The Blood List (23 page)

Most of the other drinkers turned to watch the drama, except one, sitting a little way down the bar. He was a tall, spare man of about fifty, with intelligent eyes and hair the colour of a
fox.

‘You’re a Nightingale, eh?’ he said just loud enough for Barnaby to hear over the waiter’s shrieks.

‘Barnaby Nightingale.’ Barnaby stretched out his hand and the man shook it. ‘You know my father?’

‘By reputation,’ the man said. ‘After a lift back home, are you?’

‘Are you going that way?’

‘I wasn’t but I can.’

‘I don’t want to inconvenience you.’

The foxy man raised his hand. ‘Not at all. I’m a businessman. I do my business where I can find it. And I’m sure I’ll find something worth my while in Beltane as much as
anywhere else.’

‘Well, thank you,’ Barnaby said, adding as lightly as he could, ‘and when do you think we might be able to, er, depart?’

The foxy man finished his whisky in one gulp, then pushed out his stool and stood up. ‘How about now?’

Barnaby could have hugged him.

He followed the man, whose name was Rattigan, out into the yard. The fellow’s horse was a huge, muscular beast with wild eyes and scars criss-crossing its black flanks. Rattigan murmured a
few words into its ears then gave it a violent but apparently affectionate slap and swung himself up onto the cart.

‘Come on then, Mister Nightingale.’ He patted the wooden seat beside him, ‘Let’s get you home.’

The seat was rock hard and buckled with damp and by the time they reached the outskirts of the town Barnaby’s backside was hurting. He shifted around, trying to get comfortable.

‘You’re soft, boy!’ Rattigan grinned. ‘Us old soldiers don’t feel a thing.’

Barnaby blushed. It was true, he was soft. Soft as horseshit. He had spent a lifetime doing nothing but what he pleased while the likes of Naomi and Juliet wore themselves out for his comfort.
He folded his arms against the cold, and then hated himself even more since this was nothing to the cold and misery they were enduring.

He sensed Rattigan watching him.

‘What’s wrong?’ the man asked.

‘Nothing,’ Barnaby said.

Rattigan reached into the sack at his feet and drew out a leather bottle, its stitching black with age. ‘Whatever it is, this’ll cure it.’

Barnaby thanked him and took a large swig, ignoring the sour smell of another man’s spit on its rim.

The warmth of the liquor spread in his chest. He would try and perk up a bit for Rattigan’s sake. The man would soon tire of such dreary company and might even abandon him on the road.

‘So,’ he said, ‘you have fought in the war?’

‘For king and country.’

Barnaby had never thought much about the war. As a child he had loved King Charles for his fine clothes and jewels. He had studied the coins embossed with his image and couldn’t imagine
why anyone would not want to be ruled by such a fine specimen. Then Oliver Cromwell had come with his ugly uniforms and dour laws banning bear-baiting and dancing, and now the handsome king was in
prison. Albeit in more comfort than Grimston gaol.

He decided that he liked Rattigan.

‘What will happen to the king, now, do you think?’

‘The country will see sense,’ the other man said grimly.

‘That scoundrel Cromwell’s head will be boiled for a Christmas pudding!’ He gave a laugh that turned into a wet cough.

Rattigan had plenty of good stories. He had fought at Edgehill and at Naseby, where he had been one of the only Royalist foot soldiers not taken by enemy. The only high point of the battle had
been when he managed to capture a Roundhead horse whose rider had been unseated – the very beast that now pulled them. He had carried his new master bravely into every skirmish that followed,
sustaining all the cuts that now scarred his flank with barely a whinny of complaint.

‘And now he must pull a rickety cart from town to town while I try to scrape enough money to feed us both.’

For a time there was no sound but the steady clip of hooves and the rumble of wheels.

Barnaby broke the silence: ‘When we get back I will see that you are generously recompensed for this. My father might even be able to find you some work.’

‘No need,’ the man said in a clipped voice. Barnaby feared he had somehow offended him. They continued on in silence.

At noon they shared a loaf of bread and hunk of cheese that Rattigan had purchased from the inn at Grimston. Barnaby was starting to feel discomfort at the inconvenience and expense he was
putting Rattigan to and barely ate a crumb.

They managed to resume an awkward, stuttering conversation for the rest of the journey, although Rattigan seemed to be holding something back, and Barnaby had no desire to reveal what had
brought him to Grimston. It was altogether disappointing that what could have been an interesting journey had become an ordeal for both of them and he was sure Rattigan shared his sense of relief
when the spire of St Mary’s came into view. The need for conversation receded as the sky bloomed into a magnificent sunset. The golden weathercock that tipped the church spire flashed fire
from its open beak, the snow-covered thatches burned crimson, and through the gaps in the trees he could see the red disc of the lake. Only the forest was dull: the sky above it brooding with
oncoming night.

Without warning Rattigan started speaking rapidly:

‘The trouble is, now that the war’s over there ain’t nothing for us. No work, no relief from the parish. My own village don’t want me. My sweetheart found another.
It’s enough to turn a decent man into a desperate one. I ain’t a bad man but I done bad things and this ain’t the worst of them but it won’t be nothing for me to boast about
neither.’

Barnaby frowned at him. ‘I don’t understand.’

They were coming into the village now and he could smell the woodsmoke of the hearths, sweet and welcoming.

‘It ain’t personal. You’re a nice lad and I wish you the best of luck. Don’t say nothing. Make ’em prove it.’

Rattigan pulled on the reins and the horse came to a stop outside the Boar.

‘My house is a little further,’ Barnaby said.

Rattigan turned away from him, put two fingers to his lips and gave a shrill whistle. A moment later the inn door was opened by the landlady. Oddly enough, as soon as Mistress Spenlow saw
Barnaby she vanished inside again.

‘I suppose it’s as good a place as any,’ Barnaby said, climbing down from the cart. He had begun to feel uncomfortable in the man’s company and would rather walk the last
few hundred yards. ‘If you wait here I shall go and fetch your payment.’

‘I will receive that presently,’ Rattigan said quietly.

The inn door was kicked open and two large men burst out. Before Barnaby knew what was happening they had him in an armlock. He didn’t think to struggle, presuming there had been some
mistake. He said as much but they ignored him. He called to Rattigan, asked him what was happening, but the man turned his face away.

Then the inn door opened for a third time and two more men stepped out into the ebbing daylight.

‘Barnaby Nightingale,’ the first one said, ‘you are hereby charged with witchcraft, of making a compact with the devil, of summoning imps to commit murder and grievous injury
upon your neighbours, and of . . .’

Hopkins broke off, coughing, and a fine mist of blood dissipated in the air before him.

Barnaby stared. His eyes flicked to the second man.

Abel wasn’t smiling. At least not with his mouth.

The house was in darkness as they approached, and when Abel opened the door a smell of must and decay wafted out.

‘Where are our parents?’ Barnaby said.

‘They decided to seek you themselves. Fortunately they did not find you, for if they had hidden you from us they too would have been guilty.’

‘Who says that
I’m
guilty?’

Now Abel did smile. ‘We shall see.’

As Barnaby went to step over the threshold Abel shoved him in the back, making him stumble.

‘All right, Abel,’ Hopkins said softly. ‘While he is co-operating we will treat him with gentleness.’

‘He is Satan’s creature,’ Abel hissed, ‘and must be abhorred as such.’

‘When it is proven,’ Hopkins said and closed the door behind them. For a moment the three of them stood in the gloom while Abel lit the lanterns. To Barnaby’s relief there had
been few people who had seen their journey here. Those they had passed hurried on, their faces averted. The only one to stand and follow their progress was the deaf boy, Luke. Barnaby had held his
gaze defiantly but the boy’s expression was unreadable.

‘Upstairs,’ Abel said.

Barnaby climbed the staircase, making for his own room at the front of the house.

‘No. My room.’

It became apparent why as soon as they entered. Always lacking in ornamentation or comforts, the room had now been stripped of all its furniture except for a wooden stool in the centre of the
room.

‘Sit.’

Barnaby sat.

Abel stepped back and Hopkins came forwards.

‘Art thou,’ he said, aiming a white finger at Barnaby’s chest, ‘in league with the armies of Satan?’

And so the questioning began.

Barnaby began by laughing at them. His denials were wearily insolent. He sing-songed his ‘no’s (
Was the contract with Satan in his own blood?
) and sighed his
‘yes’s (
Did he believe in the Holy Trinity?
). They seemed to go round in circles, with a word changed here and there and increasingly strange construction.
Did he imagine
that God could not see the work of the devil’s servants?
Yes. No.
Had he become acquainted with the devil in the past year?
No.
Earlier then?
No.
Ah, so more
recently
.

Barnaby asked for water and something to eat. He had not supped properly since the previous night at the inn. Later, he was told.

The questions went on. The sky coloured with the first tendrils of dawn. Hopkins’ monotone was soporific. Barnaby’s head nodded, managing to answer the odd yes and no in the gaps in
the conversation. He answered yes to something before the meaning of the question had penetrated his dozy brain –
Had he sent an imp to kill the Parsleys’ child?
– and came
to with a start.

‘No!’

‘No, what?’ Hopkins asked innocently.

‘The last question you asked, the answer is no.’

‘The last question,’ Abel said, ‘was do you accept the lord Jesus Christ as your saviour?’

‘No, it wasn’t!’ Barnaby shouted.

Hopkins and Abel shared a glance. Barnaby sprang up from the chair and drew his fist, his sights fixed on his brother’s vile smirk. There was a flash to his left and something came
crashing down on his head.

He awoke to find himself tied to the stool. Someone was supporting his back but they moved away when he stirred and he almost toppled backwards.

The room was bright as day, and when he winced at the glare the whole left side of his head throbbed. But it was not day. The black square of window reflected the two other figures in the room
back at him: the pale ghost of Hopkins shadowed by the black crow of Abel.

‘Now,’ Hopkins said softly. ‘Let us talk of fairies.’

Barnaby was cold. They had let the fire go out. He waggled his fingers behind his back to get the blood moving.

‘Do you pretend to make a distinction between black and white magic, like others of your kind?’

‘My kind?’

‘Witches,’ Abel hissed.

‘I have no idea what witches think.’

Hopkins ignored him. ‘Fairies,’ he said with a lip curled in distaste, ‘are nought but the devil’s imps in disguise.’

Something in Barnaby’s subconscious woke up and he felt the first pricklings of fear.

‘Do you have truck with the fairies?’

‘No.’

‘When did this cease?’

‘I never had truck with them.’

‘You certainly did in the earliest days of your life. Is it not the case that you were stolen by these creatures and only returned when the changeling they had replaced you with was left
upon the dung heap?’

Barnaby paused before replying. He was starting to get cramp in his left calf muscle and the contractions it made were distracting. He needed to be careful.

‘That is the story I was told,’ he said.

‘Do you have memories of this time?’

‘No.’

‘And yet these “fairies” continued to watch over you; almost as if they saw you as one of their own, to be protected and nurtured as their own.’

‘What gives you that idea?’

His leg was spasming now and he tried to adjust its position, but found that the bindings were too tight.

‘Can you loosen these cords?’ he asked Hopkins. ‘I am in pain.’

Hopkins ignored him.

‘You visited them in the forest, did you not? At an hour when most would be afeared. But not you. You went into the forest to commune with these imps and they guided you safely
home.’

‘I went to the forest to try and impress my friends,’ he said. ‘And I claimed to have seen the fairies for the same reason.’

‘You lied.’

‘Yes.’

‘Are you lying now?’

‘No. Please loosen these cords. I am in pain.’

‘And was it also a lie that the imps left a trail of berries for you?’

Barnaby hesitated before replying. It would be a risk to deny this in case someone else had seen them.

‘There was a trail, but anyone could have left it.’

‘When you communed with these imps, what did they offer you in return for your soul?’

‘Nothing.’

‘So you did their bidding out of love for their master?’

‘No!’

Hopkins was still perfectly calm but Barnaby felt his anger rising. His leg was extremely uncomfortable and now he had pins and needles in his fingers. The room was growing colder by the
moment.

It was Abel who spoke next. ‘You found a list. Written in blood. The names of the damned.’

‘What happened to it?’ Hopkins said evenly.

‘It blew out of my hands. It may not even have been such a list. I could not read it.’

‘You destroyed it,’ Abel hissed. ‘When you read your own name upon it.’