Flood (The Fenland Series Book 1)

by Ann Swinfen

  ‘He is still alive, though his heartbeat is weak. Help me to turn him over, Mercy. He could suffocate with his face in the mud like this.’

  We eased him over on to his side with some difficulty, for he was a big man. He was limp in our hands like a child’s rag doll. I pulled back my cap and tore off my head cloth so that I could bind his wound. It was a clumsy dressing, but the best I could do, in darkness with my knees in the mud and half my skirt in the mere. At least it would keep out the dirt and staunch the blood until we could carry him to shelter. As I tightened the bandage, Nehemiah moaned.

  ‘What happened?’ Gideon leaned over him. ‘Can you tell us?’

  But he did not respond.

  Tom’s friend Toby had taken the lantern over to the mere.

  ‘His holding nets are gone.’

  Gideon and I exchanged looks over the prone form of the eeler. I knew what he was thinking. The drainers’ men had stolen them. Had they also attacked the eeler and fired his cottage? I pushed back the hair which had fallen over my face, and opened my mouth to speak, but Gideon shook his head and laid his finger on his lips.

  The men contrived a sort of hammock from the oars and sail of Nehemiah’s boat, a skerry which still lay undisturbed further along the shore of the mere, near the delph that led down to Baker’s Lode. In this they carried him back to our house. It was not the nearest, but Hannah was there and we all knew that she was the most skilled woman in the village at caring for the sick and injured.

  The following morning Nehemiah, salved and bandaged, had regained his wits, though his speech was slurred and he kept falling asleep. Tom and Father, and several of Tom’s friends, who had come to us early, crowded into Kitty’s small room off the kitchen, where Nehemiah had been put to bed the night before, while Kitty slept on a pallet in my room. I busied myself in the kitchen near the doorway, so that I could hear what was said.

  ‘They came stealing my eels.’ Nehemiah’s voice was weak but indignant. ‘I told them to bugger off. I’d see them in Hell first. There was five of them, three Dutchies and two Englishmen. Not any of them Scots. They keep them Scots chained up at night or they’d run off home. I’d have taken them all on.’ His voice faded.

  He would have fought them, I knew. Even though he was an old man now, past fifty, he had been a fighter in his youth, and he was still powerful.

  ‘Did they fight you?’ Tom asked.

  I heard Nehemiah clear his throat to spit, then, no doubt remembering where he was, he coughed instead. There was a pause and I could hear someone giving him a drink.

  ‘Not them, the cowards. They just grinned at me and went on hauling in my nets, when something hit me from behind. I didn’t see them, but there must have been more coming up.’ He stirred impatiently on the bed and the straw mattress rustled. ‘I need to get back home and fetch in my traps. I’m due at Lincoln market today. I’ll need to go down to the Lode.’

  ‘You’re going nowhere, with a wound the breadth of my palm in your head.’ My father’s voice was firm but kind. ‘Hannah would roast us all alive if we let you out of that bed. You sleep a while. You’ll feel better tomorrow.’

  They trailed out of the room, shutting the door behind them, and I guessed from their uncomfortable looks that they had not told Nehemiah that he had no home left to go to. Or nets of eels to fetch.

  Tom beckoned his friends Toby and Jack outside and through the window I watched them in a huddle beside the yard gate, arguing and gesturing. Then they seemed to come to some agreement. Tom raised his hand to the others as they left, then went away whistling to fetch in the cows for milking.

  As soon as I had washed the dishes which had been neglected while our visitors lingered, and sent Kitty to fetch in water from the well-hus, I helped Mother mix up the day’s batch of bread dough. When I had laid it in the bread trough with a cloth over it to prove, and my mother was sitting at her spinning, I went out to the barn, where Tom had just finished milking. We carried the pails through to the dairy and poured the cream off. I stirred rennet into a large tub of milk and left it to curdle for cheese-making.

  ‘Well,’ I said, leaning my back against the bench and looking up at Tom, who was smiling secretively to himself. ‘What have you and the others been plotting?’

  He hesitated, then could hold back the words no longer.

  ‘We will not wait another day for Sir John’s invisible lawyer. We will act tonight.’

  I felt a lurch of fear in my stomach, and yet I caught a little of his excitement too.

  ‘What do you mean to do?’

  ‘You must say nothing. Not a word to Father.’

  ‘I can hold my tongue.’

  ‘We’ll ride over tonight and cast their earthed-up banks down into the ditches they have dug. Break up the sluice gate. If we can, we’ll fire their mill. They are not the only men who can set fire to others’ property.’

  ‘It will be dangerous.’

  ‘Aye. But no more dangerous than sitting here like sheep, waiting to be slaughtered.’

  No. I remembered the feel of Nehemiah’s bloodied scalp under my hand, and Hannah stumbling into our kitchen with her old hen and a few pots of honey. Both of them with their homes burnt to the ground, their few possessions gone, beggared in their old age. What would become of them? We had taken them in for now, but our farm could barely support us these last few years – years of mouldy crops and grain withered in the ear. How could we feed two more mouths?

  By afternoon, Nehemiah had insisted on getting out of his bed, though his trembling legs would carry him no further than the bench by the vegetable garden. He had persuaded Tom to cut him a sheaf of withies and begged a ball of twine from me. Now he sat from dinner until the light faded, weaving new eel traps and holding nets. There was a grim set to his mouth, so I guessed someone had told him of the fire.

  After we had supped I took my candle to my room, but did not undress. Instead I sat on the edge of my bed, straining my ears to the sounds of the house. Kitty, clearly feeling out of place on my floor, had dragged her pallet up the ladder to the attic room where Hannah slept. I could hear them moving about overhead, and the soft murmur of their voices. My parents came upstairs next and were soon silent, exhausted after the troubles of the last two days. Tom was still downstairs in the kitchen. I heard him throw another log on the fire and kick it into place, then the creak of the chair as he sat down.

  I made up my mind. I blew out my candle, picked up my shoes and crept out of my room. Heavy breathing came from behind my parents’ door, with an occasionally snort from Father. Nothing could be heard from the attic. I stole down the stairs, keeping to the inside edge which I had known from childhood would not creak. Tom and I had had our night-time excursions in the past.

  In the kitchen Tom was moving about purposefully now. He had taken down the short sword that hung on two pegs over the door and strapped it to his waist. He was fitting a tallow candle into a lantern as I crept in.

  ‘Tom,’ I whispered, making him jump so that he nearly dropped the lantern.

  He shook his head and pointed to the room where Nehemiah lay. There was no sound of heavy breathing, so perhaps he was still awake. I put on my shoes, then took down my cloak from its peg by the door. Tom frowned and shook his head again, but I ignored him. I looked around the kitchen. We possessed only that one sword, an ancient one, come down the family, but I would not go unarmed. I took the largest kitchen knife from the rack and tucked it into my sash, where it pressed uncomfortably into my side. Then I walked out into the yard. My heart was beating fast and my breath caught in my chest. We were about to break the law.

  Tom followed me, pulling the door to behind him with great care. It gave its usual small squeak and we froze, but there was no sign from the house that anyone had heard. Tom seized me by the elbow and steered me toward the barn.

  ‘What are you doing? Why have you taken that knife?’ He was keeping his voice down, but I could see he was angry.

  ‘I am coming too
. And I thought I should come armed.’ I knew I sounded foolish.

  He sucked in his breath, then gave a soft laugh. ‘Very well. I suppose our women and girls have as much right as we to be avenged. Our grandfather had women amongst his followers. But you must keep out of our way.’

  He headed into the barn.

  ‘Why–?’ then I saw our gelding Blaze tied up in his stall. So that was where Tom had slipped off to after supper.

  ‘You are going to ride? But it isn’t far.’

  ‘We may need to come away in a hurry. They cannot pursue us on horseback. They have no horses but the two ponies who draw their carts.’

  ‘Then we must needs ride two to a horse.’

  ‘Very well, if you are sure you want to come. There may be fighting. No place for a girl.’

  I shrugged, but I licked my lips, which suddenly felt dry. ‘As you say, I have as much right as you.’

  It was strange, that ride through the night, as I sat bareback with my skirts hitched up and my arms around my brother’s waist. Darkness and dew had brought out the spring scents along the lane, green scents of new growth, and the horse’s shoulder brushed the last petals of cherry blossom over us. After the cold spring, the apple trees were only now in flower, and we were soon be-dabbled with pink and white petals. There was the merest sliver of a new moon, barely enough to see our direction, but the horse knew the lane and made his way confidently, though it was mired and muddy from the drainers’ heavy traffic. I could hear courting frogs in the Lode, which lay here on our right, and an occasional murmur from birds half asleep in the hedgerows. A hoolet swooped suddenly close overhead, busy hunting for mice, and the horse jinked sideways, but he was a steady beast and soon calmed. As we reached the edge of the village I was aware of dark shapes looming up near us, a jingle from a bridle, and a whoosh of breath from an unseen horse. The darkness of the night seemed warmer from the press of bodies around us.

  Tom murmured a greeting and there were soft words in reply, amongst which I heard ‘your sister’. He reassured them that I would not be a hindrance as we turned our horses and made first for the section of the ditch in the pasture which was furthest from the encampment, where we dismounted and the men found me suddenly useful as horse-minder. Along with the others, Tom had brought a shovel, and soon they were working eagerly, lined up along the ditch and shovelling back the banked up earth so recently dug out. They did not try to return every morsel of earth to its rightful place – there would not be time and dark enough for that – but concentrated instead on blocking the ditch so it could not carry water.

  We worked our way down the end of the pasture and across the wheat field to the new sluice gate and the Lode, the men shovelling all the way, and I bringing up the horses in relays.

  ‘Why have they put a sluice here?’ I asked Tom, as he paused to wipe the sweat off his face with his sleeve and to take a swig from the beer jack someone had brought.

  He shook his head. ‘They don’t understand our natural flooding and drainage. If a lot of water comes down from the Fen through this ditch, and they close the sluice, the water will back up and flood the village. They are fools! They may have great skill at keeping the sea at bay, but our Fens are very different.’

  A voice hailed us from the Lode. We were less careful to keep our voices down, now that we were some distance from the camp. The Waters twins, Joseph’s nephews, had poled an old leaky punt down the Lode and were now tying it up to the sluice gate. They jumped out, their feet and stockings wet through.

  ‘It’s too wet,’ someone called. ‘It won’t burn.’

  ‘Dry enough except the bottom six inches,’ said John Waters. ‘Who has the hassocks?’

  There was a great noise of crackling and snapping, as some of the lads dragged great bundles of dried marsh grass out from under the hedge, where they must have hidden them earlier. These they passed down to John’s twin, Dick, who piled them up in the punt until they formed a teetering mound four or five feet above the gunwales. We all stood back to admire their handiwork. I understood now what they planned to do.

  ‘As soon as that flares up, someone will see it,’ I said. ‘The drainers will be down on us.’

  ‘Mercy is right,’ said Toby. ‘Those of us going to the mill had best be off. Give us a few minutes’ start.’

  Tom mounted Blaze and reached down to give me a hand up. Toby and three or four others mounted as well. While the rest of our party remained behind at the sluice, we rode as fast as we could back up the lane, then cut across the pasture to Hannah’s old cottage plot, where the half-built mill reared up against the sky. There was still little moonlight, but I had been out in the night long enough now that even the starlight seemed bright. It was a world of blue-black and silver, with the outline of the mill looming in dark menace ahead of us. There was something missing. I realised then that Hannah’s ancient cider tree had been hacked down, not even its nubbin left standing. The new-flowering branches lay broken and sprawled in the mud. Over to our right I could make out the dull gleam of the drainers’ cooking fires damped down for the night, but no one seemed to be stirring there.

  Then suddenly the night was lit up by a vast tongue of fire which rose up behind us in a column of scarlet and yellow. The others had been too impatient to fire the sluice and we were not ready.

  ‘Quick!’ Toby shouted. There was no use keeping silent now.

  Tom and the others leapt from their horses and ran towards the mill. I slid down and led Blaze nearer, peering with eyes half blinded by that sudden burst of light. There were shouts from the encampment, while nearby I could make out Toby striking flint and cursing. A small flower of flame budded and caught, and they were all making twists of hay for torches. Hannah’s hay, I realised, still left lying here when everything else was gone. There was something grimly satisfying in that.

  I was no longer prepared to stand by and watch. I dropped Blaze’s reins and ran forward to make my own twist of hay.

  Tom saw me. ‘Here!’

  He held his torch out towards me and I lit mine from the tip of his, then we ran forward together to thrust our flaming brands in with the others, between the joints of the half-built mill. The wood was dry and crisp and caught at once. We could hear pandemonium from the encampment and make out the flash of swords as a stream of men headed towards the sluice.

  ‘Back to the horses!’ Tom shouted and we began to run.

  But not all the drainers had headed to the Lode. Suddenly there was Piet van Slyke, not twenty yards away, and in the light from the mill, now well ablaze, I saw him raise a gun and fire.

  Tom gave a shout of pain and stumbled against me, then collapsed on the ground. I could not lift him. Cold panic seized me. Was he dead?

  ‘Help me! Toby! Jack! Tom is shot!’

  They ran to me and hauled Tom to his feet. He gasped. ‘My leg. Can’t. Stand. My leg.’

  We could all see the blood pouring from his thigh. Already his breeches were blackened.

  ‘He can’t walk,’ said Toby. ‘Can he ride?’

  ‘Help me get him on the horse,’ I said, ‘I’ll manage. Quick. Van Slyke and his men are coming.’

  Somehow we got Tom on to Blaze and Toby gave me a leg up behind him. I reached round Tom for the reins, holding him in place as best I could. As I kicked Blaze and urged him on, I could see the others scrambling on to their horses. In a pack, we wheeled our mounts and galloped down the field, scaring a few sheep who had wandered from the main flock. Something whizzed past my head and at the same moment I heard the crack of van Slyke’s gun. He was still firing at us, but we were gaining on our pursuers. In the lane we passed the other drainers running toward the sluice. One burly Dutchman stepped into our path to try to stop us, but we rode him down and he jumped out of the way. I heard Tom give a triumphant croak, then he went slack in my arms. I struggled to stop him sliding off.

  At the village boundary where we had gathered earlier, we paused briefly.

  ‘Better disperse,�
� said Toby. ‘Rub down your horses so they don’t give you away. And hold your peace. Everyone in the village will have seen the fires by now. Not everyone will keep their tongues behind their teeth.’

  ‘Fires?’ I said recklessly. ‘What fires?’

  Someone laughed and I felt a surge of excitement and pride. We had succeeded. Tom was hurt, but surely the wound would not be serious.

  ‘Can you manage Tom the rest of the way?’ Jack asked.

  ‘Aye,’ I said, ‘I can manage.’

  And so we ended our first attack on the drainers.

  There was no hiding Tom’s wound from the rest of the household. Father heard Blaze clatter into the yard and came out holding a lantern above his head to see what was afoot. Our dog Jasper was at his heels, but gave a welcoming bark, not a warning against intruders. Father raised the lantern and looked up at me, shock and anger chasing each other across his face.

  ‘Mercy? What are you about? And what is wrong with Tom?’

  Tom by now was slumped sideways against my arm and it was all I could do to stop him slipping to the ground. Explanations could wait.

  ‘Help me, Father. Tom is hurt and I can’t hold him.’

  My father steadied Tom on Blaze’s back while I slid to the ground, then between us we lifted Tom down. By now the rest of the household was out in the yard in their night clothes, Mother white with fear, Kitty hiding behind Hannah. Despite his broken head, Nehemiah helped us carry Tom into the kitchen and lay him on the settle.

  ‘Kitty,’ I said, ‘take Blaze into the barn and hang up his bridle. He’ll need to be rubbed down and given some feed. He’s worked hard tonight.’

  She dipped her head in acknowledgement and ran outside. She was a little afraid of horses, but I knew I could trust her to do her best. I turned back to the kitchen, where Mother had stripped off Tom’s jacket and Hannah was leaning over him, examining the wound.