When he’s in her presence, he can think of little else. It is not some fleshly attraction, as he has felt for other girls – God help him, it cannot be that. She is not pretty or womanly. Her face is plain, her manner cold. She seems to think herself apart, better than him, and though the world might see it so, he does not. In fact, he recognises her aloofness for what it is: a mask. What is it, then, that has consumed him, so he finds himself studying her, painfully aware of her proximity, or lack of it, and, despite his better self, craving some sign from her?
Perhaps it is simply that he’s never known another like her. He thinks of Gretchen, as he always does; he cannot help but compare every woman to her. He remembers the dimpled plumpness of her backside, thighs parted, the tang of her on his tongue, recalls her complicated expression when they parted, and feels the usual stirring of desire and guilt: still potent, even now.
But with Mercy it is different. It is nothing so base as that. As the days slip by, he becomes more convinced that the affinity he senses is God-given proof: in her he has found what he has been seeking. There is a strange stretching and bending of time that occurs with such meetings. There is a before – as he shifts his stiffening cock, he is only too aware of that – but it seems remote and indistinct in the after.
He takes the letter from his pocket, runs his fingers along its folds and studies the seal: an interlocked double B with a curled tail, impressed into the scarlet wax. He had noticed the signet the moment she gave the letter into his hands. Now, he stares at the arched backbones and fat round bellies of the letters, a weird churning in his chest: he knows this mark. He recognises it.
He breaks the seal and reads:
Dear Sir,
I beg you to accept my sincere apologies for my absence at yesterday’s proceedings. I must urgently enquire whether you were so good as to bestow the usual prayers and blessings upon my house and lands, for I cannot find out the truth of it among my people. You will understand how essential it is to the safety and prosperity of all within my care and I trust that I will hear upon your reply that our Blessed Lord protects us all for another year. If not then I must have you here again to perform that rite upon your earliest convenience.
With humble respect,
Bartram Booth
Ellis stands and holds the letter over the fast-flowing water, the curled script of Booth’s signature like a taunt. He makes a fist, crumpling the paper, feeling the wax seal crack to fragments in his palm. For so long those intertwined letters had meant something else. He feels the blackness of the past begin to rise: anger, dark and consuming. He cannot afford to let it overtake him now. It is too soon to take that risk.
If he fails to deliver the letter there will be questions. He steadies himself, mind alive with his own: Does this confirm his suspicions? Is Booth the one to blame? And why is the old man so concerned with spiritual protection? What does he fear will happen if he does not receive it?
He takes a deep breath, looks about him to check he is still alone, then flattens the paper, folds it, and sets off towards the village.
Later, he drinks. The liquor is sharp, abrasive and stinks like the cattle trough it was probably made in. It burns Ellis’s throat, heating him in a way that the smouldering peat in the brazier cannot. Booth provides them with small ale but he’s grateful for his first taste of spirits in weeks. He craves the comfort of it, longs for the liquidity of limbs, the gradual sink into silent contemplation, though there is not much hope of that now: drink makes Bestwicke and Ravens more talkative than usual.
While Ravens becomes lewd and boastful, it takes John Bestwicke a different way. For half an hour he’s been recalling his youth, eyes gleaming with sentiment, but he’s moved on now to his years as a soldier and the rosy sheen has gone, replaced by something baleful and unsettling.
‘You young ’uns don’t understand what it was like to fight for something you believed in,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘It was everything to us – life or death. It gave a man a higher purpose, to be fighting for God and country. We prayed before every battle. It didn’t matter how much drinking and whoring went on between times – and the Lord knows most of us had to be drunk to fight – we always prayed before we took to the field. Lord, how we prayed!’ He raises his cup to the sky, toasting the heavens. ‘It’s not the same, these days. So long as you’ve a warm bed, a hot dinner, and enough pay to get drunk once in a while, you’re happy. Selfish and lazy, that’s what we’ve become, God help us, just like our king.’
Ravens is eager, bottle swinging from his fist, knuckles gripped white. ‘Did you ever kill a man?’
Bestwicke shrugs. ‘Hard not to when you’re on the field and they’re all trying to kill you. I was in Fairfax’s Foot. I’d no musket to hide behind and no horse to raise me from the fray. It was pikes and swords and whatever we could lay our hands on in those early days. By Christ, for a time, when I first joined up, I had to make do with a club and a butcher’s knife.’
‘What does it feel like? To kill a man?’
Bestwicke takes a long draw on his pipe.
Ellis watches a coil of smoke drift upwards, mingling with the grey smog in the rafters, and waits for Bestwicke’s answer.
‘At the time, it felt like nothing, lad.’
‘But to put a blade in a man . . . to know you’ve ended him. That must be something,’ Ravens says.
‘Sounds like you’ve a fancy for it.’
‘You must’ve felt . . . powerful.’
‘Tell me, how many times have you killed a sheep, a rabbit or a chicken?’
‘Plenty. Or oftentimes my brood would not eat.’
This is the first mention of any offspring and Ellis is surprised: so the man is married, an adulterer as well as a drunkard. Does she know?
‘And it’s no more than that at the time,’ Bestwicke explains. ‘You can’t think on them as men. We’re feeble beings, as easily ended as a new lamb, and it’s not difficult to kill a thing that’s trying to kill you. But afterwards . . . it’s different afterwards . . .’
Ellis is interested now. He leans forward, beckoning for the bottle from Ravens. ‘How so?’
Bestwicke considers. ‘Some men are born soldiers. They kill and never think on it at all. Some glory in it. But others do not. Others kill because they’ve no choice and they carry it with them – the memory – the knowledge of the lives they ended.’ By the regret in Bestwicke’s eyes, it’s clear he’s one of them. ‘You find yourself thinking on their sweethearts and their mothers, pondering on their little ’uns. You find out it’s not the same as slaughtering a hog for the spit or twisting the neck of a chicken. But you only find out when it’s too late.’
‘Even when what you’ve done is right?’ Ellis asks. ‘Even when it’s God’s work?’
Bestwicke sighs. ‘God’s work? Aye, we thought as much. Our killing was done in the name of justice, freedom and the Lord. There were many would’ve made themselves a Joshua or a David, but you suffer for it in the end.’ He looks thoughtful, staring up into the night sky. ‘“Whoso sheddeth man’s blood, by man shall his blood be shed.”’
Ravens takes back the bottle, drinks and grins, greedy for more. He does not seem to notice the older man’s melancholy. ‘You must’ve killed a few to get through unhurt.’
‘Not unhurt. Marston Field was my last fight. I was injured there and after that was too sick to fight again. In truth, I didn’t want to go back. I was glad to leave the bloodshed to others.’ He puts a hand on his thigh and rubs the muscle there – an action of unconscious habit.
Ravens is impressed. ‘Ah, what it must have been to be part of that great victory, to have routed the Royalists from Yorkshire. I must shake your hand, John.’ He leans over and does so. ‘I had an uncle under Cromwell, killed at Dunbar.’
‘We all lost someone in those years.’
‘It was before I was whelped but m
y mother talked about him till the day she died. He was a hero to her.’
Bestwicke gives Ravens a sudden kick to the ankle.
‘What?’
He nods to the doorway, where Bartram Booth leans up against the big oak doorpost, watching and listening.
It’s the first time Ellis has seen the master up close. He’s spoken of as a formidable man, so he’s surprised to see how old he looks, how stooped and grey-haired, how ashen-faced and rheumy-eyed. The three men fall silent as Booth comes forward.
‘Of what are we talking, gentlemen?’
Bestwicke stands. ‘We were talking of the old war, Master. Will you join us by the fire?’ He clears a space on a sack of grain but Booth does not sit. He hovers next to the brazier.
‘A sad topic indeed, and not one I have occasion to talk of often.’
‘Do you remember it well? With respect, sir, my guess is that you were of an age to fight.’
‘I was . . . I was . . . but I did not fight. I was too much engaged with business at that time. Too much engaged . . . But you are a veteran, I think, John?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘It’s good to have fighting men about you in times like these.’
‘Been a long time since I was a fighting man, Master. I’ve contented myself with the farming life for many years. I was just telling these two young ’uns, seems nothing much to fight for, these days.’
Booth frowns. ‘On the contrary, John. There’s always something to fight for. I’ll concede we live a quiet kind of life here and have not much to do with matters of King and Parliament. The fight that concerns me is the battle for our eternal souls. You’ll understand, John, that men of our years must be prepared. Satan’s army is the one we must concern ourselves with now.’
The men are silent. Ellis studies Booth as he stares into the fire. Perhaps there is something of the man he imagined after all, in the jut of his brow, the loose-fitting coat, as if it had been made for a bigger, prouder man, a fierceness about his stare. He thinks of the letter he slipped beneath the door of the pastor’s cottage, and Booth’s desperate plea. What is it that the old man fears so much? He recalls the waxy seal beneath his fingers, the intertwined double B, the choking recognition creeping over him.
Booth shakes himself from his reverie. ‘It was all such a long time ago. This quiet life suits me better. I never was one for war-making, John, though I do remember how it was. These young ones will not understand your stories. They don’t remember how it was back then. They will not recall the fire that consumed us all.’
But Booth is wrong. Ellis does remember.
He remembers cobbles beneath his feet running red with blood. He remembers an upturned barrel of offal, spilling across the street from the shambles and not being sure if the guts were those of beasts or men. He remembers the thunder of cannon fire and chunks of stone falling, splintering like earthenware pots. He remembers horses that seemed huge, snorting and sweating, as though they would breathe flames. He remembers the men on their backs with blank, iron faces. He remembers people running, shouting, screaming, and the warm wet piss seeping down his leg.
He remembers arms lifting him and someone – a woman – saying, ‘Don’t cry . . . don’t cry,’ and not being sure if she was talking to him because he had not known he was crying. He remembers how tightly she held him and the chafe of a bone in her stays that had broken free of its seam and stuck into his leg as she ran.
Yes, he remembers exactly how it was.
Chapter 10
Weeks run by.
Ellis stands high on the fell and looks out over the chimneys of Scarcross Hall, down the mud-black snake of the coffin path to the crossroads, the crooked boundary stone beckoning like a finger, and across the valley to the distant hills beyond. Already he’s beginning to feel a bond with this landscape. White, pillow-plump clouds chase across an expanse of blue, grey-edged and rain-tainted, as if stained by coal smoke from the towns to the east. Every so often the sun breaks through. Up here the wind has a bite, redolent of winter and far-off storms. It pinches and raises the skin, then the sun soothes it. He takes off his hat and lets the breeze shift his hair, feels it drag at his beard, whisper against his eyelashes. The warmth ripples over him, bathing him from head to toe.
He’s reminded of the sea – he saw it once. He stood on a beach, in the surf up to his hips, felt the push-pull of the waves and the tight salt-sting in his eyes. He had pissed where he stood and enjoyed the momentary heat as it curled around his legs, before the current eventually snatched it away. Today’s sunlight has that same caressing quality. He enjoys the promise these early bright days bring, with lambing behind them and the knowledge that summer is almost here.
A bark from the dog draws him back.
Mercy suggested that he take the creature, which surprised him. She’s possessive of the dog and proud of its loyalty. But it makes sense to have a helpmate out on the fell, and Garrick has the other dog, Flint, with him. Garrick and Ravens have taken two dozen shearlings to sell at the May Day fair in Halifax and will be gone at least three days. Bestwicke, mending walls on the northern slopes, has no need of company.
He likes this time of year, when the lambs are gone to grass, starting to get fat and strong, and there’s nothing much to do except watch and think. His practised eye can spot signs of trouble – an ailing wether or a grass-poisoned lamb – from a hundred paces, but a dog is always useful for snaring strays and can get into nooks and burrows that a man cannot. Besides, the animal seems to like him, responding well to his whistles and calls. They work together in a way that is unusual without years of training and trust. He feels proud of this and childishly triumphant that the dog will go to him when it will not go to Ravens.
Not a week since, Ravens had tried. He’d asked her if he could take the dog out with him. Ellis saw her hesitancy and the way she wouldn’t meet Ravens’s eye. But Ravens pleaded – he sneers to remember it – went up to her, lifted his fingers to stroke her cheek, grazing her breast, before she batted him away. She had glanced at Ellis, to see if he’d noticed the intimacy, and said: Oh, very well. Take her.
But the dog would not go to him. Bracken sat by the barn, tail sweeping the dirt, ignoring Ravens’s attempts to seduce, then trotted to Mercy in flat refusal. But she comes to Ellis with no question.
He does not understand the hold that Ravens seems to have over their mistress. There must be some reason she would let a man like that use her in such a way. He knows how it is between them, no matter how she tries to hide it. He knows where Ravens goes when he leaves the barn in the pitch black of night. He reads it in Bestwicke’s silence and in the way Ravens returns, shifting himself about inside his breeches. He’s heard them, once or twice, on his own night-time wanderings, the slow circuit of the Hall he makes when he cannot sleep. Or, at least, he’s heard him – there is never any sound from her.
If she were a different sort of woman he might feel sorry for her – he understands the things some women must do to survive – but he cannot find that sympathy in himself. In every other respect she seems strong, self-sufficient, so why this weakness? The thought of them together repulses him. He’s known many men like Ravens – men who are too shallow and too weak to rise above the urge to rut anything, any time they can. They are so many, those men who seek it out, who will lie and joke and brag about it, who see their conquests as proof of their manhood, their strength, when in fact it’s quite the opposite. There are the self-righteous ones – the ones who swear chastity, pretend they are better than that, only to find themselves fallen back in some filthy stew, begging for it, paying for it, or just taking it, with fists and threats, because they cannot help themselves. He considers these men pitiful animals with no self-control, no better than rutting hogs. Then there are those who come with some romantic notion, some pretence of love, who wheedle and worship before their chosen female idol, but when it come
s to it only want the same thing – to stick their swollen cocks into a slippery hole, all thoughts of higher sentiment, honour and consequence cast aside for a fleeting moment of escape from the hate they feel for themselves.
He has seen them all, knows them for what they are and despises them.
He feels anger rise in him now as he thinks of her with a man like that. Perhaps she’s no better than the rest of her sex for allowing it, even welcoming it, when she has no need. Why does she give away what others would sell? But she is a woman so she is weak, more susceptible to the Devil’s temptations than he. What had he expected? Something more. He had hoped for someone better than the rest of the squalling, fornicating masses. Someone more like him. He is angry with her too.
The dog barks again and he turns to follow the sound. Bracken is up on higher ground near the White Ladies, a small brown streak amid the wavering sea of cotton grass, growling and snapping at something he cannot see. He puts his hat back on and makes his way towards her through the peat hags.
The sun hides behind clouds. A curlew starts up from the heather in a burst of squawks and feathers. There is a nest cradled at his feet, three small speckled eggs nestled there, like the crowns of three tiny skulls. He has almost trodden on it.
He sees what has disturbed the dog from several paces: a dead lamb.
Its body has been torn at the belly, a great chunk of guts missing, as if something has taken a bite out of it. Its legs and head are untouched, eyes open and glassy, jaw hanging. Most likely it did not die immediately but lingered, suffering, while life leaked from its innards. He stares at it, unease shifting in his belly.
Bracken is off, heading towards the stones, and he sees, perhaps twenty feet away, another still white fleece.
The Coffin Path_'The perfect ghost story' Page 7
