The Blood List (9 page)

Brilliant. Just brilliant. Of all the nice, friendly girls in the village his mother had to go and choose a stuffy, pompous, humourless little . . .

‘Well, I for one think you did the right thing, Mother,’ Abel announced. ‘It does not surprise me in the least that our thug of a butcher would behave in such a way.’

Barnaby spluttered into his porridge. Abel only hated John Slabber because the man had mercilessly ribbed him ever since he had burst into tears at the sight of a sheep’s brain lying on
the counter when they were boys.

Abel ignored him. ‘I look forward to meeting such a righteous soul.’

‘I don’t,’ Henry muttered, and Barnaby smirked. He looked up to share the smirk with Juliet but Juliet was in no mood for humour.

‘And may I enquire which jobs will be given to this new maid?’

Frances turned around and smiled up at her. ‘Whatever you think yourself, Juliet,’ she said. ‘You know our family better than anyone. Naomi will work to you and do exactly what
you say.’

‘Hmf,’ Juliet said, and went out to the kitchen.

Naomi Waters arrived the very same afternoon, with her wild curls tucked inside a starched bonnet. Barnaby kept out of her way, in case she thought he was looking at her
inappropriately. But by the afternoon he was thirsty and went in search of Juliet. A glass of beer would be nice, and perhaps a slice of pork pie.

But Juliet wasn’t there. Naomi was in the kitchen kneading dough.

‘Ah,’ he said, ‘Miss Waters, may I trouble you for a beer and a slice of pie when you’re ready?’

‘Certainly,’ she said, keeping her eyes on the dough.

He went back to his room and waited.

After a while he began idly kicking the iron studs in the floorboards. The thuds would surely carry downstairs and remind her what she was supposed to be doing.

But they didn’t.

He went back downstairs. The bread dough was sitting in the sun on the windowsill beneath a cloth and Naomi had moved on to boning a chicken.

‘That beer, please, Naomi, when you’re ready,’ he said, a little sharply.

‘I won’t be ready for a while,’ she said, again without glancing at him. ‘Would you mind getting it yourself?’

He stared at her.

She looked up at him. ‘Juliet has instructed me to start preparing tonight’s meal and if I don’t get the chicken on to roast then it will not be done in time.’

‘Um,’ he said, ‘um, Juliet would normally just, er, do the drink, and then get on with the er . . .’

‘Oh,’ Naomi said, wiping her brow. ‘Well, she’s in the yard if you want to ask her to do it.’

He swallowed hard and went back to his room.

A rhythmic thudding sound came from somewhere in the distance, as if someone was lopping branches in the forest. The afternoon sunlight was shining on the tacks in the floor, throwing discs of
light onto the ceiling. He watched them lazily until they began to creep across the plaster. His eyelids were leaden. He closed them, just for a moment.

He was woken by someone shaking him by the shoulder.

‘Wha!’ he cried and promptly rolled off the bed.

‘Dinner’s ready,’ Naomi said.

‘Oh. Right. I’ll be down in a minute,’ he said, rubbing his elbow where it had struck the bed frame.

‘It’s on the table.’

She stared at him evenly.

He got up. ‘For future reference, Miss Waters, Juliet usually gives me a little more warning, to ease me into wakefulness a little less rudely.’

‘I didn’t expect you to be asleep at six o’clock in the evening, Master Barnaby.’

He stared at her.

‘I sleep when I choose,’ he said.

She held his gaze. ‘Evidently.’

He pushed past her in the direction of the door. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered, ‘no wonder they fired you.’

‘Enjoy your chicken,’ she said.

The chicken was actually, though it pained him to admit it, considerably better than usual: moister, tastier, and with a crisp, browned skin flavoured with some herb he couldn’t
identify.

They were careful not to compliment the meal when Juliet was in the room but she could not have helped noticing that they all asked for seconds. Unlike Juliet, who was always rushing about in a
panic at supper time, Naomi stayed to hear grace, bowing her neat little bonnet, from which a single curl had escaped, and clasping her red hands, to Abel’s obvious approval.

‘I thank the Lord for guiding your hands to produce such a fine meal,’ he said as she cleared the plates afterwards.

‘Oh, certainly,’ she said, smiling. ‘And may He breathe His spirit into the bread yeast too.’

Barnaby noticed that Frances was hiding a smile behind her hand.

The following morning he rose early and agreed to accompany his father to the cloth market in Grimston, to see how the merchants were faring with his imported wool and silk.

The journey was a long one and the road was bad, and after attempting to listen to his father describing the differing qualities of the various fabrics and how you could tell the difference,
Barnaby finally vomited over the side of the cart and spent the remainder of the journey lying in the back with his jacket over his face.

His father and the driver spent their time discussing the latest wild story to circulate Grimston: that an enormous sea monster had been put on display at the market the previous week.
‘Someone bought it and cooked it,’ the driver said in hushed tones. ‘And straightaway he were driven mad and drowned hisself in the river.’

‘Extraordinary,’ said his father, wide-eyed.

Grimston market was noisy and bustling and filled with bright colours and strong smells. The produce on sale was far more varied than at the market at home, and seemed to have originated from
every corner of the globe. There were spices from India, silks from the East, China tea and fruit and vegetables Barnaby had never heard of including a bright scarlet fruit about the size of a
plum. It was called a ‘tomatoe’, but was there purely for display as it was poisonous to eat. His father bought a huge wheel of cheese from Amsterdam and a flagon of malmsey wine. They
paused at a stall selling trinkets and his father chose a silver locket for Frances. For a few pennies there were a selection of ribbons sewn with silver charms and Barnaby decided to buy one for
Flora. He selected a pale blue gingham one with a tiny silver hare dangling from it. His father winked and goaded him all the way back to the cart, but Barnaby would not admit who it was for.

They lunched in one of the inns by the magistrate’s court and his father ended up in conversation with a fellow Grimston merchant. It turned out that the man dealt in relics and holy
charms. There was, the merchant claimed, a particularly good market for such items at the moment, with the witch fever that was gripping the county. The previous month he had made almost thirty
pounds profit at a mass hanging in Norwich. For a moment Barnaby thought his father would buy some of the man’s goods to sell on, but Henry changed his mind at the last minute, muttering that
he didn’t think his wife would approve. By the time they left the inn it was gone four o’clock.

The market had gone and some men were erecting a scaffold in the middle of the square.

The cart driver was not pleased and grumbled that the Beltane to Grimston road was notorious for robberies after dark. The breakneck speed he employed to avoid such a fate brought
Barnaby’s nausea rushing back and the first thing he did when they arrived home was stumble out to the kitchen for a cold drink, leaving his father to crow to Frances about how Barnaby had
bought a gift for one of the village girls.

Juliet was sitting at the kitchen table crying over a pile of linen.

‘What’s the matter?’ he said. ‘Has something happened?’

She wiped her face on her apron and picked up one of the shirts.

‘Look at this!’

‘What?’ he said. ‘They look perfect. Much better than usual in fact.’

‘Exactly,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘
She
did them.’

‘Who? The Waters girl?’

Juliet nodded miserably.

Barnaby glanced behind him. He was pretty sure he had passed Naomi setting the fire in the room beyond while his parents discussed which of the village girls might be the intended recipient of
the gift.

‘She’s nothing compared to you, Jules,’ he said quietly, taking her hand. ‘We couldn’t live without you.’

‘Nonsense!’ Juliet snapped tearfully. ‘She seems to be better than me at everything, and able to accomplish it twice as fast. When your mother realises, what reason will she
have to keep me on?’

He sat down beside her and leaned across the table. ‘Now, let’s see . . .’ He began counting on his hand. ‘Your jam tarts are the best in the county. The chickens love
you. You never complain. And you have very pretty hands,’ he took them in his, ‘which is more than can be said for
her
.’

As he jerked his head towards the doorway he thought he caught some movement but Juliet was weeping into her handkerchief again.

‘Listen. I brought you a present from Grimston.’

Sniffing, she looked up from her handkerchief and he dangled the ribbon he’d bought for Flora before her red eyes. The leaping silver hare caught the evening sunlight and the reflections
danced on her face.

‘See how nice the colour looks against your hair.’

Juliet smiled but her hand stopped in the act of taking it and her eyes went to the doorway.

Naomi was standing there with the empty wood basket. She must have heard his parents discussing the gift and would know it had never been intended for Juliet. She would get back at them both by
announcing it.

But she didn’t.

‘What a pretty thing,’ she said softly. ‘Shall I help you tie it?’

Juliet hesitated, then nodded.

Naomi set the basket down and came over. He held the ribbon out to her without meeting her gaze and she took it. Her cheek was pale and there was a flush on her neck. Had she heard what he
said?

‘You are so lucky to have such silky hair,’ Naomi said as she tied the ribbon in a careful bow. ‘Mine coils like pigs’ tails.’

That night in bed Barnaby heard the girls giggling together down in the kitchen. He wasn’t sure that he liked it.

On Sunday they all went to church. Although she’d never needed assistance in the past, Frances took Naomi’s arm at the door and asked her to help her to her seat.
Passing the Slabbers, Barnaby heard mutterings and Mistress Slabber even made the sign of the evil eye with her fingers. He held back so as not to be associated with Naomi and managed to catch
Flora’s eye. She blushed and smiled and he fervently wished he hadn’t given away the ribbon.

As he sat down he heard Abel’s nasal whine from the other end of the pew: ‘What is that dreadful daubing, Mother? Father Nicholas should not have allowed the walls to have been so
besmirched.’

‘Actually, I think it’s beautiful,’ Naomi said.

‘Yes,’ said Frances. ‘The work of a local lad, I believe.’

He followed their gazes. The wall on the far side of the church, which previously depicted cracked and flaking biblical scenes from the Norman era, had been whitewashed over, and there were the
beginnings of a new mural. For now only the upper part of the wall had been painted: all billowing pink-edged clouds and vivid azure skies.

‘You must talk to Father Nicholas, Mother,’ Abel continued. ‘The wall should be pure and unadorned. Anything else is apostasy.’

Frances sighed and looked down at her prayer book. Naomi pressed her lips together and turned her face to the lectern.

Settling in for the usual boring hour and a half, Barnaby glanced around the church, looking for Griff. To his intense discomfort he caught the eye of the furrier’s widow. He looked away
quickly and didn’t turn around again, despite the fact that Flora was squirming and craning into his line of vision.

Abel was as awful as usual, bellowing out his responses to the prayers so loudly that half the church was staring at them. Eventually Barnaby did manage to catch Griff’s eye and Griff
made a rude gesture in Abel’s direction that made Barnaby snort so loudly that Father Nicholas paused in his oratory to scowl at him.

It was only then that the plan came back to him: the plan to rid himself of Abel.

Barnaby lingered at the end, on the pretext of apologising to the old priest, and once the church had emptied made his way down one of the side aisles to the sacristy.

Father Nicholas was struggling to remove his chasuble. Sometimes his fingers were so stiff with arthritis he could not get the wafers out of the communion cup.

‘Father,’ Barnaby said, ‘may I help you?’

‘You may, Barnaby,’ sighed the old man.

Barnaby went over and lifted the heavy garment over the priest’s head, leaving his sparse white hair standing up in wisps, then laid it on the back of a chair and went back to undo the
cassock ties.

‘I’m sorry for my rudeness during the service. Is there anything I can do for you to make it up?’

‘Certainly you can,’ Father Nicholas smiled. ‘You can tell Barbara Howells that if she cannot keep her child quiet during mass then she must take him outside.’

‘Ummm . . . Mistress Howells with the big dog?’

‘That’s right.’

‘The one she sets on people she doesn’t like?’

‘Precisely.’

Barnaby took a deep breath. ‘Very well, Father. But please be standing by to administer the last rites for me.’

Father Nicholas chuckled. ‘It’s all right, I’ll accept a helping arm out to the porch.’

Barnaby linked his arm beneath the priest’s and they began walking slowly down the central aisle of the church. Sunlight lanced through the side windows, throwing bars of light onto the
flagstones.

‘Actually, Father, I was hoping I might ask you something.’

‘Hmm?’

‘As I’m sure you know, Abel and I have not been getting on for some time.’

‘Only since the day he was born,’ the priest chuckled.

‘Indeed, but recently it has got worse.’

Father Nicholas leaned conspiratorially into Barnaby’s shoulder, his breath syrupy sweet with the dregs of the communion wine. ‘Yes, well, unfortunately the second child was not as
richly blessed as the first.’