seems.'The news struck me like a chill wind. Was it possible that my beguiling brother had been beguiled? Yet it seemed more likely he was mistaken; what woman would desert Zebedee for a greybeard with purple cheeks? As for myself, I had killed not a simpleton but a practised, treacherous wolf cub. We were well rid of him. I turned to Izzy's hanging and drove the dust from it in clouds.
Cornish did not show himself, with or without Patience, the following day. Nor did Mister Biggin. A farmworker we had never seen before drove the cart, bearing a plain deal coffin, round to the laundry door. Caro had washed the boy's shirt and done what she could with his other garments. Izzy folded them neatly next to the deal box and I lowered the lad in my arms until he was lying snug within it.
'It's him for sure?' asked the cart driver.
For answer, I drew back the linen shielding the corpse's face. The boy's freckles showed greenish against the dull white skin.
The man took off his hat. 'That's him. God ha'mercy.'
I pulled the shroud across again, seeing in my mind the wound with its clean folds lying one against the other. The man led the horse about, mounted to the front of the cart and cracked his whip. Our false friend jogged away over the cobbles, lapped in borrowed linen and in a silence all his own.
THREE
Battles
We never went to the funeral, for which I was glad. But our talk was of little else, and while we tormented ourselves about Walshe, Cornish and Patience, the date of my espousal to Caro was almost upon us. Lying in bed, I gave myself up to voluptuous imaginings of my wedding night, almost too sweet to bear; but when I slept there came nightmares in which I was seized by Cornish or the officers. Sometimes Christopher Walshe walked before them, pointing me out. Starting out of sleep, I would dry my face on the bolster and consider whether I dared make away with myself, rather than be arrested. Once, when my groaning had woken both myself and Izzy, my brother whispered to me, 'Do you truly wish to be wed? Better cry off now than repent it after,' and I answered that the dreams had nought to do with my wedding, it was the boy, sunk deep into my mind. He put his hand on my brow, to cool it, and said he also dreamt of Walshe. Izzy was the only man there that ever touched me softly, as if I were capable of being hurt.
By day, these fears seemed foolishness. None had witnessed the boy's death, and none was come for me though he was laid in the ground.
Less than a week after the pond-dragging, I looked out of a window to see our mother crossing the courtyard. I at once ran down to her, my head filled with sudden panic, fancying that the men were in her
cottage, throwing the pots about in the scullery, ripping up every bed in the house and carrying away my father's Bible.
When we embraced her cheek lay against the buttons of my coat, and I remembered how as a child I had looked upwards into her face. The tables had been turned for many years now.
'I hope there is nothing wrong at home,' I said, pushing open the stiff oak door to the hall. I would never have called the cottage home except to Mother. 'Or are you come to see Caro?'
Mother ignored Caro's name. When the two first met, I had seen by numerous signs, which none but sons could read, that she disapproved of my choice. Having nothing however to dispense or withhold, she was forced to bow to it.
'What should be wrong at home? I am come to thank the Mistress for a present she made me,' she said. 'So I might make a good show at your betrothal.'
I flushed. 'Do we beg money now?'
'No, son! It came without asking. O my boy — you're grown so handsome—' she pulled my head down and kissed all over my face -'she's a fortunate lass that gets you.'
Hoping that Caro would not choose this moment to come by, I held Mother off from my kiss-dampened cheeks. 'The luck is on my side, to have such a one to wife. And such a mother,' for her eyes told me that to praise Caro
Cornish did not show himself, with or without Patience, the following day. Nor did Mister Biggin. A farmworker we had never seen before drove the cart, bearing a plain deal coffin, round to the laundry door. Caro had washed the boy's shirt and done what she could with his other garments. Izzy folded them neatly next to the deal box and I lowered the lad in my arms until he was lying snug within it.
'It's him for sure?' asked the cart driver.
For answer, I drew back the linen shielding the corpse's face. The boy's freckles showed greenish against the dull white skin.
The man took off his hat. 'That's him. God ha'mercy.'
I pulled the shroud across again, seeing in my mind the wound with its clean folds lying one against the other. The man led the horse about, mounted to the front of the cart and cracked his whip. Our false friend jogged away over the cobbles, lapped in borrowed linen and in a silence all his own.
THREE
Battles
We never went to the funeral, for which I was glad. But our talk was of little else, and while we tormented ourselves about Walshe, Cornish and Patience, the date of my espousal to Caro was almost upon us. Lying in bed, I gave myself up to voluptuous imaginings of my wedding night, almost too sweet to bear; but when I slept there came nightmares in which I was seized by Cornish or the officers. Sometimes Christopher Walshe walked before them, pointing me out. Starting out of sleep, I would dry my face on the bolster and consider whether I dared make away with myself, rather than be arrested. Once, when my groaning had woken both myself and Izzy, my brother whispered to me, 'Do you truly wish to be wed? Better cry off now than repent it after,' and I answered that the dreams had nought to do with my wedding, it was the boy, sunk deep into my mind. He put his hand on my brow, to cool it, and said he also dreamt of Walshe. Izzy was the only man there that ever touched me softly, as if I were capable of being hurt.
By day, these fears seemed foolishness. None had witnessed the boy's death, and none was come for me though he was laid in the ground.
Less than a week after the pond-dragging, I looked out of a window to see our mother crossing the courtyard. I at once ran down to her, my head filled with sudden panic, fancying that the men were in her
cottage, throwing the pots about in the scullery, ripping up every bed in the house and carrying away my father's Bible.
When we embraced her cheek lay against the buttons of my coat, and I remembered how as a child I had looked upwards into her face. The tables had been turned for many years now.
'I hope there is nothing wrong at home,' I said, pushing open the stiff oak door to the hall. I would never have called the cottage home except to Mother. 'Or are you come to see Caro?'
Mother ignored Caro's name. When the two first met, I had seen by numerous signs, which none but sons could read, that she disapproved of my choice. Having nothing however to dispense or withhold, she was forced to bow to it.
'What should be wrong at home? I am come to thank the Mistress for a present she made me,' she said. 'So I might make a good show at your betrothal.'
I flushed. 'Do we beg money now?'
'No, son! It came without asking. O my boy — you're grown so handsome—' she pulled my head down and kissed all over my face -'she's a fortunate lass that gets you.'
Hoping that Caro would not choose this moment to come by, I held Mother off from my kiss-dampened cheeks. 'The luck is on my side, to have such a one to wife. And such a mother,' for her eyes told me that to praise Caro
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