The Blood List (16 page)

The adoration in her eyes was like the sudden headrush of strong liquor. Without pausing for thought he bent forwards and kissed her.

He had grown so much taller over recent months that when he pulled away she was low enough to lean her head against his chest.

He couldn’t think of anything to say and stood swaying there slightly as her chest rose and fell against his belly.

‘Never let me go,’ she said softly. ‘Not even when you marry. I want to be with you always.’ She looked up at him. ‘Promise.’

His voice was as high as a child when he spoke. ‘I promise.’

When she left he sat down heavily on the bed and stared at the distorted reflection of his face in the polished toes of his boot. It sickened him. He had been so intoxicated by her adoration
that he had acted thoughtlessly. He loved Juliet like a sister and to make her believe that he had stronger feelings for her was base and cruel. He
did
possess those feelings, the time had
come to accept the fact, but they were not for Juliet, and they were not for Flora.

Eventually he got up and, rather subdued, made his way downstairs.

His parents were sitting by the fire, speaking in low voices, and both looked up when they heard his feet on the stairs. At once his father’s face flushed with pride. The old man looked
ridiculous, in some absurd conical hat with an ostrich feather that waggled in the up-draughts from the fire. His belly was too large for his gaudy doublet and he had undone the last buttons, which
only drew attention to the problem. Barnaby was so busy taking in this mortifying ensemble that it was several minutes before he felt his mother’s eyes on him. He was surprised to see her
expression of warmth and, yes, almost affection.

She rose and came over to him and he saw she was wearing the brooch his father had helped him choose for her five Christmases ago, before he had given up trying to please her. It glittered in
the firelight, like a tiny flame of love in her breast.

He bent to receive her light kiss on his cheek.

‘Any woman would be proud to call you her son,’ she said as she drew away, smiling.

Then his father was at his side and leading him to the door.

‘Aren’t you coming, Mother?’ he said, turning back.

She was still smiling, but more wistfully now. ‘I’ll wait for Abel a while.’

‘Oh. Goodbye, then.’

As Henry opened the door a gust of snow struck their faces.

It was an unpleasant journey. The sleet found its way inside their shirts and shoes and several times they almost slipped on their backsides. But the sight of the church dispelled any
despondency.

Its windows glittered and lanterns hung from every nook and crevice in the walls. Garlands of scarlet and pink amaryllis hung around the necks of the gargoyles protruding from the porch and more
lanterns clustered in the yew tree. A couple of farm children decked out in their Sunday best chased one another between the rapidly whitening gravestones. Barnaby hurried forwards, drawn on by the
spicy perfume coming from a copper pan steaming on a brazier just inside the doors.

A girl poured a cup of mulled wine for each of them and they passed through the porch. Henry turned and grinned at Barnaby, slapping him gently on the back. ‘Happy birthday,
son.’

Barnaby grinned back and pushed open the door.

It was so bright inside he had to squint. Lanterns hung from every beam and candles crowded every surface not already occupied by cups and flagons and bottles. There was noise, and warmth, and
the mouth-watering smell of roasting pork. When the fiddler saw him he struck up a fast jig and soon they were surrounded by dancing.

Grinning and greeting his tenants, his father led him through the crush and up the central aisle. They mounted the altar steps to cries of congratulation and the raising of wine glasses.

The altar cloth had been replaced by a linen tablecoth, upon which stood pewter plates and wooden bowls. There was sugar cake and gingerbread, lemon posset and trifle, breads and wafers with
slipcoat cheese and quince jelly, a whole baked salmon, a pottage of veal.

To line his stomach Barnaby began with bread and cheese, nibbling when he could whilst his father led him around a crowd of portly red-faced men he didn’t recognise. He shook their hands
and made pleasantries while his father introduced him as the Nightingale with whom they would soon be doing much of their business.

Then he saw Naomi. She was standing with her mother by a table that had been laid out for the villagers. There were fewer meat and sweet dishes here: only tongue hash and herbed giblets, one or
two fruit fools, and the rest vegetables. Naomi was bending down to feed her brother spoonfuls of pie, most of which was ending up on his smart white smock. He looked thin but his cheeks were pink
and his eyes bright.

‘Don’t you agree, Master Nightingale?’

One of his father’s business colleagues was speaking to him.

‘I feel much as you do,’ Barnaby said, nodding sagely. This seemed to satisfy the man, who waggled a chicken wing at him and mumbled, ‘Sensible lad.’

The chicken must have gone down the wrong way because now he started coughing. The coughs soon became gasps for air and the merchant’s face turned purple.

‘Are you all right, Wat?’ his father said, banging the man’s hulking back and trying to understand his choked grunts. The merchant’s eyes were bulging now and there was
fear in them.

‘Barnaby!’ his father shouted. ‘Go and fetch some farmhands, we must knock out the blockage!’

But before Barnaby had gone more than two paces the merchant gave a sudden violent cough and a glob of masticated meat sailed across the apse to spatter the newly limewashed walls.

The man’s colleagues gathered around him as his face lightened from puce to pink to its original sallow yellow. He was handed a drink, and another chicken wing, which made him laugh so
much he began coughing again. Barnaby took this as his cue to escape, pocketing a few choice morsels from the table as he did so.

As he descended the steps he caught sight of Griff, waving frantically from the other side of the nave and gesticulating towards the backs of Flora and another girl, who were giggling and
whispering nearby. He held up a finger –
one minute
– then made his way over to the villagers’ table. Kneeling down beside the boy – Benjamin, was it? – he drew
a sugared plum from his pocket. Benjamin’s eyes widened. The sugar sparkled in the candlelight, as if it was a ruby.

‘Now, then,’ Barnaby said, ‘I believe that only hale and hearty boys are allowed sugared plums, not puling sickly ones. Isn’t that right, Naomi?’

She smiled down at him, her eyes shining.

‘Oh, yes, Barnaby, sick children can only have gruel and watered milk.’

‘I am quite well!’ Benjamin cried. ‘Ask Mother!’

‘Is he?’ Barnaby said to Naomi.

She pretended to think for a minute, while Benjamin’s eyes grew larger and anxious, then finally she nodded. The plum was handed over and the boy sank his teeth into it with utter
savagery.

‘I’m glad he’s better,’ Barnaby said, standing. ‘We were all worried.’

‘Thank you for all the things you sent,’ she said. ‘Benjamin looked forward so much to Juliet’s visits. I’m sure he made himself remain sick for longer so as to
keep them coming!’

‘Will you be back to work soon?’ he said. Naomi’s smile faded. ‘Of course. You may tell your parents I will return tomorrow if they wish.’

‘No, no,’ he said hastily. ‘They did not tell me to ask you, I just . . .’

But she was no longer listening. Someone was summoning her to take round trays of sausages and she began picking her way through the crowd to the food table without a backward glance.

There was a tugging at his sleeve. ‘Got any more?’ Benjamin said.

Barnaby handed over the last of the treats from his pocket and went over to join Griff, who had managed to commandeer an entire cauldron of fruit punch.

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!’