Never, John had vowed sternly to himself. But on the third day, when the hunger pangs had joined the sharp pains caused by the poisonous odors, he had joined Maddon in picking his own rolls free of maggots, and with eyes closed he had shoved it all into his mouth and swallowed quickly.
But that had not been the worst of it. The worst of it came every day at midafternoon when the other workers took their tea break, and naturally, wanting diversion from their own mind-numbing and back-breaking labors, selected as their entertainment the two odd-boys, who would be ordered to climb upon the muck mountain, with bare feet and bare chests, smocks removed, and with their hands, work into the putrid slime the ingredients which were daily delivered in a small cart from Mortemouth, an equally smelly enrichment which consisted of sugar-bakers' scum, soap-boilers' ashes, hogs' hair, malt dust and horn shavings.
To the accompaniment of about seventy men laughing, John and
Maddon were forced to strip down to their breeches, enter the fenced pen, dragging the cart between them like oxen, scatter the white chalk over the brown slippery muck, then, using their bare feet, work the mixture in. If they slipped and fell facedown, which they frequently did, the men cheered enthusiastically, and at the end of the "fun," the boys were placed in the back of the cart and dragged, stinking, to the large pig trough, where they were thrown into the stagnant brown water and emerged, sputtering, and in John's case, usually vomiting. He had vomited more the last eighteen days than he'd vomited in his entire life, his stomach churning constantly, his arms and face and back baked red from the sun.
How many times he had considered running away. But something had prevented him from doing this, the daily hope that word from London would arrive, that perhaps one day crossing the barnyard he'd spy old Dana or Aggie, and they'd remember him and take pity on him, or more fanciful yet, that Lady Eden would relent and lift him out of this horror. But nothing had come from any quarter, and the days had stretched on, and in a frightening way he'd accustomed himself to the odors, the slime of body waste, the humiliation, the bullying. He'd even grown accustomed to poor dumb Maddon's company, and in the last few days had grown as silent and as unre-sponding.
Then only yesterday, working too near the smith's fire, Maddon's smock had caught on fire. John, working at the far end of the stables, had heard his screams and had looked up in time to see the boy, his entire body engulfed in flames, dancing in a macabre jig about the anvil. The smithy had quickly thrown water on him and after a few minutes had doused the flames. And with what kindness had the group of men looked down on the poor boy, his arms blackened and still smoking, his eyes wide with pain. Carefully they had given him a large supply of ale and placed him in the back of a cart and had hauled him down to Mortemouth for his mother and the physician to attend to. And John had finished the day alone, his head churning with both revulsion and inspiration, nothing so permanently damaging as setting himself on fire, of course, but a moderate injury which would free him at least for a day or two from the inhuman burdens which had been placed upon him.
Hence, a few minutes earlier, he'd spied the rusted, razor-sharp banding, had arranged it carefully beneath a light covering of straw, had slipped off his boot, climbed up onto the manger, and taking careful aim, had jumped downward, directing his foot toward the in-
visible metal, and smiling in spite of the pain as he felt his foot sliced open.
Now with old Samuel standing before him, buttoning up his cock, John again lay back against the pile of manure, waiting for the old man's kindness to waft over him, as it had descended over Maddon the previous day.
Instead, "You dumb bastard!" the man shouted down on him, still arranging his genitals inside the heavy soiled trousers. "What have you gone and done now?"
"It's my . . . foot, sir," John said in a gasp, as though the pain were increasing.
"I can see that," Samuel snapped.
"I was cleaning the manger, sir," he began, "and when I jumped down, I didn't see—"
"Where's your boot?" the man asked, his face a map of suspicion.
"I'd removed it, sir," John began. "A thorn was lodged—"
"Thorn, my ass," the man shouted down. "I ought to lodge me whip against your backside, that's what I ought to do."
For a moment John was intimidated by the old man's fearful mood, though he doubted seriously if he would really whip him. "No matter, sir," he said, releasing his foot, inspecting it for the first time, an impressive cut which laid bare the flesh on the bottom of his foot and stretched across his instep. And blood, he'd never seen such blood, his entire foot red and glistening, a small pool forming on the smelly straw.
First making certain that Samuel had seen it as well, he then reached for his abandoned boot and commenced to pull it over the injured foot, again wincing, though not for effect this time, closely monitoring the old man's reaction as he struggled to his feet and commenced limping toward his abandoned shovel, a tremendous show of determination which he felt certain was bound to make a difference.
Finally it did. "What do you think you're doing?" the man yelled now.
Without looking at him, John bent over and lifted his shovel, no longer performing for effect, feeling a painful throbbing in his foot and up the side of his leg, feeling his boot beginning to grow damp and sticky with his own blood.
Still Samuel watched, permitting him to lift one shovel full of manure, when suddenly John felt dizzy and lost his balance and fell
yo
again onto the manure, his eyes closed against the increasing discomfort.
Then Samuel was upon him, squatting down, still grumbling, but something soft and approachable in his sun-baked eyes. "Here now, lad," he scolded, tugging the boot off. "You're not Hercules, you know."
John lay quietly back, giving the man all the time he needed for his untutored examination. Then came the words for which John had staged the entire and rather extreme theatrical. "We can do without you for a day or two," he muttered. "Best get off this for a while, or it'll swell on you."
Soberly John watched as the old man shuffled off to the far end of the stable and returned with a thick brown bottle of something and a length of soiled cloth.
Apprehensively John drew back. "What is—"
"Never you mind," Samuel scolded. "Just hold yourself rigid and think on the day you was born." And with that he turned about and grasped John's leg as though he were a horse to be shod, uncorked the brown bottle with his teeth, and commenced pouring the liquid directly onto the cut.
Suddenly John came to life, one yell punctuating the silence of the barn, followed by a series of inarticulate curses as he felt his foot aflame, runners of pain now shooting up the length of his leg. His head first flattened in the manure, then lifted as new agony washed over him. Indulging in a wrestling match now with old Samuel, who continued to hold his leg between his own, he was forced to pinch his eyes shut and fall helplessly back, the burning at last beginning to recede.
"Good soldier," Samuel muttered at last, releasing the foot. Then he lifted the brown bottle and carefully replaced the cork. "Old Samuel's magic elixir." He grinned. "My own blend of lye and lime. You'll be right enough in a day or two."
Listlessly John raised halfway up, still gasping. The bleeding had stopped right enough, the cut itself gaping white and pink like a large opened toothless mouth. God, he'd not counted on the treatment being worse than the injury. And as Samuel commenced to bind the entire foot in the strip of muslin, John closed his eyes and still smelled the acrid fumes.
"There!" the man pronounced at last, surveying his handiwork with a look of pride.
At last John forced his attention down to his bound foot In spite of the heat, he began to shiver.
Now old Samuel grinned down on him. "You may count the hours tonight, lad, but come morning, you'll feel better."
John nodded and again reached for his boot. But Samuel interceded. "Wouldn't do that if I was you," he warned. "There'll be some natural swelling. Give it
room to breathe."
"But I-"
"Off with you," the old man grumbled. "Youll be no good to me for the rest of the day. Get to your cell and stay off it, so you can work double tomorrow."
Apparently the man's tenderness had been depleted. Now he looked down on John as though still in a mood to whip him. "Be off with you," he shouted. "The sight of you makes me sick."
Before he changed his mind, John scrambled to his feet, grabbing his boot in the process, and started limping toward the door. Still the man shouted after him, "Stupid, that's what you are, you hear? That's why you'll never be anything more than an odd-boy. Taking off your boot," he cried, scoffing, " 'cause of a thorn. Well, you'd best learn to live with thorns, lad, 'cause that's all life has in store for you."
As John beat a painful retreat, the harsh voice continued to fall like rocks upon his head. "And keep to your cellar, you hear? Smelling like you do, decent folk don't want you near them."
How could he not hear? As he reached the barn door, he saw that others had heard as well, a grinning congregation of workers. Still he cut a torturous path across the yard, leaving the jeering men behind, taking small consolation in the realization that someone else would have to climb the muck heap today and fight the flies and feel the brown slime growing encrusted on arms and legs.
Then the pain in his foot became unbearable and he pushed weakly against the low door and slipped into the cool darkness of the underground tunnel.
He closed the door behind him and grasped the wall, blinded by the quick transition from sun to blackness. For a moment, alone, the facade cracked, and leaning over, he moaned and pressed his forehead against the mossy wall.
It didn't last long, the self-pity, the tears. He'd not cried like that since he was a child. Not that it had accomplished anything. But in that black passageway, certain things were clearer to him now than they had ever been before.
They wanted him to run away, wanted to rid themselves of his awkward presence. With kinship possible, they couldn't very well simply turn him out. So their plan was to drive him away in another manner.
He held still in the dark passage. How stupidly he'd almost played into their hands. For a moment, overcome with his new perceptions, he was tempted to go back to old Samuel and report to work as fit as ever.
But the persistent throbbing in his foot convinced him that perhaps it would be to his advantage to take the time which had been given to him. Using the narrow walls for support, he made his way slowly back to his cell, found his pallet of straw in the dark and fell onto it, too weary even to strip off the smelly heavy smock.
He lay for a moment on his back, and stared unseeing up into the dark. With his face still wet from recent tears, he rolled onto his side, homesick for Elizabeth, for his clean whitewashed room at the top of the stairs in the small house in Bermondsey, for just a small portion of kindness and grace, for his father . . .
Finally all memories slipped away. Then he would sleep for a while, and come dawn, he would rise willingly to cart the dung, to climb the muck heap, to spit the maggots out of his rolls, to perform any duty that was required of him, confident in his determination to survive.
Impatiently Harriet glanced about at the narrow house warden's office, the ledger books scattered on the desk before her, the line of servants still stretching out of the door. She craned her neck to one side in an attempt to see old Dana. Over a half hour ago she'd sent him to fetch the boy. Still no sign of his return.
Now she laced her mask firmly into place and gave the complainer of the moment a warm smile.
It was Esther, a fleshy serving maid who predictably was objecting to having to pay twopence when she exceeded her daily allotment of one quart of beer. "It ain't fair, my lady," the broad-faced girl whined, "comin' out of our wages . . ."
Gently Harriet disagreed. "It's most fair, Esther." She smiled. "And if you think about it, I'm sure you'll agree. A quart of beer should be more than enough per day. Anything beyond that is intemperance. And we all must pay for our intemperance. As for your wages, they are far higher than any you would receive this side of London."
As she launched forth into a mild sermon, she again twisted her head to one side, trying to see into the gloom of the corridor beyond. Where was Dana? How long did it take to fetch one boy from the stables?
"... so I would advise, Esther, that you learn that all-important lesson of moderation. It would be better for your health as well as your purse."
Docilely the large woman bobbed her head and smiled gratefully. Before the next servant stepped forward, Harriet hastily restacked the various ledgers and handed them to Mrs. Swan. "All in order"— she smiled up at the woman—"as I knew they would be."
Mrs. Swan bowed and took the ledgers from her, her lined face mirroring the respect of those around her. "It's a joy to serve you, my lady," she murmured.
Harriet ignored the compliment and asked further, "Is Mr. Rexroat available?" She longed for a confrontation with the stern old man, who, on James's instructions, had banished the boy to the odd-boy cellar.
For a moment Mrs. Swan looked vaguely about, her prim lace-and-lavender cap sitting rigidly atop her gray hair. "I believe, my lady, that he is in attendance upstairs. I can summon him if you wish."
"No, don't bother," Harriet said hastily. Attendance upstairs. That would be James. Now she didn't want the additional delay. She'd see the old butler later and warn him for the future that he was to take all final orders from her, not Lord Eden. She'd thought she'd made it clear to him before, but apparently not.
Thus resolved, she was on the verge of summoning the next servant when suddenly, at the far edge of the line, she spied Dana, his face red with exertion.
Quickly she stood, trying to see beyond him, anxious to catch a glimpse of the boy. But as well as she could see, the old footman was alone.
"Come," she called, waving him forward, motioning for the line of servants to move back.
Slowly the old man pushed forward until he stood directly before her, his black jacket spotted with dust, the odor that of the stables.
"Well?" she demanded, a bit more stridently than she might have wished.
For a moment Dana seemed loath to speak. "I was told, my lady," he began, "that the lad was . . . injured."
His voice sounded far away. Harriet leaned forward. "I . . . beg your pardon?" she inquired.
"Injured, my lady," Dana repeated. "Don't know how or to what extent. Didn't stop to find out. I thought it best if I report back—"
Then she was moving, skirting the desk, ignoring the line of waiting servants, knowing full well that she'd let the mask slip, but unable to help herself. "Where is he?" she demanded.
Dana shrugged. "I imagine he's in his cell," he said. "You wait here and let me fetch him for you. I'm sure Mrs. Swan will—"
But Harriet was not in a waiting mood. Injuredl "Take me to him," she commanded.
Without a word, he led the way the length of the passage and turned at last into the narrow stairwell which led to the buttery. As they crossed through the first cellar and again started down, she felt a discernible change in the air. It occurred to her that she'd never been here before. In those early days of her residency at Eden Castle, she'd explored only as far as the first cellar. This was totally new and disquieting territory.
She looked down now and saw that Dana had reached bottom and was standing in a massive stone chamber of some sort, the lamplight catching on a mountainous pile of rubble near the far wall, clearly an ancient cave-in.
Holding the lamp aloft, he made his way down a line of doors, stopping at last before one. "This is his," he announced, and stepped back as though certain she would command him to do so.
But she shook her head. "You go. He may be . . ." She had thought to say sleeping. But as a wave of putrid odor filled her nostrils, she at last found her courage and moved forward into the dark cell.
With the lamplight only a step behind her, she saw a form crumpled on straw. Mo
re truly it resembled a lump of discarded garments carelessly heaped, though now in the faint illumination she saw the angle of an arm, the side of a cheek, eyes closed, the mussed fair hair heavily coated with something, his entire body as motionless as though. . .
"Is he ... r
"Sleeping," came Dana's confident reply. Quickly the old man lowered the lamp and ran it the length of the boy's sprawled body, holding it low over one bandaged foot.
Slowly she knelt, her hand gently outreaching to the reproduction
of that face she had loved. Carefully she brushed back the long strands of matted hair. "Is it. . . ?"
"Appears to be just a cut, my lady. Hell survive."
Oh, yes, she thought firmly, her hand stroking his brow now, her eyes feeding on his beauty, which shone through in spite of the grime. How stupid she had been on that evening several weeks ago when first she'd buried Edward, then had exiled his son, thus denying herself the only source of light she'd ever known.
Now she was keenly aware of Dana closely watching her. "No lasting damage, my lady," the man repeated. "He's a strong one, that one is, like his father."
Hearing it thus confirmed moved her deeply, as though all she'd ever needed was the confirmation from an old footman. Eager now to end the encounter before she revealed too much, she bent over, and with a hand that trembled she tried to rouse him.
"John?" she murmured, speaking his name hesitantly, for in truth another had almost slipped out.
"John? Can you hear me?"
He had been dreaming of a woman, not Elizabeth, some soft female presence whom he could not identify. Thus he was not surprised when, for an instant upon awakening, his dreams matched reality.
The Eden passion Page 9
