Bloodie Bones

by Lucienne Boyce

  He was a little surprised himself. He could see the doctor’s praise of her skill pleased her, so why was he so ungracious about it?

  “He must be a very good man,” he allowed after a moment.

  They had reached the cottage by then. He had no excuse to linger, so bade her good day and loitered back to the forge.

  *

  The next morning, a pedlar with an enormous pack on his back trudged along the Bath Road. Dan thought nothing of it; pedlars came and went all the time. Shortly after, a cart laden with parcels of cloth, and the dismantled timber and awning for a stall, rumbled by. When a third merchant’s cart appeared with a musician sitting on the back tootling aimlessly on a flute, it was clear that something out of the ordinary was going on.

  “What’s it all about?” Dan asked.

  Singleton peered out of the forge door, recognised the musician, and waved.

  “They’re here for Drift Day on Wednesday.”

  “What’s Drift Day?”

  “The drift on Barcombe Heath. Couple of times a year Drake rounds up our livestock and counts them, makes sure we aren’t exceeding our quotas and that none are infected. I’ve got rights for one horse and five sheep. Dunnage runs them with his flock for me. Gives me a nice bit of extra income. Always a good day, is Drift Day. Most of us go up to the drift, and we always get a bit of a fair set up on the green. Afterwards is the Field Court in the Fox. That’s when Drake collects fines, listens to complaints, and reads out any new field orders.”

  “Who makes the orders?”

  “Drake recommends them, the lord of the manor confirms them. Though really Mudge and Drake decide things between them, and Lord Oldfield just says ‘Yes’ to whatever they put in front of him. That’s how the old Lord did things anyway, and Drake says his son is the same, though for different reasons. The father was happy to leave us to ourselves unless he was needed to settle a dispute. The son couldn’t care less about our sheep or cattle. Just as well. Don’t think we could stomach him interfering in the heath after what he’s done in the forest.” Singleton grinned. “Oh, and Warneford usually settles up with us on Drift Day.”

  “He’s coming here?”

  “Yes. He’ll be on the heath to look over any sick animals.”

  That was good news. Dan had been thinking about how he was going to get over to Kingswood to look for Bob Budd without exciting any curiosity. Something Warneford had said when they first met had given him an idea. The Kingswood Fair was the following Saturday, and Warneford knew a man who was putting on a fight. It should not be too late for Dan to challenge one of the supporting bouts, and it would be in keeping with the character he had presented to the villagers. With any luck he could get the match over quickly and concentrate on tracking down the arsonist.

  The traders set up camp on the green, and those who could afford it crowded into rooms at the Fox and Badger. More arrived on Tuesday. Ayres was busy all day sorting out arguments about pitches and driving mischievous children away. Wednesday came round and Singleton went off to the heath in the morning. Dan stayed at the forge doing a bit of tidying up and cleaning out the furnace.

  He had promised to walk Mrs Singleton to the fair. In honour of the occasion he put on clean stockings, one of his new shirts and scarf, gave his jacket a good shake, and wiped the dust off his shoes. Mrs Singleton wore all her finery, the glory of which was an old-fashioned black silk hat, rosetted and ribboned all over. She took his arm. They could have been mother and son strolling along the high street.

  The green was crowded with stalls, tents and shies. The smell of meat frying and cakes baking set the mouth watering, and the tunes from fiddle, drum and flute set the feet tapping.

  “No wonder you miss the Fence Month festival,” he said, “if it was anything like this.”

  “It was nothing like this,” Mrs Singleton said sadly. “Then the stalls went all along the High Street, the gypsies came to play music for us, and there was dancing all night. The mummers’ procession to the wood was a wonder! Still,” she added, her face lighting up at the sight of the draper’s stall, “this isn’t bad.”

  He fidgeted while she sorted through the bolts of printed cotton and lengths of linen, murmuring to herself, “This would make a good shirt for Mr Singleton. I could get an apron out of this piece. This would do for my niece Becky.”

  He caught sight of a red checked apron moving between the stalls, and all at once his chivalrous feelings towards his companion deserted him. He left her to manage her purchases as she could and caught up with Anna.

  “Mr Fielding. Dan. You’re not at the drift?”

  “Counting sheep isn’t really my idea of a good time.”

  She laughed, and stopped at a stall selling ribbons. After some deliberation she bought a yard.

  “It can’t be very interesting for you watching a woman buy ribbon,” she said as the man wrapped it up.

  “It makes a change from ploughs and horseshoes.”

  As a matter of fact, he liked looking at her as her eyes flickered over the fabrics, her fingers gauged their quality, and her thoughts were absorbed in balancing what she needed with what she could afford.

  “I’ve got some pretty lace, missus,” the mercer said, unfolding a piece of white fabric. “Look lovely around a cap, this would. Three shillings the yard.”

  “It would, but it’s too expensive.”

  “I’ll do you a special price. Two shillings and sixpence.”

  She hesitated, but “No, thank you.”

  They moved away from the stall. “I’ve finished for the day,” she said.

  “Is Walter here?”

  “I don’t think he’s of an age to enjoy marketing with his mother any more. He’s gone over to his uncle’s in Stonyton. He’s got friends there he’s been neglecting of late: good, steady lads…Are you going to the Field Court?”

  “I thought I would see what it’s all about. I gather it starts at five o’clock.”

  “Yes, and goes on a bit longer than it should for some of the men.”

  They came to a halt in the middle of the street between the forge and the rectory.

  “Well,” she said, turning towards the road beside the church, “I’m going this way.”

  “I think I’ll go up to the drift after all. I’ll walk with you. I just have to run back for something. Will you wait for me?”

  “I can find my way home, Mr Fielding.”

  He held up his hand. “Five minutes. No, three.”

  He left her sitting on the wall by the lychgate and sprinted back to the mercer’s stall.

  “I’ll have that bit of lace.”

  “It’s fine Nottingham lace, a very good buy. Four shillings.”

  “Wait a bit! It was two shillings and sixpence five minutes ago.”

  “To the lady, yes.”

  “Reduced from three shillings.”

  “Give me three and six.”

  “I’ll give you two shillings and sixpence.”

  “I’ll starve!” he grumbled, not very convincingly, and gave in with a wink. “I hope she likes it.”

  Dan shoved the packet in his pocket and hurried back. She had taken off her straw hat and was twirling it about in her lap. She rose when she saw him and put the hat on. He carried the basket and they sauntered along the lane, chatting of this and that. The trees were beginning to turn golden and were full of little chirrupings and rustlings. After a while they emerged from a strip of woodland onto the edge of the heath. The sound of men shouting and whistling, sheep bleating, and cattle lowing floated across the gorse.

  She pointed. “The drift is that way.”

  “I’ll carry the basket down the track for you.”

  “There’s no need.”

  “It’s heavy.”

  When she had her hand on the door latch he slipped the lace into
the basket. His plan was to be well away before she found it, but she was too observant.

  “What’s this?” she exclaimed, unwrapping the parcel. “That lace!”

  “Got to get to the drift,” Dan muttered, attempting a retreat.

  “Is this what you went back for?”

  “You seemed to like it.”

  “I did like it. But I can’t accept it from you.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s a fairing.”

  “A what?”

  “A fairing is a gift from a man to – to – ”

  “A woman? It’s a fairing then.”

  *

  It had been stupid to give in to the impulse, but good to find out how it felt to make a gift without it being spoiled by the ungraciousness of the recipient. Nothing had ever pleased Caroline: “Didn’t they have it in a different colour?” Or, “It’s very nice, but I don’t suppose I’ll ever wear it.” Or, “I suppose one of the cheaper ones will have to do.” It would be better still to be able to give something to Eleanor without worrying about what Caroline would say if she found out.

  He went back to the village and hung around the forge. Mrs Singleton came home. She had made a cake for the holiday and looked on contentedly while he ate. She chatted about the traders: those who were new to Barcombe; those who were old, familiar faces; those who had put their prices up or the quality of their goods down. Singleton would have shut her up, but Dan did not mind. He never knew what he might learn from letting gossips run on.

  The church clock struck five. Footsteps clattered outside, and the sounds of men joking and laughing, some singing, came in through the open door. They were on their way down from the heath, ready for a cooling pint in the Fox.

  “Thanks for the cake, Mrs S,” Dan said, picking up his hat. “See you later.”

  He stepped out into the shadows lengthening across the yard. As he vaulted the gate, he glanced back towards the door. She was gazing after him, much as Anna Halling had gazed after Walter the other night. He gave a cheery wave. She turned away slowly, as if her knees and hips pained her, and started to clear away the dishes.

  *

  “There’s someone waiting for you,” Buller muttered, jerking his head at a closed door off a side passage.

  Warneford was sitting in a corner of a small parlour, writing in his pocketbook. A fire burned in the hearth. It had not been going long; the little-used room was cold and smelt musty.

  Warneford did not look up from his calculations. Dan sat at the table, put his beer down beside him, and stared into the fire. From the crowded bar came the rapping of coins on the counter, the men’s impatient shouts.

  “Come on, Buller, you’ve got a room full of thirsty men here!”

  Dan recognised Singleton’s voice, and a moment later the door opened and the smith lumbered in. His face was red with more than the sun and wind: he had been taking his turn as the cider jugs circulated up among the gorse.

  “Dan! You missed it.”

  “I fell asleep.”

  “Never mind. Have a drink.”

  “I’ve got one.”

  Warneford closed his book.

  “Good business today?” Singleton asked Warneford as he sat down.

  “It would have been better if the stock had needed any attention,” Warneford answered.

  Singleton grinned. “Animal doctors are like physicians – only happy when there’s sickness and disease.”

  “At least we don’t make our patients worse for the sake of a fat fee.”

  “No, I’ll say that for you. But never mind, Warneford. You’ve other ways of making a living! Ah, here’s Dunnage now.”

  Dunnage joined them, Abe at his heels. A moment later, in sidled Travell. The poachers gathered expectantly around Warneford, who had drawn a purse out of his pocket. He started to open it, then said, “There’s one missing.”

  “Walter’s given up the game,” said Dunnage.

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Because his mother asked him,” Abe said scornfully.

  “What about his share?” asked Warneford.

  “What share? Why should he get anything?” Abe demanded.

  “It won’t take nothing out of your pocket,” Dunnage said. “The lad should have his due.”

  “Is that what you all say?” asked the man with the purse.

  Travell cleared his throat. “Abe may have a point. The boy made it clear he didn’t want anything more to do with it.”

  This from the defender of the poor man’s rights! Dan did not argue, though. Best that Walter did not take poachers’ coin. He said, “I don’t think he should have the money.”

  “Me neither,” said Abe.

  “Nor me,” said Travell.

  “The vote’s against you, Dunnage.”

  The farmer shrugged. Losing the argument meant a little more for the rest of them.

  “And how do you like the work, Fielding?” Warneford asked when the money had been pocketed.

  “Well enough, but I’d like to find a way of making a bit extra.”

  “Do you have anything in mind?”

  “You mentioned Kingswood Fair. Is it too late to do anything?”

  Warneford leaned forward eagerly. “You mean you want to go a round?”

  “Dan!” Singleton exclaimed. “You never told me you were thinking of it. The Champion of Barcombe – the Barcombe Bruiser! That’s it – the Barcombe Bruiser! I’ll put my money on you.”

  “Hold on,” Warneford cut in. “You are sure, Fielding? Because if I’m to go to any of the other backers with a challenge, I need to know you will turn up on the day.”

  “I’ll bring him on Saturday morning,” Singleton said. “Better yet, I’ll let you take him with you tomorrow. I’ll lend him a horse. That way you can keep an eye on our investment.”

  “That will give me time to do some training,” Dan said. “A couple of long walks, swing some weights. In fact, I’ll walk to Kingswood tomorrow. What is it, fifteen miles?”

  Singleton laughed. “Can’t face going a-horseback, eh, Dan?”

  “It’s true I don’t care for riding,” Dan admitted, “but it so happens that pedestrianism is the best training there is.”

  “You can walk all the way on your hands for all I care,” Warneford said, “as long as you get there. I take rooms at The Rose and Crown.”

  “What about the magistrates?” Dan asked.

  Warneford laughed. “They know better than to interfere.”

  So it was all arranged, and now they could hear Drake calling the meeting to order in the other room.

  Chapter Fourteen

  They joined the rush to get in more ale, then Drake rang a little hand bell, and eventually everyone gathered around the table where the field officer presided. Pip Higgs sat next to him, giving off the pungent scent of the byre. Drake called out the names of those who owed fines, and one by one they brought him their money. Drake entered the amount in his book before passing Pip his share for running the village pound.

  It seemed there was no one in the village who did not owe for some transgression on the heath. Dan’s mind was beginning to wander when a murmur of astonishment brought it back. The rat-catcher, Davy Cottom, stood in front of the table, counting out his coins.

  “Are you going to settle last year’s fine as well?” Drake asked as everyone jostled to get a view of Cottom’s cash.

  The little man grinned, treating them to a view of his rotten teeth. “Outright.”

  “Don’t think that means you can bring your scabbed sheep back to the common.”

  “You can save your sermons. I won’t be grazing sheep on Barcombe Heath any more. I’ve sold up – house, cattle, everything. I’m off out of here to start a tobacco business in Bath.”

&
nbsp; “Well, ain’t you the swell!” Abe called, preening himself on the laughter of the silly young men who clustered about him.

  Cottom agreed with a complacent nod. From hunting vermin to opening his own shop – that was a big step for any man. Dan had seen his house too. Selling it would not have raised enough to buy a shed, let alone set up in business in a fashionable city.

  “Who’s the buyer?” Travell asked.

  “Lord Oldfield.”

  “What’s he want with a tumbledown cottage with an acre of land attached to it?” Travell asked.

  “It doesn’t even border on the estate,” Dunnage pointed out.

  “Nor is it in the way of the spring for that bloody lake of his,” added Singleton.

  “Now then, gentlemen!” from constable Ayres. “Let’s have a bit of respect. That’s His Lordship you’re talking about.”

  No one wanted to be reported by the constable for speaking out of turn and the fuss died down, though the mystery remained. What could Lord Oldfield want with Cottom’s place?

  Since no one knew, Drake moved on to the next business. He outlined the tasks to be done on the common over the autumn: ditches drained, pools cleared, thistles pulled up. The men smoked, drank, and nodded their agreement. The meeting wound up and there was a surge of movement towards the bar.

  “Hold up!” Singleton roared, banging his tankard on the table. “Warneford here has an announcement to make.”

  Warneford waved his hand. “You tell them.”

  Singleton hauled Dan to his feet. “This, gentlemen, is the Barcombe Bruiser, and Warneford is backing him to fight at Kingswood Fair on Saturday!”

  “What are the odds?”

  “I’ll give you four to one on.”

  “Who’s the opposition?”

  “The book will open on Saturday,” Warneford said, “when I know who he’s up against.”

  Singleton yanked up Dan’s arm. “Three cheers for the Bruiser!”

  They cheered and applauded, then they drank Dan’s health. Ayres joined in the toast, but as soon as the noise died down, he gulped his beer and slunk out of the tavern.

  Girtin sucked noisily at his empty glass. Dan passed him some coins. “Here, get yourself a drink.”