John Saturnall's Feast (43 page)

“
Those
Loaves they called Paradise bread
. . .”

From
The Book
of john Saturnall:
A
Bread
such as the first
Men
and
Women
did eat and their
Heirs

hat loaves they baked in Paradise only a Master Baker may tell for none but he might master all the Grains that grew in those ancient Fields and that gave up their Awns without the Sweat of Man or Beast. Then fine feathery Wheat yielded an airy Manchet and coarser Rye gave Maslin. Spelts and dried Beans gave Horse Bread which crunched on the Teeth of Adam and Eve and growled in their Guts. Lower Meals too were made from Mast but how they were threshed without heavy Whips or Flails, or milled without Stones or Querns, or sifted without Sieves or Boulting Cloths, I do not know. Nor how such Dough raised itself without Balm and kneaded itself without a Trough and baked itself without an Oven. For in that first Garden, Adam never strained in gathering Billets.

Thus that effortless Bread was first prepared and never again until the denizens of a colder Eden scavenged Nuts for their Meal and eschewed Balm (having none) and gathered as little Fuel for their Ovens as Adam did. Their Paradise was a bare Garden compared to Eden and its Loaves were of a different Kind, being coarser, less toothsome, neither airy as Manchet nor as nourishing as Maslin nor hardly edible by Man or Beast. Those Loaves they called Paradise bread, which are made as I shall tell . . .

T
HE MAN'S COLD BLUE
eyes stared out from under a heavy brow, his gaze scaling the walls and roving over the windows. He sat mounted on a dark horse. Beside the animal stood Ephraim Clough and before them both the host of his Militia gripped muskets or rested grimy hands on the pommels of their swords. Penned together in the inner yard and surrounded by the grim-faced men, the members of the Household watched the horseman sit up in his saddle and pull off his helmet to reveal a mane of lank blond hair.

Marpot wore his hair as long as before, John saw. He had known at the first clang of the copper, the ladle beating the side of the cauldron. Men and boys had run hither and thither. Then the Militiamen had broken in, clubbing and beating the Manor's would-be defenders before driving them out to the yard. Now Marpot eyed them from his horse.

‘Who here dares raise a hand against my minister?’

Penned in with the others, John felt the Household shift around him. But no one spoke. A bleak smile appeared on Marpot's face. He twisted and gestured behind.

The ranks of the Militiamen parted. Through the gap, a small group of women clad in ragged dresses and plain cotton bonnets struggled forward pulling a two-wheeled cart. As it came to a halt, two men jumped up. A moment later a great block rolled off the back and thudded on the ground. Its surface was mottled with dark brown stains. A manacle was nailed to its centre.

At the sight of the block, a low murmur ran through the Household.

‘They don't like it, Brother Ephraim,’ Marpot said loudly. ‘They resist their correction.’

But John's gaze was drawn from the sinister object to the women standing behind it. Some cast their eyes down. Others looked up wonderingly at the house. But one stared straight ahead as though she were looking through the mass of stone to something beyond it.

Cassie's blue eyes were the same as he remembered. And the freckles. For an instant her gaze met John's own. Then she dropped her head.

‘I say who dares raise a hand against my minister?’ Marpot repeated.

The mounted man gestured and John saw muskets rise, their barrels pointing at the men and women of the Household. A squat man with a bushy black beard pointed his barrel at John's midriff.

He had summoned them here, he knew. The moment he had aimed a blow at Clough. The moment he had pulled him off Lucretia. He had brought Marpot and his men to Buckland. With a sick feeling, he raised his arm.

‘That hand is mine.’

Marpot's blue eyes looked down. If he recognised John, he gave no sign of it. John gazed up at the man who had goaded on the villagers, who had led them against himself and his mother, fear and anger contending within him as his memories battled with what would come next. John looked down at the block. But then a second voice sounded.

‘My hand too.’

John looked about in surprise. Behind him, Simeon Parfitt had raised his arm.

‘Simeon!’ he hissed, gesturing furiously. But Simeon nudged Hesekey beside him. Slowly, Hesekey too raised his hand. Adam Lockyer followed, then Philip. As John watched, more and more arms rose until even Pandar and Barney Curle stood with their hands in the air. He stood surrounded by a forest of arms which closed about him like a palisade. But through the human barricade, John saw the last member of the Household approach.

Two ragged wings flapped and bounced over the grass of the lawns then advanced through the gate. The Heron Boy strode forward. A broad smile spread across his face. Then he saw the muskets.

His expression changed. He scowled at the Militiamen surrounding John.

‘No,’ muttered John. He pushed back with his hands, shooing the ragged figure away. But the Heron Boy only aped his movement. John waved and the Heron Boy waved back, grinning amiably at the enjoyable game as a wing caught a soldier's arm. ‘Don't touch him!’ John called out. But the nearest man jabbed with his musket, catching John in the guts. The Heron Boy's smile faded. He frowned. Then he swung.

The first thwack resounded around the yard as a wing clunked against the nearest helmet. From the Household, a roar of laughter went up. The next man was struck with a thud from behind. Around the yard, the laughter grew louder. Encouraged, the Heron Boy swung with renewed vigour, left then right, a little squad of Militiamen retreating before him. Half-winded, John tried to force a way through. But before he could reach his comrade, he saw Marpot nod to the black-bearded soldier. The man stepped forward and levelled his musket.

‘No!’ shouted John.

The soldier's eyes never wavered. John watched him step sideways for a clear line of sight. Then a crack sounded in the yard. A puff of smoke shot from the musket.

The Heron Boy stopped in mid-swing. A puzzled expression spread over his face. As the blood bloomed through the front of his shirt, he looked at John as if to ask how, this time, they had lost. But before John could answer, his eyes rolled back. His wings dropped to the ground. The Heron Boy seemed to crumple rather than fall, folding slowly from the waist and toppling sideways to lie on the ground. Then he was still.

Lucretia's voice broke the silence.

‘Murderer!’

She pushed her way through the Household, her angry face turned up at Marpot. But as she reached the side of his horse, the man drew back his hand. His gauntlet descended, striking Lucretia in the face. She fell back and the Household let out a gasp. The Militiamen levelled their weapons.

‘Lying Jezebel!’ Marpot shouted. ‘Kneel with me in your chapel, would you? Lie to me before God?’

Blood welled from between Lucretia's fingers. John stepped forward but she waved him back.

‘This is the hand,’ John shouted at Marpot. ‘Come down and take it.’

He waved his fist, standing before the block and glaring up into Marpot's cold blue eyes. He saw Ephraim murmur a few words to his master then Marpot nodded.

‘You do not fear the bite of my axe,’ he told John. ‘Perhaps the bite of your conscience will persuade you better.’

Ephraim murmured again and John saw the mounted man nod. Then Marpot pointed to Philip.

‘Take him.’

‘No!’

John lunged for the nearest Militiaman. If he could only reach the man's sword. If he could only draw it and drive its length into Marpot's guts, cut him open like poor Phineas. He had only to grasp the hilt and pull it out . . . But a heavy hand fell on his shoulder. A moment later a terrific blow smashed down on the back of his head. The world seemed to spiral up and away. He was falling, down and down into blackness.

The women's voices brushed at his ears, whispering and murmuring then fading away. If he could hold onto one he would wake. But they would not stop. Instead Abel Starling looked down.

‘Here we are again.’

John shook his head. ‘You're dead. You're my . . .’

‘Demon? You knew you wouldn't end up wearing that bracelet, didn't you?’

‘No.’

‘Wasn't made of sugar, that one, was it?’

John turned away. But wherever he looked, Abel was there.

‘First you were sweet on our Cassie. Then Lady Lucy. Quite the ladies’ man, John.’

‘You don't exist,’ John said. ‘You died.’

Abel's face had gained a vindictive look. John wanted to get up but a great weight lay on his chest. It was all in his head, he told himself. Or his conscience. Abel pointed a finger.

‘That's why you kicked out Clough, wasn't it? You wanted her. And you got what you wanted. Got to raise her skirts, just like Piers said. But it weren't you who paid for the pleasure, was it?’

‘No,’ groaned John as Abel's face began to fade. In its place, a bright light appeared. A candle-flame. A pair of blue eyes hovered behind it. A face with freckles.

‘Know what these are, John?’ Cassie touched her cheeks. ‘Remember?’

‘Sins,’ he said.

‘That's right.’

She reached towards him with her fingers splayed. Every nail was black. He tried to reply but his head was pounding. A great fist was driving it into the ground. The blackness was rising around him but he fought it, struggling up. Then Cassie's face became Meg's. Ginny appeared beside her.

‘Philip,’ John managed. ‘Where is Philip?’

‘Quiet,’ said Meg.

‘What did they do?’ John demanded.

‘You should rest,’ Ginny said.

‘Tell me,’ he hissed, trying to pull himself upright.

He saw them exchange glances. Then Meg spoke.

‘They cut off his hand.’

The kitchen looked as if a gale had passed through it. Smashed benches and tables were piled against a wall. Broken bowls and jars littered the floor. Hesekey turned from the hearth where he was trying to blow an ember into life. One eye was closed by a purple-black bruise. The other regarded John.

‘Where is he?’ John asked. ‘Where is Philip?’

But there was no need for the youth to answer. A low cry echoed down the passage. Head throbbing, the bile rising in his throat, John hurried past Hesekey, the cries guiding him to the spice room where Gemma, Adam and Alf crouched in the corner. In their midst hunched Philip.

John remembered his mother, crouched on the ground and coughing. Philip rocked back and forth, clutching his wrist and gasping for breath. Wrapped about the stump, a thick clout of rags dripped blood. John felt the heat drain from his limbs. He dropped to his knees.

‘Before God I am sorry, Philip.’

Philip shook his head.

‘Not you,’ he managed. Then a white-faced Gemma grasped John's arm.