The Mark of Cain

by Lindsey Barraclough

  Everything I require for my purpose is at hand.

  I am well-fed on Guerdon’s meat, fish, milk, and bread, clean-shod and clothed at his expense. Each day my cheeks grow a little rosier, my eyes gleam brighter. When my full strength returns, my powers will be restored also.

  And I will lead the long man round the water, will find a path to take us away northwards, will help him over the hidden streams to a wilderness where no one will ever find us.

  At Lammastide, the festival of the First Harvest, the first day of August, Sir Edmund Guerdon will ride to attend the Privy Council at Greenwich, and by then I will be ready.

  It was upon this day a year past that our babe was lost to us.

  I am tired.

  This child pulls on my skirts to stand, clings to me, totters alongside me wailing, with his fat hands twisted in the folds of my apron.

  Old Clowder comes into the kitchen with the dirty vessels from the supper which the master has shared — along with his best wine — with his friend Robert, Lord Myldmaye.

  “For God’s sake, woman, calm that poor boy!” He tosses the dishes onto the table, pulls the babe away from me, lifts him into his arms, jigs him, quietens him. “Are you sore, little man? Shall we find honey for you, or make up some pap in the milk pan?”

  The child pushes his fingers into Clowder’s white hair, hushes his sobbing, smiles. The serving man turns to me. “What manner of spiteful woman are you, that you give him no comfort? If the master were not so”— he spits out the words —“not so bewitched by you …”

  He narrows his eyes, sets his mouth. “I will have you out of here, tell the master what you truly are — ungodly, corrupt. I saw it in you from the first. I am surprised the whole household has not been afflicted by some pestilence, the sheep and cattle plagued by a murrain since you sullied these walls with your presence here. The master is at a game of Fox and Geese with Thomas and my Lord Myldmaye, else I would tell him now. I — I would see you hanged.”

  Old Clowder carries the child up the stone stairs. “Kittie?” he calls. “Where is Kittie? Let us find her, my little lad. She will care for you, love you with her own babe when it comes.”

  Later, when the old house murmurs with snore, sniff, and creak from straw pallet, strung truckle, or curtained mattress, when out in the warm night air the white owl floats from barn to wood under a slice of moon, I light my tallow candle. By its wavering light I take three henbane seeds and crush them into a cordial, drop into it three hairs from Old Clowder’s head that the sleeping child still clutched in his hand.

  I call up the spirits. Will they come for me?

  A wisp rises out of the flame. I think it will be Little Clim or Matty the Boy, but it is crafty Tilly Murrell in a feather of smoke — says she will see to it, see that he drinks the draught, will ward the cup so that no one else will even touch it.

  In the morning, after his ale and pottage, Old Clowder does not die, for that is not my purpose, but sweats and vomits and howls that demons are clawing at his eyes.

  Two days later the physician Harper comes from Daneflete, examines him, thinks it unlikely he will ever recover his wits, has him bound and taken away.

  As the cart rattles off with Old Clowder and his belongings tied in a bundle next to him, Kittie prays and weeps, the cook wrings his hands, and Walter wails on Francis Parkin’s shoulder.

  The old man will never be well again.

  I am ready.

  Dark-cloaked and secret, I steal out the next three nights and walk along the creek, seeking Lankin out on the far side. On the third I see his long shadow winding in and out of the rushes. I call softly to him across the quiet reeds and whisper to him what we will do at Lammastide.

  I take the child, John, up the staircase for a brief dandle on his mother’s knee, and to see if he will show a step for her, though she seems to take little pleasure in him, and he will not refrain from holding out his fat arms and fretting for me to take him. While he whines and snivels around her, I stand behind the silken lady where she cannot see me in her looking glass and, with a practised hand, swiftly and silently lift the small silver bowl that sits tucked away on the buffet behind two greater vessels.

  I bundle it up in my apron, take the infant, press his body tight against me in a pretence of affection so the basin does not clatter out. My lady waves me away with a listless hand, and I hurry back down the stairs and leave the child with willing Kittie; then I conceal the treasure under the pallet in my little room, with the candles that have been secreted one by one over the weeks.

  The crossguard of Sir Edmund’s small silver dagger always protrudes from his belt. He passes me in the stone passage with his groomsman to check the condition of his chestnut mare, Barbary, for the journey to London in the morning. I glance up at him from under my lashes. He enfolds my waist with his arm and I reach for the little knife, but the groomsman is watching. I lower my hand and push Sir Edmund lightly off. He looks back over his shoulder to see the curve of a smile on my plump, crimson lips as I turn away.

  He returns from overseeing the stowing of his trunk with its carefully folded linens, fine woollens, and embroidered velvets, and his strongbox with the concealed lock that guards not only his sovereigns, but also his jewelled court doublet, cape, and gold-threaded hat. He comes into the kitchen, where I sit rocking the cradle with my foot. I do not look away.

  In the dark night watches, footsteps approach the door I have left ajar. Lying on my pallet, in a thin shaft of moonlight, I steel myself to bear him, my heart fluttering with anxiety.

  “How cool your flesh is,” he whispers as he takes me to him.

  Instantly, I am by the black pool of years ago, Rufus Goode striding towards me, grabbing my arms in his huge hands. I feel my chest tighten, my head begin to pound.

  I must not veer from my course.

  Around Guerdon’s back, I reach into his belt for the little silver dagger, draw it out, and slip it under the pallet.

  As the rosy light creeps in from the small barred window almost at the ceiling, I hear the sound of hoofbeats on the wooden bridge, Barbary carrying her master to London, and Thomas on the young filly, Marian, riding alongside. A little later comes the jingle of the two carriages clattering behind.

  I look down at my half-covered body in the soft early morning, and all the world changes, for there on my stomach is a little round patch, light in colour. When I gently run my finger across it, there is no sensation. Another patch lies just near it, at my side, and as I search, I find another two just the same, on my calf and on my thigh, just above the twisted skin burned in the Balefire.

  Zillah and Damaris restored me then, but I know that now there can be no healing, for there is none to do it.

  So here is the changed world. In truth I see that the creature can never escape away with me, for there will always be water in his path and I will never persuade him over it. Alone, I might run for a while, but before very long, the festering and rotting will begin in earnest, and even those who once sought my enchantments will shun and abandon me. Where will I go then?

  All that is left to do is lay the spell and save the man who once saved me.

  All is set — there will be healing for Lankin, and a double reckoning for Guerdon, for there are two deeds of darkness to be done this Lammas night. I will do the one deed for Lankin and he will do the other for me.

  The hour is late. The tide is out and the house slumbers. I stand to the side of the great fireplace in the kitchen and pull on the chains that open the trapdoor at the top of the log shaft. The kitchen is almost completely below ground, and the huge logs for the fire are thrown down the brick-lined shaft from outside. With his long arms and legs it is no hardship for Lankin to clamber down, crawl through the small tunnel at the bottom and out into the kitchen without disturbing the household.

  He stands there on the flagstone floor with the firelight at his back and the flickering candlelight from the table playing on his disfigured face. This creature
of the marshes looks around in bewilderment at the array of heavy pots and vessels hanging from blackened hooks, the pitchers, jugs, knives, and spoons, and the pewter dishes held in their rows on the wall by long wooden bands.

  The silver bowl and the silver dagger, both edges of its blade clean and sharp, lie together. I fetch the sleeping child from his cradle, place him on the table beside the bowl, and unfasten his soft, warm wrappings.

  Under my breath I chant the ancient words, pass the knife through the flames of seven candles, as all the while Lankin holds the infant down. I pick up the knife, raise it high … and there — it is done. Stop your shrieking, you wretched child! I chant again.

  The long man and I catch the blood in the silver bowl.

  A footfall.

  Who is hiding behind the door? Kittie Wicken, the sneaking little laundry girl. Pull her out, hold the knife to her fluttering throat. You will do my bidding, Kittie Wicken. Fetch the mistress, or you and that unborn child you carry will not see the sunrise. I twist her hair in my bloody fingers. See what I can do, Kittie — see it!

  Panting, in a fever of fear, she stumbles up the steps.

  An urgent, breathy voice hisses close in my ear. “Aphra! Aphra! He drinks!”

  In a spiral of light the spirit, Matty the Boy, flits to the ceiling and vanishes.

  I turn. “Wait, Lankin! You must not drink till I finish the charm —”

  But he drinks greedily, too soon. The pale-skinned lady comes down and sees it all, screams and reaches out to snatch her lifeless infant. Flicking his tongue over his wet, scarlet-smeared lips, Lankin grabs up the silver dagger. She takes a long time to die, reaches almost to the top of the stone stairs before she slips on her own blood and snaps her neck.

  Kittie Wicken flees from the kitchen but will not utter a word, she is so stricken with terror and fear.

  Footsteps. A servant’s cry as he sees the lady on the stairs — Francis Parkin. He howls for Walter.

  Back to the shaft, Cain Lankin! Vanish away! Swiftly, vanish away!

  The spell is incomplete. An unfinished charm spins the circle the wrong way. All is undone.

  Lankin will not live for long. The crooked spell will sail its certain course.

  I wait to be found.

  The belfry is a torment to me. The iron anklet cuts into me almost to the bone. I pull at it all ways. The chain jangles on the floor. The air in this consecrated place is like hot knives in my skin. I try to pluck out the blades with my fingers — pluck, pluck, pluck out the blades …

  Hillyard, the priest, hastens up the stairs, anxious to be gone before the early night falls upon All Hallows. I listen for the clunk of the key turning in the great oaken door and the rumbling as it grates over the floor. When Hillyard enters, he fastens the door behind him.

  The rattle of keys, the click of the lock of the door in the tower, up the stairs, rattle again, search for the key to the trapdoor. One side of the trap comes up. Hillyard holds his breath against the foul air and pushes a pitcher of water and a hunk of bread onto the wooden boards. The heavy chain slides noisily across the floor. From behind the door, I snatch at the water jug with my filthy hands, gulp it, choke, and it spills down my chin and over my breast. The cold water eases the swollen, burning points where the torturers pierced my skin. I let the pitcher drop and it rolls slightly.

  I speak from behind the wooden panel, next to the priest’s ear. I can hear the thudding of his heart.

  “Will I be hanged?” I whisper.

  “I — I think they may burn you,” he says.

  The air rasps in my throat as I take this in.

  “I think you may be burned,” he goes on, “because you used magic against your master. That is what they are saying … but I cannot tell for sure… .”

  My breath comes hard. He waits for a moment.

  “Sir Edmund Guerdon,” says the priest, “has taken another wife.”

  I am astonished. I should have known the master would not be consumed with anguish, overcome with grief. I should have known it.

  “Lady Ygurne, the pearl-white mistress,” I whisper hoarsely, my flaking lips close to the door the priest still holds up, “has been only four moons in her grave… .”

  “Guerdon wants another heir,” says Hillyard. “His new wife, Lord Myldmaye’s daughter Mary, is young and beautiful. It is believed she is already with child.”

  I cannot speak.

  Guerdon will yet possess that which was forever lost to me — an heir, a babe.

  Hillyard begins to lower the door and reaches out for the empty jug. My mind runs quickly — the house in the wood — the second fire — Zillah and Damaris burned again. “Well burned twice — or they’ll come back,” I hear across the years. “Make sure. Only takes a bit of skelton left unburned …”

  My skinny fingers grip his arm. I feel him flinch.

  “If I am burned,” I say, “don’t — don’t let them burn me twice. It will” — what do I say to a man of God? — “it will destroy my immortal soul… .”

  “If you are a proven witch,” says Hillyard, “then you have no immortal soul.”

  “Don’t let them burn me twice — I beg you — for mercy’s sake —”

  Hillyard shakes off my hand, backs away a little down the stairs, then firmly secures the trapdoor.

  I hear him at the bottom, the click of the lock on the small door, his footsteps crossing the tower floor, the grating of the huge studded door at the entrance, the turning of the great iron key. There on my thigh, among the dirty, weeping, untended sores, is the patch of burned, silvery skin. My anguish rises and leaves me in a hoarse screech I do not have the will to stop.

  I am sorry, mother Zillah, that I cried out.

  The pale dawn comes through the small slatted window. For the first time in days I claw my way up the wooden framework of the belfry and pull myself to a kind of standing. My bleeding knees buckle. My bruised, festering feet will not take my meagre weight until I clench my teeth and force them. When the chain is at its most taut, the anklet cutting at its deepest into my flesh, then I can glimpse a patch of sky and a little land.

  Piers Hillyard comes with hard bread. He tells me I am to be brought to Lokswood in two days for trial, then, if found guilty, immediately returned to Bryers Guerdon for execution.

  “You may still save yourself,” he says from his place behind the trapdoor. “If you … if you tell the truth … that Cain Lankin was with you that night in Guerdon Hall, that he was complicit in those foul deeds, that he was a murderer… .

  “What happened there, Aphra? I might be able to spare you the flames… . It must be a terrible — terrible way to die.”

  But I have already seen through the corner of the window the faggots and brushwood being brought for the fire by cart and by shoulder. I have heard the men shout, the clunk of axes, heavy branches splitting, and seen, on a wagon drawn by an ox, a barrel oozing pitch. They have gone to great cost to bring it here, to coat my body and thus increase my suffering.

  “And who is to be my judge?”

  He waits a moment.

  “Lord — Lord Robert Myldmaye will preside,” he says at last.

  Lord Myldmaye, the father of Mary, the new Lady Guerdon.

  I am condemned.

  Yet a little spark burns within me when I think on the power of this place, the enchanted portal of the lychgate.

  “Lankin is innocent,” I lie to the priest, my lips close to the trapdoor. “He was not there.”

  “Can I believe you?”

  “Would you not try to save yourself — knowing you were about to be burned alive? I alone am guilty. I killed the babe and his mother.”

  “I will give you absolution.”

  “I am beyond your absolution. But do not let them burn me twice.”

  “I — I will plead on your behalf. That is as much as I can do.”

  “And … and have you seen him — Lankin?”

  “My man, Moses, gave me report that Lankin was seen
by night breaking a way through the hedgerow on the southern side of the churchyard but was sent off with stones. A few weeks ago he would not have been frightened away so easily, but it is believed he is fading… .”

  “When he dies, promise me you will bring his dead, guiltless body through the lychgate into the churchyard for Christian burial. I tell you again, he is innocent, and I beg you, as a man of God …”

  When the morning comes, I vow to Belenos and Cernunnos, and to all the spirits of the earth, the air, the fire, and the water, that the last words I utter will be a curse upon the family of Guerdon through every generation that is to come.

  I do not know if Hillyard can prevent what is left of my mortal body from being burned again.

  And when Cain Lankin’s own life ebbs away, as soon it surely must, for the spell was incomplete, will the foolish, trusting priest keep his word and unwittingly allow the body of a murderer who has drunk the blood of an infant to move through the lychgate?

  The Bonesmen taught me the secrets of the newly dead.

  Between their passing and their burial, they inhabit a half-realm that is neither of the earth nor of the spirit. For a short while Cain Lankin will journey through this mid-world on his way to hell. The power at the lychgate could keep him between worlds for all time, to become an enduring and terrible affliction to the house of Guerdon, and to all those who serve it and dwell near it, forever.

  I hear the scraping of earth, the soft thud of soil thrown on grass, a howl: “Aff-ra! Aff-ra!”

  The long man comes to dig his way in, with no tools but his bare hands.

  It is too late. There is no more time.

  “Lankin! Cain!” comes only in a dry whisper. I am hoarse with crying out. The short chain slithers across the boards. I stretch out my hand towards the rope that moves the passing bell — stretch farther, stretch — there I have it, pull a little — a rough clang of a chime, then another.

  He hears the bell.