he cried, then, feeling guilty, added: ‘Though she has done us no harm as yet.’

‘Ha! How quickly she has wound you around those bony fingers of hers! Well, not all of us fall so easily into her web. Thieves and liars get their just desserts in the end.’

And with that she was off, marching across the graveyard, her velvet skirt whipping against the stones. Resting his head against the little stone dog at the feet of his ancestors, he considered
how lucky it was that he hadn’t acted on his initial attraction to Flora. The ugliness of her words had made her prettiness seem all the more counterfeit. He would have to be more careful
with his flirtations now that the girls he grew up with were becoming of marriageable age, otherwise he might find himself in a real bind. Mr Slabber, for one, would not tolerate anyone playing
with his precious daughter’s feelings. He risked a glance at Flora’s retreating back, and saw with relief that she was heading for a gaggle of her girlfriends, not to report him to her
father.

His own father was deep in conversation with the priest so he went up to Juliet, who was talking to her grandmother, and wrapped his arm around her waist. ‘Ah, Jules,’ he murmured.
‘If only I could marry you. It seems to me that the rest of female kind is entirely mad.’

She laughed and dropped her head onto his shoulder. Her hair smelled of ashes and the pungent aroma of the smokehouse.

A moment later his mother was calling them to go home. Juliet hurried away but her grandmother caught Barnaby by the arm, her beady eyes glinting beneath her black cap.

‘Careful, pretty bird, or your song will break her heart.’

He snatched his arm away, unsure if he was being insulted, and went to join the others.

That night it was plain that something was afoot. Both boys were sent to bed early. They parted wordlessly at the top of the stairs and Abel went straight to his room and
closed the door behind him. Barnaby, whose room was nearer the stairs, banged his door as if to shut it, then crept back out onto the landing and crouched in the shadows of the banisters.

His father was standing by the fire while Frances sat stiffly at the table. Her back was turned to Barnaby but the fury radiating from her was palpable.

‘And how long have you two been plotting this?’ she said finally.

Henry ran his fingers through his hair. ‘I
told
you, I haven’t been plotting anything. Father Nicholas approached
me
today after church. I’m only telling you what
he said.’

Frances gave a hollow laugh. ‘Don’t make me laugh, Henry. This would be a dream come true for you. And Barnaby. I suppose he’s in on it too . . .’

Henry’s eyes flashed. ‘It’s nothing to do with Barnaby. Though I imagine he’d be more than happy with the arrangement, considering his mother seems almost unaware of his
existence most of the time. Perhaps with Abel gone you might actually give him the time of day.’

Silence throbbed in the room like a wound.

Upstairs Barnaby’s heart pounded. Perhaps he should not have spoken to Father Nicholas. He and Abel would only have to put up with one another for a couple more years. He himself could ask
to be sent away to university, if only he could get to grips with his numbers.

When his father spoke again his voice was firm. ‘There is nothing so unusual about a second son going into the priesthood, Frances. Abel cannot cling to your skirts for the rest of his
life.’

She began to speak but Henry raised his voice over her. ‘He’s almost fifteen, and yet he has no friends of his own, no interest in girls, no hobbies besides the Bible. How else do
you imagine he will make his way in the world? He has none of Barnaby’s qualit—’

‘Hush!’ She glanced quickly up the stairs and Barnaby drew back into the shadows.

When he crept back his mother was standing, putting on her shawl. Henry watched her until finally she straightened and met his gaze: he blinked quickly and rocked onto his back foot.

Her last words were so quiet Barnaby wasn’t even sure he had heard them correctly:

‘You took my first son from me. You will not take my second.’

The next morning Juliet woke him with a plate of cherry pancakes and a mug of warm milk sweetened with honey.

Except that it wasn’t Juliet.

It wasn’t even Naomi.

Sitting up, yawning, Barnaby caught a glimpse of skirts swooshing through the open door.

His mother’s skirts.

Surprise cut the yawn short, leaving his mouth hanging open, and by the time he recollected himself and turned his attention to the pancakes they were quite cold.

‘Today is the feast day of St Paul,’ Abel announced when he went downstairs. The comment could only have been directed at Naomi, who was busy blacking the fireplace: Abel knew better
than to involve Barnaby in his holiness and their parents were still upstairs.

‘And whilst I agree with our good Protector,’ Abel went on, ‘that all idolatry is wicked, I feel the Holy Spirit moving me to pray.’

Juliet, who had appeared in the kitchen doorway with
a tray of freshly polished silverware, rapidly retreated, but
Naomi, who did not know better, continued with her
work.

‘Come,’ Abel said, holding out his hand to her. ‘Kneel
with me.’

She took his hand and used it to pull herself up. Then
she picked up her polish and her cloths and tucked them
in her apron pockets.

‘I’m sorry, Master Abel, but I’m too busy at present,’ she
said.

Barnaby looked up from his bowl of porridge. At the
movement Abel’s eyes flicked to the left: he knew Barnaby
was watching.

‘And what could be more important,’ he said, ‘than
giving thanks to our good Lord?’

‘Feeding the pigs,’ she replied.

Barnaby choked on the porridge, spluttering oats and
dried fruit across the table.

But his snort of laughter died as Abel grasped Naomi’s
arm and yanked her almost off her feet. He had not
realised his brother was so strong; or perhaps that Naomi
was so frail. She gasped in pain.

‘You would mock the Lord?’ Abel snarled, spittle flying
from his lips.

‘I need to feed the pigs now,’ she said quietly, ‘or they
will not take another meal later and your father wants
them fattened for slaughter. I will pray with you another
time.’

The last word ended on a cry as the grip on her arm
tightened.

‘You are only worthy to pray with the swine,’ he hissed.

But at the warning screech of Barnaby’s chair legs
against the flagstones he let her go and walked quickly out
of the room.

The following morning Abel spoke to Naomi with
barely concealed contempt and deliberately spilled his
stewed berries over the white tablecloth as she passed them
to him, leaving a large purple stain that would be almost
impossible to remove.

Naomi lowered her eyes and apologised for her stupidity
and Abel flashed a sneer of triumph around the table.

After breakfast Frances and Juliet went into the kitchen
to discuss what was needed from the market that day,
whilst Henry went upstairs to dress. Abel remained at the
table, a sneering smile playing about his thin lips.
Suspecting something was afoot, Barnaby lingered over his
porridge. Sure enough, when Naomi came back to clear
the dishes Abel said, ‘When you’ve finished washing the
plates, Naomi, I should like a bath. In my room.’

The bath was cast iron and large enough for a man to sit
in with straight legs. It took twenty cauldrons full of water
to fill it and the same to unfill it: twenty journeys up and
down stairs with a full cauldron. In all Barnaby’s life he
could only think of three occasions when it had been used
because it was so much work for Juliet, who would be
given the rest of the day off: and those times it had been
placed directly in front of the fire.

‘I’m sorry, Abel, but Naomi is busy on my behalf today,’
he said.

The smile slid from Abel’s face.

‘And what, pray, is she doing that cannot wait?’

Barnaby took a large spoonful of porridge, chewing
slowly and thinking quickly.

‘I’ve heard Naomi is an expert basket-weaver,’ he said
when he had swallowed the mouthful. ‘I want her to show
me some samples of her work. Perhaps it is something
Father can sell in London.’

Henry was coming down the stairs.

‘What’s that? Basketwork? Hmm, there may be some
call for it.’

‘Very well, Father,’ Barnaby said, trying very hard not to
grin. ‘I’ll bring back some of the best examples and we can
discuss whether or not they might be a viable proposition.
Come, Naomi. If we go now you have all day to show me
the various techniques.’

She blinked at him. ‘There is willow and cane up at my
father’s house; if you would care to come there. Though the
house is very rude and I fear you would not be comfortable.’

‘I don’t care. Come on.’

As he sprang up from the table and scooped his jacket
from the back of his chair, Abel gave him a look of the
purest loathing.

He whistled as they walked up the path, feeling more
pleased with himself than he could ever remember. As soon
as they were out of sight of the house he turned his steps
towards Griff’s place.