The Ballad of John Clare

by Hugh Lupton

  “Old Reynolds finding shifts in vain

  While hounds and horns pursue,

  Now leaves the wood to try the plain,

  The bugle sounds a view …”

  And now came the chorus. She knew their eyes would be half-closed, heads tipped back. She darted forwards, quick as a fish.

  “This day the fox must die

  Brave boys,

  This day the fox must die.”

  John’s belly was full, his head was swimming with ale, his muscles aching with the day’s exertion …and he was lost in a sweet oblivion of song. Suddenly he felt something cool being thrust between his fingers. He looked down and saw the bright nose-gay. Its strong scent filled his nostrils. He turned his head and glimpsed Mary disappearing behind the hedge. His head cleared as though it had been thrust beneath the spurting pump in the yard. Here was a Clipping Posey in his hand. A pursuit was demanded and expected of him. He clambered to his feet. He put his hand on his neighbour’s shoulder and stepped over the bench. He left the song behind him.

  He ran behind the hedge. There she was! Slipping through the little wicker gate in the garden wall. He followed her, a trifle unsteady on his feet. He pushed open the gate and ran through. He looked to left and right. She seemed to have vanished. He started forwards …

  “Well?”

  He stopped and turned and saw that she was standing behind him with her back pressed to the wall.

  “Ain’t you going to kiss me then?”

  Suddenly shy despite the beer, John paused, then he leaned forward to kiss her decorously upon the cheek, but Mary turned her face so that their lips met and lingered. For the first time they kissed.

  “There.” She said.

  Then she threw her arms around his neck and they kissed again, drinking of each other as though there was no slaking their thirst. And there they would be still if John hadn’t heard his name shouted from beyond the wall.

  “John Clare!”

  The song had finished and Farmer Joyce was calling him. They broke away from each other.

  “John Clare!”

  “You’d best go John.”

  He ran through the gate and back along the hedge to the table. The Clipping Posey was still in his hand. Every eye was on him as he climbed back on to the bench and sat down. Farmer Joyce was standing at the head of the table. He looked at John for a moment, savouring his discomfiture and the mingled laughter and envy in the eyes of the other men.

  “Well John Clare, you sang to me like a throstle on Mayday morning …but they tell me as you can scrape a passing tune from a fiddle as well.”

  A fiddle was passed down the line of men to John. He took it and looked down at it, a little sheepish:

  “Ay, I play a little. What tune would you favour?”

  “Well, we’ve seen that you’re a fair hand at ‘Off She Goes’ and ‘Come To The Bower’ and ‘Kiss My Lady’ …but what the devil else can you play?”

  John, his blushes hidden by the night, tucked the fiddle under his chin and played a horn-pipe. The lilting melody rose and fell upon the beat with such a sweet, skipping enchantment that soon every tankard was striking the table in time to the tune.

  And Mary Joyce, behind the hedge, unseen by any, had lifted her skirts and was stepping the dance with no partner but the moon.

  5

  Sheepshearing (Night)

  The shearing supper was done. The shearing team had taken their wage from Farmer Joyce. As they were staggering home through Woodcroft Field, another line of men was making its way out of the parish. They were crossing Emmonsales Heath in the silver moonlight. They were skirting the fields north of Castor. They were climbing the stone wall of the Milton estate and threading their way between the oaks and beeches of the park woodland.

  The light of the moon shining through the leaves made it easy for them to find their way. King Boswell was leading. Behind him, in single file, five men followed. Their feet cracked no twigs. They were silent as their own shadows. A soft breeze was blowing into their faces.

  King Boswell sniffed it and smiled to himself. The night was perfect. He was thinking of the cooking pots filled with simmeno and the dogs cracking bones. He stopped and turned. The other men froze. He nodded. Ismael Boswell was carrying a bag on his shoulder. He swung it onto the ground and pulled out a net woven from dark twine. King Boswell held two corners and Ismael unfurled it. They stretched it to its full length and tied it between two smooth-trunked beeches. Each tied one corner to his own height and one at ground level. The other three men squatted on their hunkers and waited. In the silver-shadowed wood the net, as it was drawn tight, seemed to disappear from sight.

  When all was ready, without a word or sign, the men followed King Boswell along the wood’s edge. Suddenly he lifted his fingers to his mouth and whistled. They turned and angled into the wood, running through the trees. They fanned out, with no caution now, crackling leaves and twigs beneath their feet. The soft wind, blowing at their backs, carried their scent forwards. There were perhaps a hundred paces between King Boswell and Ismael, the other men ran between.

  In a clearing in the wood a little herd of deer were grazing. Long before any of the Boswell crew came close they’d lifted their heads and sturted away, leaping over bushes and between trees. The men quickened their pace. King Boswell and Ismael at either end closed the fan inwards so that the animals were driven towards the stretched net. The frighted deer bounded before them.

  Then the moment came. Some of the herd, sensing danger, swerved to the left or right. But two were caught. A stag and a doe. Their forelegs were tangled in the twine, they were kicking and struggling. Wisdom Boswell put his arms around the shoulders of the doe and dragged her back, the net was pulled from her kicking legs. King Boswell studied her, he reached forwards and with his big, scarred hands he tenderly felt her swollen belly and swelling teats.

  “Cambri.” He whispered.

  Wisdom opened his arms and she bounded away into the shadows.

  King Boswell nodded to the stag, whose antlers were now entwined. The terrified beast was tearing the net and tangling himself more and more tightly in his trap, like a bluebottle struggling in a spider’s web:

  “Chin his curlo.”

  Ismael pulled a long knife from his belt. Two men seized the flailing antlers and drew back the head. With a swift, deft movement of his arm he drew the blade across the animal’s throat. With a shudder it gave up its life. The dark blood spurted and the body staggered and folded onto the forest floor, the clean red slit in its throat like a gaping grin.

  Following their old, familiar routines the men unfastened and rolled up the net. Ismael slipped it back into its bag. They tied the fore and hind hooves of the stag together and pushed a pole between the legs. Two men, one at the front, one at the back, lifted the pole onto their shoulders. They hurried through the wood to the high estate wall. They clambered over. They heaved the stag up and rolled it over and down on the other side. They crossed the road. There was a knot of hawthorn bushes on the far side. In the middle of it there was a little leafy clearing. They hung the stag from a branch by its hind-hooves, its antlers resting gently on the ground, and butchered it. They skinned it and cleaned it and cut the joints of meat. King Boswell took one of the steaming kidneys and popped it into his mouth, he chewed and swallowed. He smiled and gave the other to Ismael. They divided the joints between them, dropping the rich flesh into leather bags. One of them rolled up the hide and slung it onto his back. They flung the bones and the steaming, quivering entrails into a bramble thicket. Ismael winked at Wisdom:

  “Mr Reynolds can have the cocalor and vennor.”

  By the time the first light of dawn had broken the sky all the Boswell Crew were safe home to Langdyke Bush and sleeping fast. The women were stoking the fires and cutting the meat for stew, those joints that hadn’t been neatly set aside for selling in the village to those who could be trusted to hold their tongues.

  *******

 
If the moon had not been so strong Will Bloodworth would not have seen the blood. He was making his nightly round, following the inside margin of the estate wall, his ears and eyes tuned to anything untoward. Something had alerted him half an hour before, some sound, but it had been faint and far away. He’d paid it no great mind. But now he was not surprised to find blood on the wall. He put down his musket and dipped his finger into a little pool of it that was held in a cup in the stone. He licked his finger. The blood was fresh. He picked up the gun and scrambled over the wall. There was a trail of dripped blood across the road. He followed it to the hawthorns. The smell of the butchering was still strong. With the barrel of his gun he pushed aside the brambles and saw the stag’s head with its antlers sawn off at the root, the white, curved, bloody bones of the spine like a notched bow. He saw the hooves and lower legs, the purple of the stomach and the grey tangle of the guts. He reached down and touched them. They were still warm.

  By the light of the sinking moon it was easy to see the path the poachers had followed. The long grass was broken where they’d skirted the edge of the Castor fields. He followed, keeping low, running as fast as he could with his head and shoulders held below the height of the bean stalks. It was as he approached Emmonsales Heath that he caught his first glimpse of them. There were six in all, they were more ambling than hurrying. They were carrying bags on their backs. Will snorted.

  “We all know what’s in those, by God .”

  He ran forwards again and crouched low behind a clump of gorse. He could see the last of them clearly in the moonlight. He was carrying the rolled deer-hide on his back. Will leaned forwards to look more closely. The shift of his weight snapped a twig beneath his foot. The poacher turned at the sound and glanced over his shoulder. Will Bloodworth, in that moment, saw his face as clear as day: the black hair, the long face with its quick, dark-lashed eyes. It was the gypsy whelp. It was Wisdom Boswell.

  There was a grim resolution writ upon Will’s countenance that bordered on contentment, as though something beneath his skin that had twisted him into mis-shape had been laid straight again. He crouched behind the gorse bush until the Boswell Crew were out of sight. Then he turned and ran back to the estate.

  The moon had set now and the sky was bright with stars. Will knew where he was going. He crossed the road and as he approached the estate wall he lifted his gun to his shoulder and fired it into the air. Then he re-loaded, ramming the new shot into place, tamping it with wadding. He fired again. He reloaded a second time. He clambered over the wall and ran between the trees and across the open parkland towards Milton Hall.

  Soon he heard the sound he’d been expecting:

  “Hulloa! ”

  Dark figures were approaching him.

  “Who goes there?”

  “’Tis I, Will, Will Bloodworth.”

  “We heard shots.”

  Will drew up to them, panting for breath.

  “Poachers, six of ‘em.”

  “Did ye stop them?”

  “No. They stopped me. One of them turned his damned musket on me.”

  “What! Are ye hurt?”

  “No, they missed by a whisker, I felt the wind of it against my cheek.”

  “Thank God for that Will, what did they take?”

  “A buck. They were climbing the wall with it when I first clapped eyes on them.”

  “Go back to the hall Will, you’ll be shook up. We’ll see if we can’t catch ‘em.”

  They began to make their way towards the wood.

  “I saw his face,” Will called over his shoulder, “I saw the face of the one with the gun, I saw him as clear as day, ‘tis etched on my memory.”

  “Ay Will, and if we can catch him we’ll see him swing.”

  The keepers tramped into the shadows and were swallowed by the trees. But without a moon there was small chance of them finding the trail that Will had followed. By dawn they’d returned to the hall empty-handed.

  *******

  Morning is come now. Will Bloodworth is being shook out of his short slumber by one of his fellow keepers.

  “Will, wake up!”

  He sits up and rubs his eyes.

  “The Earl of Fitzwilliam has sent to Helpston for the constable. He is come, Will. Get dressed. Come downstairs.”

  Will pulls on his breeches, shirt and boots. He rakes his fingers through his hair. He makes his way from his little room in the servants’ quarters, down the wooden stairs and outside to the courtyard. Bill Bullimore, the village constable is waiting, his hands behind his back, whistling between his teeth and staring up at the great brick chimneys and the roof of the hall with its seeming acres of grey slates and red tiles. Behind him his horse is being led to the trough. As Will approaches he brings his gaze down to the level:

  “Morning Will.”

  Will nods.

  “I’ve heard your story. I’m told a buck has been killed, shots taken, and you’ve seen the face of the varmint that fired the gun.”

  “Yes, I have.”

  “Was it a face you knew?”

  “It was a face I’d seen before.”

  “The Earl has sent orders to press charges. Could you lead me to him?”

  “Ay, I could.”

  *******

  At the same time as Will wakes, Wisdom is being shaken to wakefulness by King Boswell. He beckons with his thick finger.

  “Avata acoi, chal.”

  Wisdom pulls himself out from the warm blankets under the cart and follows, pulling on his clothes. The air is thick with the smell of smoke and bubbling stew. The dogs are happily crunching bones.

  King Boswell thrusts the deer hide into Wisdom’s hands.

  “Rig the stannyi mutzi to Kitty Otter.”

  Wisdom nods. He can see that Ismael and Lettuce are out to the villages, and guesses that already they’re knocking on back doors and selling the meat. If any gorgios come to the camp prying and asking questions there will be little for them to find.

  King Boswell smiles, showing his white teeth.

  “And when ye come back, chal, ye can dip a spoon into the stannyi simmeno and sup.”

  Wisdom swings the rolled hide onto his back and makes his way across the parish to Snow Common.

  Kitty’s geese, with their grey goslings in tow, stretch out their necks and hiss as he approaches her squat. Kitty lifts the door-flap and pokes her wrinkled face out into the light. She looks to left and right, her head jutting from the bowed, blackened canvas like a tortoise from its shell. When she sees Wisdom she cackles:

  “Ah Wisdom, good boy, d’ye have the hide? Bring it inside, bring it inside.”

  Wisdom pushes through the flaps, he ducks beneath the woven baskets of rush and willow, the tied clusters of herbs and the cured skins that hang from the roof. His nose takes in the strange, strong smell of the place: the sweet herbs, the tickling smoke, the wet canvas and something sharp and fetid like the lair of a wild animal.

  “Old Otter ain’t here, he’s away at the hay-making.”

  Wisdom passes her the bundle and she unfastens the twine with nimble bony fingers. She spreads the dappled hide across the floor.

  “ ’Tis a good one. A buck.”

  She pinches it.

  “Ay, ‘tis a good one. There’s boots here, or a jerkin …when ‘tis scraped and salted …”

  She looks across at him sharply.

  “Did ye bring me a cut o’ meat?”

  Wisdom reaches over and folds back the neck of the hide to reveal a cut of red meat tucked inside. She sniffs it.

  “Good boy, good boy. We’ll dine like kings and queens tonight Wisdom.”

  She picks up the meat and drops it into an iron pot.

  Wisdom turns towards the flap:

  “Mutzi and meat are payment Kitty, for the mending of the net. King Boswell thanks you from his heart. ‘Twas torn again last night though, and will need more mending.”

  “’Tis fair payment, ay, ‘tis payment fair enough. Bring the net and I�
��ll fix it for ye again Wisdom.”

  She puts her hand on his shoulder, Wisdom turns and she winks at him with her shrewd, sharp eye, blue as a dunnock’s egg.

  “And we’ll do business again, no doubt, when the time’s ripe.”

  She rolls up the hide.

  “We ain’t so different, you an’ me.”

  She tucks it into the shadows.

  “Only you Boswells journey far and wide and me an’ Otter stay where we’ve allus been …an’ you’re brown as Turks an’ old Otter pink as any porker.”

  She squeezes his arm. He pushes out into the sun and breathes deep of the clean June air. Then he sets off back to Langdyke Bush.

  *******

  It was past midnight when John staggered home from Glinton, giddy with ale and the taste of Mary’s kiss. Her Clipping Posey hangs limp now from the pocket of his coat that is thrown across the chest at the foot of the bed.

  It is a shaft of sunlight shining through the little window in the eaves that wakes him. He opens his eyes. He remembers the shearing supper and the joys of the evening and smiles to himself. He looks up at the dancing motes of dust caught in the sunbeam and he blesses every one of them. He blesses his aching head, his aching limbs. The whole world seems blessed to him this bright morning. He rolls out of bed and pulls on his breeches. He blesses the rattle of his shearing wages in his pocket. He pulls on his shirt and makes his way down the steep stairs.

  Ann Clare is stirring a pot over the fire. The room is full of the savoury smell of meat and herbs. John sniffs.

  “Ay, John, it’s a treat for supper tonight. Your father wouldn’t have it otherwise. When you was sleeping we took a few pennies of your wages from your pocket to pay for it, I hope you ain’t vexed.”