She walks a little way into the trees to answer the call of nature. Looking up towards a branch above, where at least a dozen crows are squabbling loudly, she trips on a root and falls, jarring her knee, wincing as the pain shoots up her leg.
Sitting on the ground a moment to brush the earth off her clothes, she wonders why a length of new-looking twine is tied to a nearby branch. Something else catches her eye, poking out from the undergrowth.
She moves a little closer and sees, to her horror, what looks to be the remains of a human hand, half eaten away, seeming to spring up from the earth, as if planted there.
You’re imagining things, she tells herself firmly, looking back at it, expecting to see nothing more than a growth of fungi, or a strange-shaped leaf.
It is a hand. Nails bruised. Skin grey.
She retches.
A crow swoops down to peck at it.
She tries to scream but, as in a nightmare, cannot generate any sound.
She runs, pushing her way through the morass, all the way back to where Hester is on her feet.
‘What is it?’
Hope wants to explain but still can’t find her voice, stuttering out a series of unintelligible sounds.
Rafe is tugging at his mother’s skirt. ‘Look, Mother.’
‘Not now.’ She is tired, her patience thin, but he persists and Hope still cannot find any words. ‘Not now!’
‘LOOK!’ He shouts this time, forcing both women’s attention.
They turn in the direction he is pointing to see the unmistakable hexagonal shape of the dovecot that sits on the roof of the lodge they left several hours before. Scanning lower she sees, between the trees, a hundred yards away, so clear it seems impossible that none of them had seen it before, the perimeter fence and the gate.
Hester blanches, white as a devil’s dog.
Hope’s stomach turns as if a snake is uncoiling inside her.
They hear the unmistakable high-pitched yelp of Captain.
‘Cap–’
Hester claps her hand over Rafe’s mouth to silence him and hauls him back towards the horses.
Hope removes the pistol from her belt, setting it to full cock with an ominous click.
Gifford’s voice is in her head: You have to grasp it as if you mean it. Imagine it is a fowl for the pot and you must break its neck.
Felton
Felton squints. Light stabs at his eyes. As he moves his head a throb beats in his temples, drilling sharp pain into his skull.
Confused, he is unsure where he is, how long he has slept and has the instinct, a heaviness in the pit of his stomach, that he has missed something vital.
He rises, his head pounding so hard he has to sit cradling it in his hands until the agony subsides. His hair flops forward, stinking of smoke. Slowly his thoughts begin to line up and he eventually realizes where he is but has no idea how he came to be sleeping in the hall. He can’t remember the previous evening, nothing at all, as if hours of his life have been stolen. He just remembers the fire and the terrible howls of the boy trapped, George’s boy, and everyone deeming him a hero.
The light is streaming in through the east-facing window, so it must be morning, though he could have slept for a week for all he knows. He listens. A thick cloak of silence hangs over the place.
The house is too quiet.
His ears tune to the distant sounds outside – birdsong: the busy twitter of finches and the cockerel trumpeting out his crude tune. He can hear a distant whining and scrabbling, as if an animal has got itself shut in somewhere and is scratching pitifully at a door. A bolt shoots out there, and he hears Lark’s voice, laughing: ‘Get down, you daft beast.’ It is the puppy, greeting her now, with a volley of frantic yelps.
Gifford’s unmistakable gait limps across the yard and he shouts to his granddaughter, ‘The horses are gone. Someone’s stolen the horses.’
Felton springs up, wincing at the pain in his skull, in his arm. He feels for his pistol. It is not there. Rummaging in the bed, he is unable to find it. He throws open the front door. Gifford is standing forlorn at the main gate, his old musket slung over his shoulder. ‘It wasn’t properly latched. The horses have been stolen in the night.’
‘Where are the women? The boy?’
‘Upstairs, I reckon.’
Felton knows in his bones that they have gone. His first thought is that he has been exposed but, if so, why isn’t Gifford pointing the gun at him? Trying to make sense of it, he thinks back but it is as if someone has filleted his memory.
The puppy runs up to him, jumping excitedly. He kicks it away. It makes a loud yelp, cowering. Felton, saturated in his own ineptitude, attempts to rearrange his muddled thoughts into a plan of action. They could have been gone hours. God knows where they will have got to. He struggles to make sense of it, failure pinching at him. His future obliterated.
‘Give me that.’ He indicates the musket, which Gifford removes and hands over. ‘Go upstairs. Make sure the women are safe,’ he says, knowing in his gut it is futile. The puppy is at the gate, now, scratching and whining. It has picked up a scent.
He shoves the gate with his shoulder. The puppy scampers out ahead of him. The track is empty but the animal has its nose low to the ground. The dog-lock is stiff on the old musket but it clunks into place.
He follows, keeping close to the cover of the trees.
Captain stops where hoof prints are clearly visible, heading away from the house. The puppy lifts its head, sniffing the air, and continues round a bend in the track.
With a frisson of excitement, he spots the unmistakable black and white markings of the pony among the bushes lining the path.
‘I’ve got you,’ he whispers. His blood is up. Fate has offered him one more chance to see this mission through. The puppy gallops now and Felton can hear the boy’s delight on seeing his pet.
In his mind’s eye he sees Hester splayed on the ground, blood pooling across her breast. A terrible accident. Mistaken for a horse thief.
Is it too implausible, he wonders, to imagine Hope reassuring him? A terrible accident – how could you have known? She has proven her credulity already, so it seems possible he could dupe her once more. There is a flaw in this plan, but he can’t quite put his finger on it in the tangle of his mind.
He can hear footfall behind him.
Someone has followed him out.
Glancing back, he is relieved to see it is only the blind girl.
‘Stop,’ he hisses, continuing on, keeping an eye behind. ‘There’s danger ahead.’
She doesn’t stop, is moving towards him, faster now she has heard where he is.
He picks up his pace, musket aimed forward, rounding the bend to be confronted by the black eye of another gun, his gun, in the outstretched hand of – not the mother but Hope, her features sharp with hate.
The mother stands behind, with the two horses. He can’t see the boy.
They hover in stasis for what seems like aeons but is only a fraction of a moment. He is aware of Lark moving to the side, his mind whirring on whether the daft girl in front of him has the courage to pull the trigger. He cannot quite see if her arm is trembling. The barrel looks steady, perhaps steadier even than his, and he remembers, his throat constricting, Gifford talking about what a gifted shot she was. ‘A natural’, he’d called her.
There is something about the determined set of her mouth that tells him not to underestimate her. He assesses whether he can get a sightline on the mother, but she is obscured by the horses. His scheme crumbles.
He hears Hester say, ‘Go!’ and from the edge of his vision he sees the boy speeding towards Lark, who leads him away out of danger.
Felton shifts slightly.
A crack explodes.
Her shot flies towards him.
He fires simultaneously, his trigger finger squeezing before he has instructed it to – a soldier’s reflex – the ancient musket booming and recoiling violently against his shoulder.
Her bullet thuds into a tree behind him, splintering through the wood.
He watches her fall back, crashing into the long grass with a violent expulsion of breath, half cry, half howl.
Hester
Hope lies motionless on the ground.
All falls to a deathly hush. Even the birds are shocked.
The lieutenant is the first to move, groping in his pocket, patting himself down, apparently unable to find what he seeks.
Rafe, in Lark’s arms, begins to bellow as the piebald staggers, dropping to its knees with a groan, then falling heavily onto one side, a red flower blossoming on its flank.
I become aware that Hope is moving. She is reaching for the ammunition pouch. It takes me a moment to understand that Hope has not been hit: the weapon’s kick had thrown her off her feet.
The lieutenant leaps forward, eyes white with rage.
I lunge, brandishing my own weapon, lifting it, looking straight along its barrel, as I was taught.
The lieutenant stops in his tracks.
I tell Hope to get to safety, realizing what the lieutenant understood moments before, that he has used his only shot.
Fear moves over his features, his gullet shifting up and down, the useless musket wobbling in his grip. He must be pondering whether I have the mettle to kill him. Does he not know that a mother will do anything to protect her child?
I draw Margie’s kitchen knife out from inside my jacket, holding it in my free hand. In this moment, grazing so close to danger, close enough to smell the chaff on Death’s robe, I understand that I fear nothing, not even my own obliteration.
‘Drop your weapon!’ My command is firm.
He obeys instantly, tossing the gun into the grass between us. I can hear Hope comforting Rafe. I resist even a glance at my child and remain absolutely focused on the disarmed man before me. The man who was sent to kill me and steal my son.
‘On your knees! Hands on your head!’
He drops down instantly, brings his hands up, the injured one only able to reach his ear, the pain of the movement visible on his face.
‘Now right down, on your front.’
He does as I say without question. His face is in the dirt. I keep the pistol ready. ‘If you move even so much as a muscle …’ I plant my foot on his back.
I tell Hope to take Rafe inside with Lark. My voice is steady, my mind clear. ‘Find Gifford. He’ll have to finish the pony off.’ I can hear the poor beast wheezing heavily behind me; the bullet must have punctured a lung. ‘Tell him he must take the grey, ride to town and get help – someone he trusts. Give him what he needs from my purse, then go upstairs to the bedroom. Lock yourself in there with Rafe. Lark, you stay in the kitchen with your mother.’
Hope protests. ‘I can’t leave you alone with –’
‘Just do as I say.’ I have no doubt that I will survive, not even a splinter.
I walk slowly round the prone soldier, lifting his shirt with the tip of the knife. He doesn’t appear to be carrying a blade of his own and I only notice now that he isn’t wearing his boots. He must have heard the commotion and rushed out without thinking. His feet are filthy, hard black pads on the underside, like a dog’s.
‘You must have thought me such a fool. I’ve been so kind to you. But who is the fool now?’
He doesn’t respond. I order him to get up. ‘Slowly, no sudden movements.’ He rises, spitting the dust and grass from his mouth. His eyes are ringed so dark they seem bruised and their whites are tinged yellow. The effect of the sleeping draught.
‘Turn around.’ He cringes visibly, bracing himself for a shot in the back of his head – the ultimate humiliation for a soldier. It is tempting but, if I am honest, for all my new-found courage I don’t believe I have it in me to do such a thing. I can see, only too clearly, the consequences. George would see me hanged for murder and Rafe would be his. I cannot let that happen.
I clutch his shirt collar at the nape, tugging it tightly until he emits a guttural coughing, and press the barrel of the gun between his shoulder blades.
‘Dr Cotton was like a father to me. Perhaps you didn’t know that.’ A stink rises off him, of sweat and ash and something else, something rotten, fear, I hope.
His neck is thick and muscular. I know he could crush me easily with his one good arm. But I have the loaded gun. Power is a physical sensation, I discover: an intense, swelling euphoria teamed with absolute clarity of thought. I know exactly what I will do.
I am aware that this must be how it feels to be a man, as I march him, obedient as a broken horse, back across the yard, into the house. We mount the stairs to the blue room, where I order him to remove the fire back-plate. He crouches to do so. His whole body is quaking now, the fabric of his shirt blistering against his back where it is stuck to the sweat.
The panel scrapes back, revealing the black hole behind. He glances back at me, to see if I mean it. My rigid demeanour tells him there is no choice but to submit to my will. How humiliating it must be for a man like him to yield to a woman.
‘Get inside!’ I give him a firm shove with my foot. He crouches, crawling meekly into the priest-hole. I heave the back-plate into place. I know perfectly well that once the hearth is lit and the iron plate too hot to touch, there will be no escape for him.
I hurry to build the fire, making a pyramid of logs and filling its heart with kindling. Taking the tinderbox, I tease sparks from the flint, causing the soft fibres in the box to smoke. I blow gently until it glows, then tip the nascent flames into the dry sticks. They flare up fast. I watch, entranced, as ribbons of flame crack and scintillate, jabbering upward into the flue.
Now the immediate danger has passed, I lean against the wall closing my eyes, feeling spent, fancying I can hear the humming Melis used to say was the house whispering. I can feel her in the air. I miss her horribly, as if part of me has been ripped away, leaving raw exposed flesh.
A shot is fired outside. I look out, expecting to see Gifford having dealt with the poor piebald, but it is Margie I see stalking back through the gate with the old musket in her hand. I start to think through our next steps. Gifford will be able to lead us through the maze of forest that had us bewitched into circles last night. Plans clog my head. Margie and Lark can keep the fire going until I’ve worked out what to do with the prisoner. I am reassured by the thought of the woman shooting the pony without apparent qualm. She seems capable enough of looking after herself.
But I can’t see Gifford in the yard, or the grey.
I throw another log onto the fire and run downstairs, finding Margie and Lark in the kitchen. ‘Where’s Gifford?’
‘He’s gone already. To Ludlow, for help, like you said.’ Margie folds her arms across her chest.
‘When? When did he leave?’ Tension begins to coil round me.
‘He left immediately. Been gone a good twenty minutes or so.’
I am re-forming the plans in my head.
‘Prepare to leave,’ I say. ‘We can take the mule and the cart?’
‘Is he in the priest-hole?’
I nod. ‘We have no time to lose.’
‘We’d be safer here.’ Margie has folded her arms firmly and I prepare for a battle of wills.
‘I must insist.’ I give no room for a refusal, yet the recalcitrant woman is shaking her head.
‘My father will be back before nightfall with help.’
‘There’s no time to wait for him.’
‘We’d be better off on foot,’ says Lark. ‘The mule’s on her last legs.’
‘But with the child …’ Margie is increasingly fixed. ‘The lieutenant will be out of his hole and on our tails in no time. A strapping man like that. Catch us up easily.’
I can see I haven’t considered properly all the possible eventualities of a trek on foot through the forest with an eight-year-old boy and only a half-dead mule for transport.
‘What is your opinion, Lark?’ My heart is sinking.
‘She’s right. We’re safer
waiting here. At least we will know if someone’s approaching and can be sure of exactly where the lieutenant is.’
I resign myself to a wait, slumping onto the bench, despair pinching at me.
‘He’ll be back by nightfall, I’m sure of it.’ Margie tries to sound bright. ‘We can take it in turns to look out and the yard-dog will warn us of anyone approaching.’
She makes it all sound so straightforward but I am teeming with qualms, particularly about the fate of my prisoner. Under normal circumstances he should be brought before a magistrate. But forcing that eventuality would risk our exposure.
I fill a basket with firewood and carry it back upstairs. I look in on Hope and Rafe in the bedroom and tell them we will leave as soon as Gifford returns. We have all day to prepare for our departure. All day for me to devise a plan for the man in the priest-hole.
I return to the blue room, feeling, only now, the exhaustion from the previous night’s futile trek. Fatigue has seeped deep into my bones but it is not physical tiredness alone. I am tired of running, of hiding, of the subterfuge, the relentless fear. Even if we do get safely to Ludlow we still won’t be free.
Desperate thoughts run through my mind. I can see the great web of George’s influence, remembering, vividly then, like a hallucination, the man, Worley, in my house with my son in his grasp.
Resistance has made me brittle, pieces of me breaking away until I no longer recognize myself. This is no life – no life for my son. But I have no idea how to escape, understanding, with a crushing sense of despair, that I remain as much a captive as my prisoner.
Feeding the flames and counting the minutes until Gifford’s return, I feel the final vestiges of my tenacity disperse. Had I the capacity for true cruelty I would let the lieutenant starve in there. But even had I such, I remind myself that this man’s death would merely remove the immediate threat. The true threat is out there, beyond my reach.
The Honey and the Sting Page 21
