They did finish before nightfall, thanks mainly to Patrick, who seemed impervious to pain or exhaustion. Even as the sun sank behind the forest he was still swiping the blade with the same
vigour he had displayed at dawn.
It was only Naomi’s appearance with more ale and an invitation for Barnaby to join them at supper that finally ended the day’s exertions. They drank in silence as the shadows turned
indigo. As the air cooled, the fragrance of moist, cut corn mingled with the wild garlic and honeysuckle of the hedgerows. Bats darted overhead making the clouds of midges swirl in panic.
He would have liked to accompany them, if only to annoy Patrick. But his hands were swollen and bleeding, his legs were jelly, and all he wanted to do was collapse in his bed.
‘Thank you, Mister Waters,’ he said, finishing his cup. ‘For suffering my clumsy efforts. I hope I was some help.’
‘Certainly you were, Master Nightingale!’ the farmer gushed. ‘But don’t go telling your father that I’m the one responsible for all them blisters!’ He laughed
and Barnaby quickly thrust his hands into his pockets.
‘Certainly not,’ Barnaby said. ‘I shall say they were caused by too much dicing at the Boar.’
Waters laughed and even Patrick lifted his lip to show a brown tooth.
‘Goodnight, Farmer Waters,’ he said with a bow. ‘Patrick . . . Naomi.’
He did not linger to see her reaction but as he walked away, trying to stride rather than hobble, her voice drifted after him with a soft chuckle, ‘Goodnight, Farmer
Nightingale.’
The journey home felt ten times longer than usual and occasionally he had to lean on a wall for rest. He finally wobbled through the door as the clock struck ten.
‘Barnaby!’ his father cried, rising from his chair by the fire. ‘Where have you been all day? We were worried.’
You
might have been, Barnaby thought. His mother was at the table, engrossed with another of his brother’s letters. She did not raise her head at his entrance.
Letters had come from Abel twice weekly at first, but they soon tailed off to once a week, then once a fortnight, and this was the first missive since early September.
Juliet appeared in the doorway with a plate of mutton and a mug of wine.
‘Alleluia!’ Barnaby cried, throwing himself down in a chair and stretching his hands to receive the meal. ‘You are my own, true darling!’
The first bite of mutton was the most divine morsel that had ever passed his lips.
‘It seems the Lord Protector himself came to speak to them,’ his mother said without raising her head from the letter. ‘Abel says he was very wise and devout.’
‘And a traitor,’ his father muttered.
‘He says that Mister Cromwell described how far steeped in sin is our society and that the reformation had not gone far enough to strip away the excesses of Catholicism.’
‘Really,’ said Henry drily. Barnaby licked mutton fat off his fingers as noisily as possible.
She read a little longer, then gave a fretful sigh: ‘He says he hopes to become an instrument of purification: Oh Henry . . .’ She put the letter down and took off her glasses.
‘I do hope he’s not being led along the wrong path.’
‘I’m sure he’s fine,’ Henry said, batting his hand. ‘Just settling in, that’s all. They’ll set him straight soon enough.’
Frances sighed again and tucked the letter back in its envelope. ‘I’m going to tell him to come home for Barnaby’s birthday so we can make sure he’s all right.’
Barnaby shot his father a panicked look. The party was always the high point of his year and this year, his sixteenth and therefore special, promised to be even better than usual. It was to be
held in the church. The pews were to be pushed back and a hog spit placed before the altar. A considerable amount of alcohol had been ordered, and Lord Pembroke had provided five sheep and ten
chickens (mainly, Barnaby’s father said, in gratitude to the village for not turning against him and his Catholic family after Cromwell’s victory over the King). Abel’s dour
presence would ruin the whole evening.
‘I’m sure that’s not necessary,’ Henry said. ‘You need to give him the chance to make his own way in life.’
Frances gave a non-committal murmur.
Barnaby tossed back the dregs of the wine, belched and struggled up, unable to repress a groan.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ his father said. ‘Not coming down with something, are you?’
‘I’m fine,’ he croaked. Then, using his father’s shoulder for purchase, he pivoted himself towards the staircase and, with intakes of breath and little squeaks of
discomfort, made his way up to bed. If this was an honest day’s work, he thought as he mounted the stairs like a geriatric, then you could keep it.
The next day he was walking stiffly over to Griff’s when he met Flora Slabber returning from the market. Though she did not seem so pretty as the last time he saw her it
pleased him to see her blush deeply when she saw him, and he fell into step beside her.
‘What have you bought?’ he asked.
‘Just a few cakes for me and Mama, and some material for a dress. Mama says I shall have a new one for your birthday party. I chose blue velvet because the colour works so well with my
hair.’
‘Yes,’ Barnaby said, ‘I’m sure it does.’
They passed the apothecary. Sitting by the wall outside was the cart belonging to the furrier’s widow. He recognised it by the bright paintings that adorned the side: of flowers and wild
animals and strange creatures half hidden in the long grass. The widow had taken to wheeling it around the village even on non-market days, trying to sell her wild berries and mushrooms. Today it
was brimful of rosemary. Flora inhaled deeply. ‘Oh I love that smell,’ she said.
He went over to the cart and snapped off a sturdy twig, then came and tucked it behind her ear, making her giggle. They continued along the street arm in arm.
He felt a bit guilty for stealing from such a poor woman but pushed it from his mind. Not only had she attacked him in front of the entire village, but she was also behind with her rent, though
his father hadn’t yet turfed her out of the hovel she’d built on their land. Whenever Barnaby remembered that awful afternoon, floundering in the mud surrounded by the crowing of the
villagers, he was flooded with shame and fury.
But before they had gone much further there was a strange cry behind them. It sounded as if a drunk was calling his name but when he turned he saw the widow’s deaf son jogging to meet
them. He was a dark and swarthy youth but muscular and well-built, with quick black eyes.
‘Masser Nighthingale,’ he said, stopping in front of them, ‘I am glad I saw you.’
Barnaby straightened and lifted his chin, embarrassed to hear the sound of his name so mangled in front of Flora.
‘What can I do for you?’ he said loudly.
‘My mother is sick,’ the boy said in his strange thick tongue. ‘And I do not possess her knowledge of the forest. We owe your father two months’ rent. I have received a
commission to paint the church but until I get paid in a month’s time we cannot pay you. I am sorry.’ He spoke slowly and seemed to be enunciating his words very carefully, but plainly
he wasn’t stupid. His bright black eyes held Barnaby’s and Barnaby blinked. For one so afflicted the boy was certainly bold. Barnaby could feel Flora waiting for his response.
‘What’s your name?’ he said imperiously.
‘Luke Armitage.’
‘Well, Mr Armitage, your mother is almost two months behind and I think that is lenience enough.’
Flora leaned across and whispered to him, ‘He is reading your speech from the movement of your lips.’
Sure enough, Luke was staring at his mouth. He brought his hand up to cough into it, then left it there as if quite naturally rubbing his jaw. Sure enough the boy’s brow furrowed.
‘I shall expect the rent by Monday.’
‘What did you say?’ the boy said.
‘MONDAY,’ Barnaby said loudly.
The boy nodded curtly, then turned and walked back to his cart.
Flora’s titter was like the squealing of the widow’s cart’s wheels as the deaf boy made his way home. Barnaby’s conscience pricked him and he almost went after Luke to
tell him he could take another week. But it had started to rain. Flora grabbed his arm and they hurried on.
It seemed to take forever to arrive but at last the day of Barnaby’s birthday party dawned, clear and bright and chilly. It was the first really cold day of the year and
the air was soon fragrant with peat and woodsmoke. The roads out of the village were treacherous with ice and Henry said how lucky they were that the wine had arrived the previous day or the carts
may not have got through.
The only possible event that could mar the day was Abel’s arrival, but as the afternoon wore on with no sign of him, Barnaby dared to hope that the roads were too bad for him to travel. It
wasn’t as if his brother would actually
want
to come; he had been summoned by Frances.
As the shadows deepened and the lamps were lit Barnaby went to his room to put on his party clothes. On the bed was the new outfit his father had ordered from France. Barnaby had chosen the cut
and fabric, and the few adornments (fine without being fussy), but seeing it for the first time made him draw in his breath.
The doublet of embroidered, glazed linen glittered like gold in the candlelight. Slashed to a high waistband, it revealed the white lawn shirt beneath, with its mother-of-pearl buttons. The
breeches were dove-grey velvet, tied at the knees with black ribbons, and the black boots were so polished they reflected his own face back at him.
He began to strip off, whistling to himself. Juliet came in while he was pulling on the shirt. In her hand was a small package.
‘It was lying on the step this morning,’ she said softly.
She held it out for him but he didn’t take it.
He knew what it would contain. Beneath the wrapping of white linen there would be a bunch of forest flowers: forget-me-nots and buttercups, pansies, cornflowers, goldenrods and mouse-ears,
occasionally a delicate briar rose. Too fragile to last more than an hour or so without water, they would already be drooping, the edges of the petals browning and curling.
The bundle would be tied with a strip of blue cloth embroidered with roses. These roses had been stitched, clumsily, by his mother when she was barely sixteen. Stitched onto a swaddling cloth to
wrap her firstborn son. It must have been painstaking work: hundreds of tiny pink flowers with yellow seed heads and a whisper of green at the base. It was the most loving thing she had ever done
for him. But it hadn’t been for him; not really. It had been for the child that was taken away. They had wrapped the changeling in it when they left the creature on the midden heap, and when
Barnaby was returned he was wrapped in a coarse blanket that smelled of dung.
This dreadful ritual, of returning the swaddling, strip by strip, binding those mean little flowers, had been enacted every birthday morning for as long as he could remember. Henry seemed to
take an odd pride in it – that his son was so adored by the fairy realm – but it always upset his mother, so that over the past few years Juliet had been careful to find and hide it
before anyone else could discover it.
‘I don’t want it,’ Barnaby said. ‘Put it in the fire.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Oh no, no. You must not insult them like that! It is their gift to you.’
‘It’s not. It’s just some spiteful villager mocking me.’
For years he’d thought it was Abel – though the trick seemed too clever for his brother’s mean little mind – but now Abel was gone.
‘I mean it. Take it away.’ He went back to fastening the buttons of his shirt, but the arrival of the package had put him out of sorts and his fingers were trembling.
Juliet hesitated, then, muttering unhappily, tucked it into the pocket of her apron.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Let me help you.’
As she bent her head to fasten the tiny round pearl buttons of the cuffs he noticed that her hair was greasy and she smelled faintly of stale sweat. Naomi had still not returned to work, her
brother having fallen sick a few weeks previously, and after getting used to having help, Juliet seemed to find being on her own again doubly hard. Barnaby had sent various provisions up to the
Waters’ farm – dried fruits imported from Turkey, loaves of rye bread, cakes made with apples from Griff’s orchard. Now he felt guilty for making Juliet do all that extra
baking.
‘What are you wearing tonight?’ he said.
‘This probably,’ she said. ‘I’ll be helping out with the food so whatever I wear will get greasy and spoiled.’ She went over to refresh the fire.
He thought for a moment, then pulled out one of the ribbons woven into his cuffs, and went over to where she was kneeling.
She jumped as his fingers touched her hair.
‘Stay still,’ he murmured, then he gathered up a section and tied it with the ribbon.
‘But what about your jacket?’ she said, looking up at him. The crackling flames of the kindling had burned her cheek a deep scarlet.
‘Only my father would notice, and I don’t care how handsome
he
finds me.’
As she stood and brushed the ash from her apron he remained where he was, gazing at his reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. His hair had grown long and the loose curls rested on his
shoulders, which appeared broader thanks to the cut of the jacket. He ran his fingers through it, careful not to snag a fingernail on the birthmark at the nape of his neck, which always bled so
easily. His face was losing its childhood plumpness. He kept expecting to see the narrowing of the jaw and the arch of the nose that ran through the Nightingale line, but so far they had not
materialised. In fact his jaw appeared to be squaring and widening, and his nose was as straight as it had always been. Presumably this was from his mother’s family, though he couldn’t
think of any good-looking Woodcrofts. Perhaps such features only became acceptable when mixed with those of the Nightingales.
Juliet began fussing with his collar, trying to fasten the top button, but he stopped her hand, he did not wish to feel constricted tonight, especially since there would be considerable
quantities of food and drink passing down his throat. He was about to drop his hand, but then he happened to glance into her face.