A man is talking to his horse, lifting its legs, and Felton can hear the scrape of a hoof pick. A cloud of biting midges gathers about his head and he has to use all his self-control to stop the urge to swat them away.
‘Just a stone!’ the man says, and Felton is sure he can hear the soft thud of the offending object falling to the forest floor. Then a whistle and a call. ‘Come, Caesar.’
He hears the hound before he sees it, the crack of twigs and the stutter of its sniff as it prods about in the bush where he is hidden. It stands still, training a pair of dark eyes on him. He wills it away.
The man whistles, calling the hound’s name again. Caesar’s ears flatten slightly. He ignores his master, continuing to pierce the lieutenant with his stare. He very slowly reaches out the back of his hand towards the long muzzle. The hound smells him and licks the salt sweat from his palm with its agile tongue. Another whistle. It bounds off. Felton expels a lungful of air.
‘He’s coming.’ It is unmistakably Hester’s voice, which gives him a measure of relief to know she is unharmed. ‘Come, boy.’
He can hear the pat and stroke, the man’s foot sliding back into the stirrup, the creak of leather as he heaves his weight into the saddle.
‘What is it, Ambrose?’ she says.
His innards shrivel to hear that name. The doctor lives? It is impossible, unless – the thought is dark and grim, but nonetheless he unfolds it tentatively in his mind – unless it is the devil’s work, the doctor raised from the dead. He tells himself not to be a fool. Perhaps he has lost his touch with a blade.
‘Caesar’s picked up a scent,’ the man says.
Felton can hear the hound’s purposeful sniff, close by once more, and girds himself for exposure, not moving a muscle, but the animal moves on, away from him, the riders following. He waits a while to be sure they have gone before continuing.
He moves off the main track, taking a narrow more southerly trail, pressing on through the thick vegetation, keeping his mind focused on his destination. By dawn he arrives at the edge of the forest where the land opens out into pasture, bleached to yellow by the sun. He stands a moment to work out his route, stretching his stiff limbs. It will be harvest time soon and a field of oats shimmers almost blue in the easterly light, a gentle breeze addling it.
He marches as fast as he can, passing hedgerows filled with blackberries, which he picks as he walks, not minding that they are still slightly tart. Coming upon a stream, little more than a ditch, he crouches, scooping the cold water into his mouth and over his face. Removing his boots, he dips his blistered and bloody feet into the trickle and dampens his shirt to cool himself as he moves on across the open country. Soon the sun beats down hard and there is no shade to be found.
Walking some distance, he arrives at the sprawling outskirts of a small town. It is market day and the place is teeming with people packing up their stalls. The bells ring for Evensong. He considers going inside the church, seeking some kind of redemption. He doesn’t, of course. He is beyond redemption.
He slakes his thirst at the town pump where, as luck would have it, he finds a man so drunk he can barely stand. His horse, a fine-looking thing, is grazing at a nearby verge. Felton persuades the fellow to take a couple of crowns for it. He seems delighted. And so he should be, for it is a criminally good sum for an ordinary gelding.
The horse is high-strung, shying at everything that moves, making Felton wonder if the drunkard didn’t get an even better deal than he’d initially thought. But the animal and he settle eventually into an uneasy alliance.
‘I’m coming for you, George,’ he says, as he girds it into a gallop.
Hope
Before Hope has even broken her fast, the magistrate arrives to ask her a few questions about Worley’s death. She had anticipated this and asked Margie to cut off her hair the night before. Margie had tried to persuade her it wasn’t necessary but she was sure she would have to remove her cap out of respect to the official. Wistful, watching the long black curls fall to the floor, she sensed that, with her hair, she was losing the final shreds of her innocence. And good riddance to it, she told herself. It was her innocence that had caused them all so much trouble.
The magistrate is a tall, thin man, with gimlet eyes and patchy white stubble on his chin where he has been poorly shaved. She removes her cap, running a hand through her cropped hair, and looks directly at him, before making a small polite dip of the head. ‘How can I be of help to you, sir?’
Taking her into an empty room, he scrutinizes her, making her feel her secret is visible through her skin. He enquires about her reasons for being at the Feathers and she explains, as Hester told her, that she and her younger brother are awaiting the arrival of their parents.
He doesn’t seem particularly interested in her responses, barely looks at her until he says: ‘One or two witnesses have told me that the deceased, Mr Smyth, seemed to recognize you.’
His eyes bore into her and he leans in closer.
Heat creeps up her body, flaring onto her cheeks.
She wants to ask him to open the window, but daren’t.
‘He must have mistaken me for someone else.’ She is trying to keep her hands still, resting loosely fisted on her knees, which she keeps splayed as a man would, despite her instinct to cross them. ‘I can’t think of any other explanation,’ she adds.
‘By all accounts he was very drunk. Would you agree that was the case?’
‘I would agree so, yes.’
‘Well, I don’t know …’ He pauses and all she can think of is that he will uncover her, that he knows she is a liar, that she could have prevented the man from falling, that he can see the truth seeping from her pores.
She prepares herself.
He lifts an arm. She recoils slightly. He brings his hand down onto her shoulder. ‘Dreadful business.’ He pats her, as a kindly uncle might his young nephew. ‘Dreadful accident.’
‘Accident’ is the word everyone has used to describe Worley’s tumble down the stairs, so it is the word she uses too, packing up her conscience and hiding it deep within.
Later that morning Hester arrives with Ambrose, announcing that they are all to travel to another inn a half-day’s ride away. It is a subdued reunion. Marks, dark as bruises, circle Hester’s eyes and she is as pale as vellum. Lark is with them, seeming diminished outside her domain, relying on Hope and Margie to guide her down the stairs and out to the stables.
They leave as soon as the horses are watered.
The lieutenant isn’t mentioned and Hope says nothing of Worley, though the Giffords recount the gruesome details of the drunken Mr Smyth who fell to his death on the stairs. It seems barely to register with Hester.
Hope wonders if the lieutenant is dead. The series of terrible events seems now like the darkest of nightmares, too distressing to have happened. But Melis is in the Ludlow churchyard – that is a fact.
The sickening image of Worley’s corpse crooked on the flagstones, blood pooling, keeps flashing through her mind, making guilt riffle through her, like a thief’s fingers in a bag.
They are a large party, with the three Giffords and Ambrose’s two men, as well as the Carter brothers, for protection. They make good progress on the route, stopping after a couple of hours at a quiet clearing to rest the horses and stretch their legs, sitting in the cool grass, passing round a flagon to take a drink.
‘I know how to set a trap and skin a rabbit,’ Rafe tells Ambrose.
‘Who taught you that?’ says Ambrose. ‘Was it Lark? She’s a wizard with snares.’
‘No, it was the lieutenant.’
Now that the man has been mentioned they all become starched, save for Rafe, who is describing exactly how a rabbit trap works, miming with his small fingers the tying of the slipknot.
They arrive in the middle of the afternoon at a remote turnpike with a tumbledown coaching inn, where they take a suite of gloomy rooms above the stables. From there they have the advantage of being able
to hear any comings and goings, but it is a far cry from the luxury of the Feathers, with grimy bedding and vermin scuttling behind the wainscoting.
Hester is distant, sitting in a huddle over a map with Ambrose, discussing quietly where they will go next. Hope hovers nearby, feeling left out, ignorant of their plans, as if she can’t be trusted, although Hester has told her it is for her own protection. She knows it is not the same but she is reminded of the clench of wretchedness she always felt when ostracized by the Iffley girls.
It is as if her secret has built a barrier between her and those she loves. All she can think of are the reasons she doesn’t belong, remembering the cheesemonger in the market, fixing her with a hard sapphire stare that assumed her guilty no matter what.
She slips from the room and down to the stables where the Carter brothers are keeping an eye on Rafe, as he teaches the puppy to obey his commands. He is a strict little drillmaster, dealing out punishments when Captain is not obliging, despite the men’s suggestion that the dog might respond better to rewards.
The brothers are eating and Jem offers her a lump of hard cheese on the point of his poniard. She shakes her head. ‘Something wrong?’ he asks.
She attempts a smile and seeks refuge inside the stables where she can hear Lark in one of the stalls, talking quietly to the big roan mare, as she rubs it down. ‘That’s better, girl, isn’t it?’
Hope watches in silence with just the rhythmic shush-shush of the brush passing over the horse’s flanks and the animal’s occasional whicker of contentment. After a while Lark seems to sense her presence. ‘Who’s there?’
‘It’s me.’ She stops herself saying her name in case someone overhears and becomes curious about a boy named Hope.
‘Come here.’ Lark beckons her and she sidles round the large animal, a rich dung smell rising up from the straw underfoot. ‘We’ll be leaving in the morning, going home.’
‘I wish you weren’t.’ Hope thinks of the lodge buried in the forest with its ghosts.
‘Livestock needs tending …’ Lark pauses, resting her head against the mare’s neck. ‘I’ll miss you.’
Hope feels something quicken deep inside her and exhales a trembling breath. She doesn’t know how it happens, but they have come together, her body warm, hands cold, breath hot.
‘Something has changed,’ Lark says, pulling away. ‘You’re different.’
A shard of sorrow sticks in Hope’s craw.
Lark, who can hear the blink of an eye from across a room, who can smell rain a day away, who can untangle a single thread of birdsong from a distant cacophony, has detected her guilt.
Hope is transparent to her, all her failings visible: the foolish girl who allowed Worley to ruin her, was taken in by the lieutenant and, much worse, the woman who took – deliberately – that minute backward step.
She feels the cold pain of rejection spreading into her heart.
But Lark says, ‘It’s this.’ She is running her hands over Hope’s cropped hair. ‘You’ve cut it.’
They begin to laugh, foreheads pressing together, fingers interlocked, neither wanting to be the first to let go, and Hope seals away her secret shame, hiding it deep in an inaccessible recess of her mind.
Felton
Felton makes swift progress, has funds enough to feed himself well and pays for a few hours’ rest at a roadside inn. There he learns, from talk in the dining room, that George has gone to Portsmouth to raise an army: he is planning to return to the war in France. Felton revises his route and heads for the south coast.
He stops in Winchester to buy himself a set of clothes that will pass muster in George’s entourage and chooses a serviceable knife of ordinary metal, waiting while the merchant grinds it for him.
‘Where are you going?’ the man asks, and when the lieutenant says he’s on his way to Portsmouth, adds, ‘I hope you’re not thinking of signing up to the duke’s army. Only a lunatic would be mad enough to serve under that villain.’ The whetstone squeals as he presses the blade to it. ‘He hasn’t the skill to lead an army, too swollen with his own importance to listen to anyone’s advice.’
‘I have no intention of joining up. Seen enough of war in my time,’ is all Felton says.
The cutler demonstrates the sharpness of the knife by slicing an apple cleanly in two, seeming very pleased with himself.
‘Overstepped himself, the duke. Thinks England belongs to him. No good’ll come of it.’ He spits on the ground.
‘What day of the month is it?’ Felton asks.
‘The twenty-second, I believe. Summer’s on the wane.’
Tomorrow, thinks Felton.
The cutler holds up the blade, admiring it, then slips it into a pouch and hands it over. ‘Be careful. It’s sharp. You wouldn’t want any accidents.’
A huge crowd awaits George in Portsmouth harbour. People jostle and push. Someone jolts Felton’s arm hard, sending a painful spasm juddering through it, which makes him think the infection must have returned.
‘Here he comes, the varlet,’ shouts a voice nearby. The crowd ripples, febrile, hot with rage. They are men like him, fighting men, soldiers, sailors, accustomed to the brutality of combat. And, like Felton, they all hate George.
A boy on his father’s shoulders waves a fist, his reedy voice crying, ‘Who rules the kingdom?’
‘The King!’ roars the crowd in response.
‘Who rules the King?’
‘The duke!’
A drummer starts up, banging in time with the chant.
‘Who rules the duke?’
‘The devil!’
The boy, flushed now with power, the crowd in his control, continues, ‘Who killed the devil?’
‘We did!’
‘We did!’
‘We did!’
By the devil, Felton realizes they mean George’s old adviser, Lambe, and he is assailed suddenly by the thought of that old man’s brutal death, torn limb from limb.
The crowd surges. Something is happening. He manages to haul himself onto a bollard the better to see. And there he is, George, in all his splendour. He goes bare-headed, no hat to spoil the tumble of his curls. A big diamond in his ear catches the sun, flashing. The chant continues, increasing in frenzy, but George appears oblivious, smiling and waving as if they are hailing him.
Felton weaves his way to the arched stable entrance of the Greyhound Inn, where the entourage is headed. A new chant goes up:
‘Let Charles and George do what they can,
The duke shall die like Dr Lambe …’
The horde of snarling faces combines to make a monster with a single desire. It would take just a single man to pull him from his horse. But none of them would dare. They are bold only in numbers and all are daunted by his power. George knows it. That is why he is so relaxed in the saddle, swaying easily with the rolling gait of his horse. Felton knows it too. Hester’s words filter to his mind: It would be an act of true sacrifice.
George passes almost close enough for Felton to reach out and touch his horse, a magnificent animal. Felton calls to him but his voice is lost in the uproar. George doesn’t wait for the mounting block to be rolled over and leaps down in one lithe acrobatic movement, meeting the cobbles like a dancer.
Immediately advisers cluster round him, one briefing him about something as he strides towards the door. He advances through the yard, wearing his confidence like a suit of armour, but Felton sees a weakness that is invisible to others. George’s hand trembles slightly and he glances behind, the whites of his eyes bright, towards the gates being swung to. The crowd has riled him.
As luck would have it, Felton’s old comrade Fiske is on the main gate, and waves him inside with a greeting, assuming him part of the entourage. Another crowd mills in the hall, this one smiling and obsequious, here to pay homage to the man who has more power than the King.
With a toss of his splendid hair, George disappears behind a sturdy oak door, strapped across with steel braces. A pair of sentries is le
ft on guard. Each wears an ordinary sword, but Felton can see the slight bulge where their poniards are tucked, waist-high, at their backs, and the uneven hang of their jackets where their pistols are concealed.
Felton approaches, citing an appointment with the duke, but the guard makes clear that he has been ordered to admit no one. ‘No exceptions.’ He gives Felton a sympathetic look.
Felton loiters for some time, scanning the place for signs of anyone behaving suspiciously, and eventually the hangers-on begin to disperse. They have realized that the great man has retired and will not emerge now until morning. Through a window that looks over the street Felton can see that even the angry crowd has reduced to a few clusters of drunken diehards, still chanting but with diminished zeal.
He seeks out the landlord to ask if there is a bed for him. The man looks him up and down. Even though Felton is dressed in the good suit he bought in Winchester, disdain is written on the man’s face. He says he doubts Felton could afford his establishment even if there were a vacancy.
He leaves the Greyhound. It is breezy out by the port, now night is falling. He stops at an apothecary for opium tincture, grateful for the blunting effect it has on his pain and also his nerves. After cruising about the increasingly rowdy taverns, he wanders away to watch the sunset, a scape of vivid orange and pink casting the masts of the ships in stark contrast. Eventually, he seeks out a boarding-house behind the port, the kind of place where his good suit means he is greeted like a lord.
The room is under the eaves and has a single small window with just a shutter, no glass, and a heart-shaped hole carved at its centre. It couldn’t be more convenient if it had been by design, for through it he has a view straight into the Greyhound. George’s rooms are on the first floor, tantalizingly close. He knows they are his because they have splendid vast casements, larger than any others in the building. He can see a woman moving about, the wife he supposes, whom he has never met, a blurred shadow against a simmering glow of golden light. He also has a view of the staircase and watches the servants buzzing up and down to bring the duke and duchess their evening meal.
The Honey and the Sting Page 26
