‘Your son is painting the church, I hear,’ he said. ‘Is he doing a good job?’
Her face broke into a smile.
‘He is a fine boy,’ she said. ‘I am proud of him.’
A stab of jealousy made him head for the door but before he could leave the kitchen she called him by his first name. He turned to see she was reaching a hand out across the table to him.
‘Bless you child,’ she said faintly. ‘May you find happiness.’
He stared at her hand for a moment, then turned and left the kitchen without another word. His appetite for the rest of his breakfast had gone and, snatching his coat from the stand by the door,
he went out into the bright morning.
The whole village was white, with the frost on the ground and the chimney smoke in the air. Nearby someone was weeping: it sounded eerily close, as if the heavy air had somehow compressed the
village. His knees creaked as he walked quickly away from the house and the chill air stung his throat. It was uncomfortable being outside. With nowhere else to go he made for Griff’s
place.
‘Did you hear about the Hocket girl?’ Griff muttered as they crouched by a fire which was, by Rawbood standards, feeble.
‘Dead?’ Barnaby hazarded.
Griff nodded, the flames dancing in his wide eyes. ‘Bent over backwards, her head touching her toes, screaming that the devil had come for her.’
‘Jesus,’ Barnaby breathed.
‘They’re saying it’s witchcraft, of course, and Mistress Hocket’s accused the Widow Moone.’
‘There’s a surprise,’ Barnaby said drily. ‘The widow’s mad as a bag of cats.’
‘Apparently there was some altercation between her and the Hocket girl. The widow tried to put a flower in her hair and the girl threw her off, calling her a dirty old woman. Goodwife
Hocket says the widow gave the girl a malevolent look and muttered something under her breath, and the day after she fell sick.’
‘Horseshit,’ Barnaby said. ‘According to Na— our maid, the sickness is caused by poisoned wheat. We’ve been eating potatoes and oats these past three weeks because
of it. I’m so sick of the stuff that frankly I’m prepared to take my chances with the witches.’
His laughter was cut short by the appearance of Mistress Rawbood, wringing a cloth between her hands.
‘Barnaby Nightingale!’ she gasped. ‘Do not invoke demons in my house, even in jest!’
‘Sorry, Mistress,’ Barnaby said. ‘I did not mean to offend.’
‘Yes . . . well . . .’ Griff’s mother blinked rapidly then disappeared back into the kitchen.
‘Mother believes the Widow Moone is a witch,’ Griff breathed when she had gone. ‘And last month she had a run-in with her: the old woman came here begging for our vegetable
peelings and Mother said no, so now she thinks we’re all doomed.’
Barnaby chuckled quietly but Griff’s smile seemed a little strained.
He leaned over to put another log on the fire but Griff stayed his hand.
‘Father says we must be careful,’ he mumbled. ‘The harvest was so bad we have little to sell. The store of wood we have will have to last all winter.’
This time Barnaby laughed out loud.
‘For goodness’ sake!’ he cried. ‘If you lack anything just tell me! We will have plenty to spare.’
‘Let’s hope so,’ Griff said. ‘These will be lean times all round.’
The days crawled by. It was too cold to do anything except hunker down by the fire, and Christmas was still weeks away. Naomi and Juliet worked their fingers to the bone,
struggling through with colds and chilblains and aching backs from constantly chopping logs and lugging them around. When Barnaby wasn’t stuck looking over figures with his father he helped
them out, and the atmosphere between himself and Naomi eased.
Remembering what Griff had said, one day he offered to take some logs over to their families. Juliet’s lived nearby and the errand was soon run, but the trudge up to the Waters’ farm
with the larger of the sacks on his back drained all the strength from him and once he was out of sight of the cottage he crouched down on his haunches and rested his head on his knees.
He didn’t know how long he stayed like that but after a while he noticed that he was shivering. Raising his head he saw that the sun was half gone behind the forest. He needed to get home
before the chill of night bit.
He was passing the church when a figure emerged and stepped into his path. He tried to sidestep but the boy moved to block his progress. It was the deaf boy, holding a brush that dripped yellow
paint onto the snow. This was the last thing Barnaby needed. By now he was extremely cold and had started to feel unwell. The boy was glaring at him.
He said something in a harsh tone, but his voice was so thick and flat Barnaby couldn’t make out his words.
‘W . . . what?’ Barnaby said, teeth chattering. ‘I c . . . can’t understand you.’
The boy took a breath and repeated himself, slower and more carefully.
‘You told my mother to get the rent and so she went to the forest to collect berries and holly to sell and she came back sick and next day she died. You killed her.’
Barnaby’s lip curled. ‘I didn’t kill your damn m . . . mother,’ he snapped, his teeth chattering. ‘It’s not my fault if you weren’t m . . . man enough
to support her.’
‘I told you to wait,’ the boy spat. ‘Until I was paid. Now I am.’
He drew out a bag from his pocket and threw it to the ground. It landed in the snow with a heavy thunk.
‘There,’ he said. ‘May it bring you nothing but sorrow.’
He went back into the church and slammed the heavy door.
So, the blue-eyed woman with the strands of golden hair was dead. It was no more his fault than the starvation of a pauper was the fault of the baker. Nevertheless, despite the cold, it was some
moments before Barnaby could bear to bend down and pick the money up, and when he did so it felt like a bag of lead. The blessing she had given him whispered in his head like wind stirring dead
leaves. His eyes blurred with tears and he knelt on the snowy ground and prayed for forgiveness.
‘Good God, son, you’re blue!’ his father cried as Barnaby struggled to close the door against the wind. ‘I don’t feel well,’ Barnaby said.
‘I’m going to bed.’
He lay staring up at the ceiling, unable to stop shivering despite the roaring fire in the grate and the huge weight of the blankets.
The widow was dead. Naomi had fed her warm porridge by the fire, but he had sent her out to die in the cold.
The blankets were suffocating and he tried to push them off, only to discover he had no strength in his arms. He tried to get up but only managed to roll off the bed, landing heavily on his
belly on the floor. His neck was so stiff he couldn’t move his head, could only stare at the chamber pot beneath the bed. The vivid greens and purples of its painted grapevine were so bright
they hurt his eyes. He tried to call out but he had no voice. The pot blurred. The vine uncoiled and stretched its tendrils out to engulf him.
He woke in bed. The room was dimly lit by a single candle and Naomi sleeping beside his bed.
He was freezing cold and his mouth was dry as paper.
‘Naomi,’ he croaked and she started awake. ‘I’m thirsty.’
She reached forward and touched his forehead with the back of her hand. She gave a laugh that was almost a sob, then composed herself and drew her shawl around her shoulders. ‘I must go
out and fetch your mother.’
‘Where is she?’
‘Abel’s back,’ she said.
‘What?’
‘He has come with another man, a Mr Hopkins, and two women. They are staying together at the Boar. He would not stay here. Not with sickness in the house.’
‘Sickness? Whose sickness?’
She stared at him. ‘Yours.’
‘What do you mean? I’m fine.’
He sat up and, apart from a little muzzy-headedness, he truly felt perfectly well.
As she leaned over to pull the blankets around his bare shoulders he noticed the dark rings around her eyes. The fingertips that brushed his flesh were ice-cold and he saw there was no fire in
the grate.
‘Why have you been sitting here in the cold?’ he said.
‘You’ve been at death’s door for a week,’ she said, taking the candle over to the fireplace and lighting the kindling. ‘Burning hot all over, even with no fire and
the windows open to let in the snow. Juliet and I have been taking turns to watch you.’
He sat up and rolled his stiff shoulders.
‘Your father has been beside himself. So many have fallen sick and died, we feared you would go the same way.’
She went to the window and closed it, then stood staring out into the blackness.
‘I try to tell them it’s the poisoned wheat but they won’t listen. They just make their charms and tuck their bottles of piss up the chimneys and think that will keep them safe
from attack from poor old ladies who have lost their wits.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Witches. The Hockets were the first, accusing the Widow Moone of murdering their daughter, and now anyone whose cow has died or whose child has a fever thinks they’ve been attacked
by diabolical forces. The poor old crone’s freezing to death in the dungeon of the manor house, then she will be transported to the gaol at Grimston. If she lives to the trial it will be a
miracle.’
Her drawn face was reflected in the black pane.
‘What evidence is there against her?’ he said.
‘Nothing but the claims of her accusers.’
‘No magistrate would convict on that, surely.’
But before she could answer, something struck the window-pane in front of her face. She screamed and sprang back. He tried to get out of bed but his legs collapsed beneath him. The thing struck
again and he scrambled along the floor on his knees to reach her. But then she was laughing.
‘It’s all right,’ she said. ‘It’s only Lolly, Juliet’s crow! She must have been neglecting him while we tended you. I’ll give him some milk.’
She reached up to open the window again but Barnaby cried out for her to stop. It might have been the story of the old women’s plight but he was overcome with a sense of dread at the great
black wings and beady eyes of the bird.
She helped him up and steadied him as he tried to stand. The bonnet was back on but a single chestnut curl peeped from beneath the lace. He hooked his finger around it and pulled it down to bob
above her eye.
‘That’s better,’ he said.
She stepped away from him too quickly and he fell back onto the bed. But before he could scold her for it she was out of the door, her hurried footsteps clattering down the stairs.
When his parents returned he was comfortably ensconced by the fire, full of hot, honeyed porridge and spiced cider.
They were speaking in low tones as they came through the door but stopped immediately when they saw him. His father gave a strangled cry and flew over to the chair, enfolding Barnaby in an icy
embrace. He smelled of whisky.
‘You’re better!’ he cried, slapping his cold hands on Barnaby’s forehead and chest before Barnaby swatted him away. He turned to his wife: ‘He’s quite well,
my love!’
His mother walked a few steps into the room then stopped. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. ‘Girls!’ she cried hoarsely. ‘Why did you not fetch us back?’
Juliet emerged from the kitchen, beaming. ‘His Royal Highness would not let us. He wanted it to be a surprise.’
His mother came across to him, bent down, and kissed him on the crown of his head. Her hand rested on his shoulder, and before he could stop himself he had reached up and grasped it. For a
moment their fingers were entwined, then she withdrew hers, walked over to the other chair and sank down, her head in her hands. Behind her head was the dark stain that had been there as long as
Barnaby could remember. As a child it had seemed to change shape: one day it was something as innocent as a bird’s wing or a teardrop, but at other times it became a narrowed eye or a claw.
Juliet would occasionally try to clean it off, but to no avail.
‘Are you well, Madam?’ Juliet said.
‘Quite well, Juliet, thank you,’ Frances said through a tangle of hair, and the maid vanished.
His father was babbling on: how long had he been awake and what had he eaten and had he pissed yet? Barnaby ignored him.
‘Mother?’ he said.
When she looked up her face was ashen.
‘What is it?’
‘Never mind, Frances,’ his father said quickly. ‘Don’t strain the boy.’
‘Tell me, Mother,’ Barnaby said. ‘Is my brother sick?’
‘No, no; he is perfectly well!’ Henry said loudly.
‘Only in his body,’ Frances said.
Barnaby waited for his father to refute this but Henry seemed to wilt, sinking down on the arm of the chair, his back bowed like an old man.
‘What do you mean?’ Barnaby said.
Frances raised her head and stared into the fire. Barnaby had got Juliet to build it up to a roaring white-hot inferno, and the glare stripped Frances’s face of its lines and shadows. It
was one of those times when Barnaby saw what she must have looked like when she was young: a strange little elf whose thoughts did not flow smooth and easy like his and his father’s, but who
seemed to see a deeper and more troubling reality.
‘Your brother has made an acquaintance with a man named Hopkins,’ she said eventually.
‘Yes,’ Barnaby said, frowning, ‘I heard. And they have brought two girls with them, I hear. Perhaps he has chosen marriage instead of the priesthood.’ He attempted a
grin, but if this was the case then his inheritance would have to be shared equally with Abel.
Frances did not smile.
‘It seems,’ she began, and she seemed to age before his eyes, ‘that this man Hopkins has come to Beltane Ridge for a reason.’
‘What reason?’ Barnaby said, and even as he spoke he knew he was not wholly better because the cold had already crept back into his bones.
Frances said, ‘Mr Hopkins calls himself “The Witchfinder General”.’
Barnaby laughed, glancing at his father, but the older man’s clear blue eyes were fixed on his wife. When his mother spoke again her voice was as cold as the flecks of ice on his
father’s sleeve. ‘Mr Hopkins is here to kill witches.’