‘Marpot hauled that priest out at Buckland,’ he said abruptly.
‘You were there?’
‘Saw as much as I needed. If you lend the Devil a finger you owe God a hand. That's Marpot's way. He carries a block on the back of a cart. He would have had your Father Yapp if it weren't for Lady Lucy. She kicked up a right fuss. You can imagine.’
John grinned. He could.
From time to time, John heard faint cries. A noise like wheels creaking came and went. They rounded a copse of trees then climbed a stile and walked across a field.
‘Abel, where are we going?’
‘Look over there.’
In the corner stood the broken-down well. John stared, his head throbbing. They must have walked in a circle, he supposed. How long could this night last?
‘Reckon you can hit it from here?’ asked Abel, rattling his bag of stones. ‘Keep your elbow high, remember? Give your wrist a flick at the end. Like this.’
He launched a pebble that flew fiat and straight to crack against the well. Then John chose a pebble, the stone feeling oddly light. He threw and the well seemed to draw the stone to it.
‘There you go,’ said Abel encouragingly. ‘That's it, John.’
John's head had begun to throb again but he no longer cared as Abel held his arm at the required angle. They were back in Buckland. It was just like the old days. But no children were sick. No torches surrounded their hut. No flames lit up the night. Abel took off his hat and jammed it on John's head.
‘You're going to be all right, John,’ Abel said. ‘Like in Buccla's Wood when your ma wouldn't wake up. Or the Manor when Sir William came down those stairs. Same here.’
John's head was pounding now. How could Abel know what happened in Buccla's Wood? Or the kitchen? He tried to frame the question but his fatigue rose in a black wave. He closed his eyes and found he could not open them again. It was too late to ask Abel now. Too late to ask anything. He was sinking deeper. Falling again. Then he felt himself land.
The ground was hard as a board, lurching and jolting against his back. A terrible stench filled his nostrils. The wet winding-sheet smell wrapped itself about him. His eyes opened.
A single eye stared into his own, dangling from a head slashed ear to jaw. Other corpses pressed down on his limbs. He was trapped beneath a jumble of arms, legs and heads, all mangled, cut, slashed or pierced. They were loaded together on a cart. The cart stopped and John began to struggle. He looked up through a gap in the limbs. A face swung into view.
‘This one's alive.’
“. . . remember in these Dishes those Times when a pickled Fish and a Bowl of Gruel was a Benison for a Lord . . .”
From The Book of john Saturnall: A Feast to commemorate the Accession of our late Lord High Protector, Oliver Cromwell, Gentleman
f those Multitudes who marched in the late Wars, the most Part were divided upon Naseby Field. For there did many fall, blown apart by Cannon or cut in twain by Swords, never to rise again except as Phantoms to guide the Living or as old Souls when the four Trumpets blow. Some were carried off in Tumbrels or Carts. Others limped or were borne away by their Comrades. Some rode from the blood-stained Sward upon a stolen Horse. Others marched as Victors.
But among all these One did rise higher than all the Rest, being our first Minister as it came to pass, who was christened plain Oliver Cromwell.
Armed with Flintlock and Bible, he did preach an unfamiliar Lesson to the Nation. That there was no Christmas, nor May-feast, nor Hocktide, nor Feast or Fast. Indeed he eschewed all such Luxuries. Then Oysters were mixed with Crumbs and Dukes did seek their Dinners in the Hedgerows or they fled to the Garrets of Paris.
Find here, therefore, a Feast for that One who would have None, calling it a Papist Invention, and remember in these Dishes those Times when a pickled Fish and a Bowl of Gruel was a Benison for a Lord and a Drop-apple was Supper enough for the fattest Bishop . . .
A GUST OF WIND BLEW up the slope, rustling the dark crowns of the trees. Standing watch on the gatehouse, Simeon Parfitt heard the charred stubs of the gates creak as they shifted in the breeze. The red-eyed youth yawned and glanced across at the opposite turret where He-sekey's thin body was silhouetted against the pre-dawn sky.
Another two hours to breakfast, thought Simeon shuffling his feet on the planks and shivering in the pre-dawn chill. His stomach grumbled in expectation of the bowl of thin porridge.
Lady Lucretia had insisted that the gatehouse stay manned. ‘Lest our enemies mistake the Manor for one of their churches and sing their psalms on the lawn,’ as she had put it. But when the Militia had arrived, Buckland's sentries had offered scant resistance.
Simeon remembered the black-cloaked ruffians running through the corridors, smashing glass and daubing crosses, hauling armfuls of papers from Mister Pouncey's rooms before dragging the steward outside. The hangings they could not hide had fed a bonfire whose black scar still marked the lawn. Then their women had tumbled the stained wooden block from its cart and their colonel had hauled Yapp from the chapel.
That scene glowed hotly in Simeon's thoughts. A manacle had been nailed into the bloodstained wood. Yapp had soiled himself as they clamped his hand in the metal, the dark stain spreading out from his crotch. Their colonel had denounced him, his blue eyes wild. The axe had risen. Then Lady Lucretia had forced her way to the front . . .
A sharp crack resounded out of the trees, rousing Simeon from his thoughts. Little enough traffic arrived at Buckland Manor by day, let alone before dawn. A fox, Simeon decided. Or a badger. He wrapped his thin cloak more tightly about him. But then, at the bottom of the hill, a figure stepped out from the trees.
On the east turret, Hesekey leaned out to stare.
‘See that?’ he hissed.
‘I do,’ Simeon replied with more assurance than he felt.
A lean man clad in a long coat stood in the road, a slouch hat pulled down over his face. As the youths watched, he began to walk up the track. With a nod to Hesekey, Simeon climbed down. They stood together beneath the smoke-blackened archway.
‘What's he want?’ whispered Hesekey.
‘How should I know?’ Simeon whispered back.
In the weeks after Naseby, bands of ragged soldiers had crept home along the drovers’ tracks. But the last of those had passed by months ago. A few beggars still came in hope of the dole-boxes in the yard. But the dole-boxes had been empty since the first winter. Perhaps a fugitive from the Militia, wondered Simeon. But the dark figure walked with an air of greater purpose.
‘He has no sword,’ Hesekey offered hopefully. ‘Can you see a sword?’ Simeon shook his head then looked back at the darkened hulk of the house. The remaining servants would be asleep inside, huddled on mattresses made of sacks stuffed with straw. No one slept in the outbuildings now, not Diggory in his dovecote or the maids in the dairy; not even Barney Curle in the servants’ yard. Only the Heron Boy kept his place in the shed by the ponds, grinning a mute refusal when Mister Bunce had tried to order him up to the house.
The figure drew nearer, his long legs striding up the incline. Making the last yards, he came to a halt before them, his face shielded by the brim of his hat. Simeon summoned his deepest voice.
‘Who comes to Buckland Manor?’
‘That depends,’ replied the man. ‘Who's its master these days?’
‘Sir William Fremantle,’ Simeon declared. ‘Same as any day.’
The man nodded then turned and gave a low whistle. Down the slope, men began to step out from the trees. Some limped. Others supported their fellows. A ragged column began to move slowly up the slope.
‘Who comes here?’ Simeon demanded again, alarmed now. ‘What's your business?’
By way of an answer the figure pulled off his hat. Simeon's eyes widened.
‘Master Saturnall!’
The ladle hung where John had left it. Lifting the handle off its hook, he touched the metal to the cauldron, the familiar tone chiming in his memory. The peal began s
oftly, no louder than a skewer tapping the shoulder of a bottle. A faint red glow rose from the embers in the hearth. Soon the sound grew louder. Around the kitchen, heads rose from their ragged nests as the rest of the men followed John in. Then the door to Firsts swung open and a familiar stout figure entered with a rushlight.
‘My eyes! Is that Philip?’ exclaimed Mister Bunce. ‘Pandar too? Are you all back?’
‘Not all,’ Pandar responded gruffly. But his answer was lost in the noise.
The Head of Firsts clapped Luke and Colin on the back then advanced on Jed Scantlebury. Mister Stone rubbed the heads of the Gingell twins then Adam Lockyer and Peter Pears while Tam Yallop stationed himself by the door to shake the hands of all who passed. Even Barney Curle offered a grin and Ben Martin smiled reluctantly in return. The survivors of the Buckland Kitchen walked or limped into the great vaulted room where they patted the benches or gazed around at the pots and pans hanging from their hooks or simply smelt the air. All the time, John hefted the ladle, drawing great clangs from the copper.
‘Strangers in!’ declared Mister Bunce, catching sight of Ben. ‘And all the more welcome for that.’
Flanked by Simeon and Hesekey, John swung on, the metallic din rising up the hearth to resound in the flues and echo through the house. In the Great Hall, Diggory Wing and Motte uncurled and stretched. The serving men who slept in the old buttery roused themselves. Upstairs, Mrs Gardiner's head lifted from a straw-filled pillow. In chambers once swagged and draped the jangling tocsin rang brightly off the bare walls, waking the sleepers who rose and trudged in nightshirts and caps down the kitchen stairs.
‘You too, Motte!’ Mister Stone greeted the gardener. ‘In you come! And you, Quiller. All strangers in!’
The serving man advanced and his men crowded in behind. As Wendell Turpin led the kitchen boys in a rowdy circuit of the benches, a bonneted figure descended the stairs. A sharp cry cut through the noise.
‘You!’ Gemma stood poised for a disbelieving instant then flung herself on a blushing Philip. ‘You're back!’
As they embraced, Mrs Gardiner advanced to hug a reluctant Alf and Mrs Pole moved among the returned men, offering quick nods of greeting like a chicken pecking corn.
‘Henry dead?’ John heard Mister Bunce exclaim in dismay to Colin. ‘We heard about Underley, but Henry? That can't be true . . .’
‘A lot of things can't be true,’ Pandar said, looking around the bare shelves. ‘Don't mean they ain't happened.’
Their faces were thinner, John saw, and their livery was patched. But the ladle's metal shaft felt good in his hand, thrumming each time he beat the copper. Soon the kitchen heaved with bodies but he beat on, searching among the faces, letting the ladle's loud music roll beneath the vaulted roof. Meg approached then Ginny, her eyes widening as she caught sight of John. Then a third maid pushed her way through the throng.
She wore a faded dress and a thin cotton shawl. At her waist jangled a bunch of keys. Abruptly she snatched the ladle from his hand.
‘What in the Lord's name possesses you to wake my household at such an hour?’
Only then did John recognise Lucretia.
He had not set eyes on her since they had marched out three winters ago, the young woman waving her farewells with a handkerchief. But hers was the face he had seen as he tramped through the hollow lanes or crept along the edges of fields. Hers was the memory that had drawn him back to Buckland. Now her face was thinner and her cheekbones jutted.
He stood before her in his filthy clothes, his hair cut short, smelling of woodsmoke and sweat. Just as he had the first time.
‘We came back,’ John said simply.
In the Great Hall, the trestles and boards had all gone along with the dais built for the King. In their place, pallets were scattered over the floor. The broken windows were boarded and in place of the tapestry on the south wall, a crude cross had been daubed in white paint. Lucretia and Gemma's skirts swished ahead as they led John through the Manor. In the presence chamber, Lucretia took her place behind her father's walnut table, a businesslike expression upon her face.
‘Sir William is at Oxford and may not be moved,’ she told him. ‘You know of his injuries?’
John shook his head. Ben Martin had seen the man's horse fall beneath him in the final charge and Luke Hobhouse had heard from a sergeant that he had been injured. After that John knew only the rumours that had flown around the camp in Tuthill Fields.
‘One leg was crushed,’ Lucretia said. ‘His surgeons will decide the fate of the other. Now he fights for Buckland from his sickbed. The Committee of Sequestrations will soon hear our case.’
‘Sequestrations, your ladyship?’
‘Our enemies were not idle while you sat in your field.’
He stood before her, blistered feet burning in his boots. Abruptly Lucretia rose.
‘Come. I will show you their handiwork.’
He watched the quick sway of her hips, following the two young women through the quiet corridors. Even through his fatigue, he recalled her white ankles beneath the worn cloth of her dress. He felt the thin scar left by the musket ball tighten about his scalp. They came to a halt outside Mister Pouncey's door. Gemma knocked and entered.
A sour smell hung in the air. Grey light entered by the single window. Before a long bench covered with neat stacks of papers sat Mister Pouncey. His thin hair was long and unkempt. His face was gaunt. His silver chain still hung about his neck. As Lucretia, Gemma and John watched, the man lifted a weight on one of the heaps and examined the paper beneath it. But whatever he found there appeared not to satisfy him for he replaced the weight and reached for another.
‘Mister Pouncey.’ Gemma spoke gently. ‘Her ladyship is here.’
The steward shook his head. ‘Not ready,’ he muttered.
‘Colonel Marpot's men hauled him out,’ Lucretia said. ‘When he offered defiance . . .’
‘They cut switches,’ said John. ‘They made him dance a jig.’
‘Yes.’ Lucretia gave him a curious look. But mention of Mister Pouncey's tormentor seemed to agitate the steward. He banged his weight on the table.
‘That's it!’ he shouted. ‘Dance off your sins!’
‘Enough, sir,’ Gemma soothed the man, placing a hand on his arm. ‘Take some rest.’ She helped the steward rise from his chair and led him to the narrow bed. John and Lucretia retreated to the musty passage. It was the first time they had been alone since the steward had burst into her chamber.
‘I saw your face when we marched.’
Her shoulders stiffened beneath the cotton of her shawl.
‘You must banish such thoughts,’ she answered.
‘I cannot,’ he said. ‘No more can you.’
He remembered the sweet scent of apples drifting up in her chamber. Her lips parting before his. No steward would burst in on them now. But as he stepped towards her, she held up a hand.
‘I am betrothed, Master Saturnall. Have you forgotten?’
‘Betrothed to Piers,’ John said dismissively.
Two dots of colour grew in her cheeks. ‘Master Piers fought bravely,’ she retorted.
‘Bravely?’
‘He was commended. The story was told in the news-sheets. How his horse was killed beneath him. How he captured another.’
‘Captured?’
‘I will have you know that Master Piers scaled a tree and dropped from its branches to overpower one of their cuirassiers. Callock's Leap they have dubbed it. And all this with a wound to the thigh . . .’
‘Thigh?’ John burst out. ‘It was a knife in the arse! And his own father gave it him! Piers ran like a rabbit!’
Lucretia folded her arms, her face stony. ‘I will not hear such insolence.’
John took a step towards her but Lucretia turned her head away. He stopped, baffled by her refusal.
‘He does not care for you,’ John said softly. ‘Nor you for him.’
‘We may exchange our desires,’ Lucretia a
nswered. ‘I told you that once. We may exchange our antipathies too.’
‘Marpot's footpads took what they wanted,’ Mister Bunce told John.
‘What they couldn't steal they spoiled. God's bounty, they called it.’
The dry larder held oats, four sacks of dried beans, strings of dried apples and a solitary half-loaf of Madeira sugar wrapped in sacking-cloth which had been hidden behind a rafter. In the pantry a few hard loaves sat on the shelves above three sacks of meal. Melichert Roos's spice room was deserted but for a few dusty jars set on top of the rack and nothing emanated from Underley's jointing room but a faint foul smell.
John, Philip, Mister Bunce and Mister Stone walked the passageways behind the main kitchen. Some splintered planks hanging from a hinge were all that remained of the door to Scovell's chamber. Inside, books and papers lay scattered over the floor. The table and chair had been overturned. John smelled soot, the musty smell of damp cloth and paper.
‘They came down here first,’ said Bunce. ‘Then they went up-stairs and got their hands on Pouncey. They'd hardly finished with him when they hauled Yapp out on a rope. Had him clamped to their block. Said he owed a hand to God for all his Papist preaching. They would've lopped him if it weren't for Lady Lucretia.’
‘She stopped them?’ John asked.
‘Took Marpot off to the chapel. Was in there more'n an hour. Praying, one of their men said. Up there on the tower. She had the key fetched from Mister Pouncey's rooms. Anyroad, when she came out, they let Yapp go.’
Why, John wondered, would Lucretia take Marpot up the tower? But after their last encounter, none of her acts made sense to him.
‘Melichert packed his chest the next day,’ said Mister Stone. ‘Took a berth from Stollport. At least he bade his farewells. Vanian just vanished.’
Like Scovell, thought John, looking around the wrecked chamber. The gallipots still sat on their shelf.
‘Just Marpot's name was enough to empty the yard,’ Bunce went on. ‘He camped half his Militia in Callock Marwood. It got so as you couldn't wear livery in the village. After that the hands started leaving. Now they won't take our notes in Carrboro Market. People reckon we won't be here to pay ‘em back.’
John Saturnall's Feast Page 27
