‘Is he buried yet or can I see his body?’ she said again.
‘No . . . no,’ he mumbled. ‘He is not buried.’
‘Where is he? I want to go now.’
He stared at her stupidly. Now she could hear voices outside. Many voices. They were approaching the front door.
‘We only left him last night,’ Henry said.
Father Nicholas led the procession. It would not be far. Only the hunters went deep into the forest, laying their offerings to the fairy folk, to whom the place belonged, as
they went.
Henry and Frances went behind him. Their parents next. Her mother and father were pale but they stood tall and unashamed. Even they had not stopped this. As she walked out of the front door,
with as much dignity as her anguish allowed, her mother had whispered: ‘We all knew there was something wrong with him, darling, in time you will see this was the right thing . . .’
The smell of the midden heap began to reach them. It was the stench of human and animal excrement, rotting bones and oyster shells, vegetable peelings, the stinking waste from the furrier and
the tanner and the dyer. And laid on top of it all, like an offering to the god of foulness and disease: her darling child.
Though there was silence at the head of the group, those villagers bringing up the rear whispered to one another and occasionally there was a stifled laugh.
Father Nicholas began to chant.
‘Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, yet will I fear no ill. For Thou art with me. Thy rod and Thy staff comfort me . . .’
The trees murmured and bent their heads to another as they passed.
A knot of starlings burst, jeering, from a nearby tree.
The priest raised his voice:
‘Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies . . .’
A squirrel ran onto the path, rose up onto its hind legs and regarded them with sparkling eyes, before darting away.
‘Thou anointest my head with oil. My cup runneth—’
And then something flew into his mouth. He stopped abruptly and began coughing and spitting onto the path.
There were concerned pats on the back from those up front and titters from the back. But Frances stood apart from them all, listening.
The breeze died a moment and even the birds grew hushed.
There.
The priest still hacked away behind her but in the pauses between his coughs she heard it.
She walked forwards then stopped. If she was wrong; if it had been the chirrup of a bird or the cry of a fawn, her heart would not stand it.
It came again. Strong. Lusty.
Now they all heard it and a hush descended on the entire party. The forest fell still as every creature from the tiniest wood grub to the noblest stag listened.
With a strangled cry she ran forwards, crashing through the trees, the branches tearing out clumps of her hair and sharp twigs cutting her face.
It was the healthiest, strongest, most furious cry she had ever heard. She tore leaves and branches aside, stumbling and sliding on wet leaves. Now she could see the midden heap: a black mound
in the trees ahead.
The cries grew louder, as if the child knew salvation was at hand.
How had he survived the night? Had it been especially mild? Had the stink of dung masked his own scent while predators prowled around the foothills of the pile? Had the fairies protected
him?
Bursting through the final line of trees she began scrambling up the heap, her arms sinking into ordure, shards of pottery and jagged bones tearing at her clothes.
‘Barnaby!’ she shrieked.
She climbed higher and a fat arm came into view, the angry fingers clutching at air.
‘I am here!’
Now she could hear the rest of them behind her crying out in wonder,
God be praised! It’s a miracle!
And her husband calling her name, half laughing, half crying.
Now she could see the perfect hemisphere of his round belly above a tangle of blue cloth – naked: they had not even swaddled him properly – now his fat legs kicking. Fatter legs than
she remembered. Now the top of his head.
She stopped.
She stared at him.
Her limbs turned to ice.
The morning sun broke through the canopy above and shone a single beam of sunlight onto his body, making his hair flash. Like a halo.
Henry scrambled past her, stopped and gave a hoarse cry.
The child stopped crying.
Very slowly, like a fox approaching a hen house, Henry crawled to the top of the midden. Then he stopped and his beautiful lips parted. The child reached out its fat arms to him. Henry threw
back his head.
‘God be praised!’ he bellowed and the trees shook with his cry. ‘My son! My own true son is returned to me!’
He scooped the child up in his arms and held it aloft. Below her Frances heard gasps and cries of shock as the villagers of Beltane Ridge took in the sight: of the handsome young merchant with
the rich wife holding up, like an offering to God, his fine, bonny, pink-skinned, blond-haired son.
Frances felt herself falling backwards. The sky wheeled over her head and the trees lunged at her, and the last thing she saw was the bright yellow head of the boy that was not her son, glinting
like a brass nail in the sunlight.
The coney was plump and beautiful, with a peppery coat that glistened in the sunlight and eyes like pools of tar. Barnaby watched it from behind the trunk of the plane tree,
waiting for the right moment.
At present the animal was too near a tangle of brambles and would bolt to safety if it caught the movement of the bow. He needed it to come further out into the open, but so far it had ignored
the trail of grain he had left.
He was pleased with the bow. Since his and Abel’s tutor had been dismissed the previous year he’d had far more time to concentrate on the things he actually enjoyed. He’d
chosen yew because that was the wood Cromwell’s army used for their longbows. It was incredibly strong and even when the string was fully extended retained its perfect arc. Too good for
coneys. He would get his father to ask the baron’s steward if he could hunt hares in the forest.
The coney made a single, slow hop away from the brambles. Then another. Towards the grain trail.
He slid an arrow from the quiver on his back and the barely audible rasp was enough to make the creature’s ears prick. At this point, if Griff were here, the coney would be off; spooked by
Barnaby’s friend’s noisy breaths and inability to keep his clumsy limbs still. Hunting alone had its advantages, although mostly it was deathly boring. He’d have to get used to
it, however, because come harvest season all his friends would be busy on their parents’ farms.
Slipping the fletch beneath the string he slowly drew the arrow back. The shaft didn’t even tremble. He’d paid good money for these arrows and was glad he had done so. If he managed
to make a clean hole through the back of the animal’s neck he could make the fur into a hood for their housemaid Juliet. Thanks to his hunting skill Juliet was easily the best-dressed maid in
Beltane Ridge. Although now that the furrier was dead he’d have to cure the pelt himself, which wasn’t much fun.
The coney had found the grain trail, and now moved with the heedless abandon of greed, pale paws kicking up, pale tail flashing an invitation to any passing hawk.
Barnaby was about to release the arrow when a flash of white to his left caught his attention.
The other end of the trail he’d laid had been discovered too, but this animal was unlike any coney he’d seen before: it was pure white, with scarlet eyes and ears of the softest
pink. The sun shone through them, making them glow. It must be young because it was still plump, its coat flawless and glossy. Invisible whiskers twitched as it nibbled the grain.
Very slowly he revolved on his heels until the arrow was trained on the back of the creature’s plump neck.
Now this
would
be a gift for Juliet. Everyone would think it was ermine. He would have to keep the feet as proof she was not breaking the sumptuary laws: he was pretty sure servants were
only allowed to wear rabbit fur.
The white coney dipped its head for another helping of grain and he waited for it to raise it again.
The black shape came out of nowhere, startling him so much that he dropped the bow. The white coney’s shrill scream, like a child’s, was drowned out by guttural snarling, then
finally cut off altogether. Blood arced up into the blue sky and spattered down on the grass beneath the tree he was standing under.
Barnaby almost pissed his breeches. It was an alaunt. Most likely from the baron’s own dog pack. Only last year one of these vicious hunting dogs had got loose and torn apart a shepherd as
he tried to protect his flock. The man’s family had received generous compensation but the baron refused to have the dog destroyed, despite the fact that it now had a taste for human
flesh.
As the dog snorted and grunted its way through the coney’s innards Barnaby did not dare move a muscle. In the height of summer his hair merged with the golden corn, but it was late spring
and the corn was still green. Any movement would make him stand out against it as clearly as the rabbit. The dog threw its head back to swallow a chunk of meat and then, to Barnaby’s
shrinking horror, its black eyes fell upon him.
For what must only have been a few seconds they stared at one other, then Barnaby risked moving his eyes to see if the tree was climbable. The first decent branch was over six feet up. The beast
would be on him before he could even hook a leg over. He wouldn’t even have the chance to pick up the bow. He flicked his eyes back to the dog.
It was still looking at him.
A breeze stirred the leaves above him and whispered in the leaves of corn. It was an eerie sound and the dog’s ears twitched nervously. The seed balls of the plane tree danced in
Barnaby’s line of vision. If he snatched one down and threw it the dog might take fright; only for a second, but perhaps long enough for him to snatch up the bow. Slowly he reached up and
plucked one of them. But it was too ripe. It crumbled in his hand, the seeds drifting off on their parachutes of fluff. One sailed gently towards the alaunt, and to Barnaby’s surprise the dog
skittered back.
The wind blew stronger, and the seed pods danced more frantically.
He plucked another and crumbled it in his hand, then let the wind take it. This time the wisps of fluff flew quickly, forming themselves into a single waving line, like a trail of smoke or a
marching army.
The dog lowered itself onto its front legs and barked.
He picked another seed head and crumbled it. But he needn’t have bothered. As soon as the first seed struck the dog’s head, it let out a sharp whine, turned, and bolted. A moment
later it was just a dark speck racing through the pastureland in the direction of the manor house.
Barnaby exhaled in a sob. His tunic was wet with sweat and his legs were too wobbly to support him. He slid down the tree trunk and sank his head between his knees.
Eventually, after a drink from his waterskin and the hunk of pie Juliet had packed for him, his strength returned. He went over to the trail of grain, but all that was left of the coney were a
few scraps of bloody fur and the stink of fresh meat.
He stank too and the sun was giving him a headache.
In the distance the silver disc of the lake was too bright to look at. But however scorching the day its waters were always deliciously cool. He set off towards it.
The fields of rye and buckwheat he passed through would soon be ready for harvesting. His heart sank. Harvest time was always the most tedious part of the year.
The sun was low in the sky and he squinted into its red glare. Darting lights appeared at the edge of his field of vision and he paused to try and focus on them. As a child, before he realised
it was just light distortion, he’d imagined these were his fairy guardians. Very occasionally he dreamed he was being watched over by other presences and, despite what he had been told about
the spiteful and covetous nature of fairies, those in his dreams were warm and comforting.
In reality they could not have been, of course, because according to his father he had been so traumatised by his time in Fairyland that he was inconsolable for months afterwards. Those
difficult first few days of his life were rarely spoken of, and though he suspected his father was secretly proud to have outwitted the Little People, his mother would not have it mentioned in the
house. To Barnaby it was all simply an embarrassment: if anyone new came to the village he would be pointed out to them and the story whispered breathlessly in their ear.
He came to the tree where they had hanged the witch and its branch creaked as he passed: it always did, even on a windless day.
Eventually the fields were replaced by bulrushes. Mating dragonflies weaved around their drooping heads. Bees and butterflies bobbed in the wild flowers. The scent of them was heady in the warm
air, but as he picked his way to the lake edge the air cooled. The pounding in his temples diminished. Finding a firm section of bank he began undressing.
The insects soon left the yellow petals of the kingcups to creep amongst the gold hairs of his legs. He brushed them off and walked to the edge.
The lake was as clear as ice. Even further out, where it got much deeper, he could still make out the pale clay of the bed, flickering as brown trout or shadow-fish flashed by.
He bent his knees and dived gracefully into the water.
The first few seconds while his body adjusted to the sudden plummet in temperature were agony, but he forced himself to stay under until he was used to it.
Finally he broke the surface and set off at a brisk crawl to warm up. Soon he was enjoying the feel of the water rippling along his flanks. It was deliciously refreshing, and the meaty taste of
the pie was replaced by the clean, green taste of the lake.
As he swam the rushes and wild flowers thinned out and a moment later the Waters’ farm came into view. Farmer Waters’ fuzzy-headed daughter was sitting on the grass weaving a rush
basket while her brother played nearby.