The Bleeding Land Read online

  Bess felt tears in her eyes but determined not to let them spill onto her cheeks. Tom had made her swear to keep the secret, but now she felt a terrible guilt for indulging the young couple’s conspiracy, enjoying it even, when she ought perhaps to have guided Tom with foresight. Was that not her responsibility as the elder sister?

  Tom took several steps towards Sir Francis. ‘Martha and I are betrothed and will marry,’ he said, sweeping his broad-brimmed hat through the air.

  Sir Francis shook his head. ‘You must call it off. And you must do it soon.’ He turned away from the window, fixing his eyes on his younger son’s.

  ‘Why? What has happened?’ Tom asked, arms extended, hands reaching for an explanation.

  ‘You know very well what is going on out there!’ Sir Francis barked, nodding back towards the window. ‘Anyone suspected of being a papist fears for his life. Men are beaten in the streets.’

  ‘Did you know that some poor man was strung up last week in Ormskirk?’ Lady Mary put in, her green eyes imploring her son to understand the danger he was in. ‘They dragged him from his horse and hanged him from a tree near the market cross.’

  ‘And all because he had the same name as a known Catholic from Bretherton nine miles away,’ Sir Francis added, shaking his head at the madness of it all. ‘No one is safe.’

  ‘But Martha is no Catholic!’ Tom said, hat and empty palm turned to the oak-panelled ceiling. The fire cracked and popped as the flames ate into the hazel’s knots.

  ‘And her father?’ Sir Francis asked, one grey eyebrow cocked.

  ‘George is a Protestant, Father, you know that! He’s a minister, damn it, not some crypto-Catholic!’

  ‘Can you be so sure?’ their mother asked, Tom’s curse having etched a line across her brow. ‘The papists have learned to hide their . . . persuasion.’ She touched Tom’s arm but he pulled away.

  ‘Of course I’m sure, Mother,’ he said.

  ‘That is not the point,’ Sir Francis said. He closed his eyes and with both hands scrubbed his face as though wishing to start again, beginning with himself. ‘The mob does not seek proof! For them the whisper of doubt is a rallying call. They’ll beat the drums and light fires and remind each other of the Gunpowder Treason.’ He dipped his chin, glaring at Tom. ‘Men have long memories, Thomas.’

  Tom looked at Bess, eyes pleading with her to take his side.

  ‘If Tom warns Minister Green then perhaps he can make some public statement,’ she heard herself say, ‘give a display of his faith so that the people know he is no papist.’

  Tom nodded, clutching at the idea, and looked back to their father who walked to his desk and pressed both palms down on it.

  ‘I hear the man refuses to answer these accusations in public?’ he asked Tom. ‘Well?’

  Tom glanced at their mother, then shrugged. ‘I have heard him say that he believes men should be free to worship God as they choose, so long as they obey their king and do no harm by it.’

  Sir Francis slumped back into his chair, shaking his head. ‘Then he is as good as finished,’ he sighed. The fire’s ill-tempered crack and spit filled the room. The yellow light it gave off seemed brighter and more zealous now, as though it fought the encroaching darkness of the West Lancashire dusk seeping through Shear House. ‘You will break it off with the girl,’ Sir Francis said in an even, measured voice. ‘And we shall keep our heads above this rising water.’

  Bess saw Tom’s teeth clench, a rampart against the words that threatened to break through. Then he turned and left the room, and Bess, rather than look at her parents, watched the flames grow fiercer.

  As he emerged from sleep’s fog, Mun was suddenly aware that Crab had been barking for what seemed a long while. The coals were grey, only their hearts yet glowing with life and heat. Three of the clock? Four? He swung his legs out from the linens and sat on the edge of the bed, gathering his wits and letting his ears sift through the muted sounds coming from downstairs. Thumping at the front door. A woman’s voice? Or a young boy’s perhaps. Isaac growling at Crab to hush, the Irish wolfhound taking no heed, its deep chest issuing rolling snarls between each salvo of barks. Mun stood and took his breeches from the chair beside his bed, pulling them on just as the bedroom door creaked open and his sister’s head appeared round its edge.

  ‘Somebody is here,’ Bess hissed, her golden hair burnished by the dying fire’s glow. ‘Isaac is fetching Father.’

  He shrugged his nightshirt back down so that it reached almost to his knees, and grabbed his sword belt, the blade snug in its scabbard.

  ‘Well, let us go and see who is calling on us in the middle of the night,’ he said, striding barefoot through the dark.

  Bess followed him along the oak-panelled corridor past portraits of long-dead relations, the floorboards squeaking and moaning, then down the stairs. The entrance hallway was a sea of pitch black enveloping a halo of light in which stood Tom, the candle lamp in his hand flickering weakly in a draught, barely holding the darkness at bay. Crab sat obediently at his heel, grey fur ruffling in the breeze.

  ‘What’s going on?’ Mun asked, coming to stand beside his brother and seeing another face in the shadows.

  Tom held up his candle to illuminate a young boy’s tear-streaked face. ‘This is Jacob Green, Martha’s brother,’ he said.

  Air from the bitter night still swirled through the hallway like an unwelcome guest, causing Mun to shudder.

  ‘You are trembling, you poor boy,’ Bess said, ‘you must be freezing to death. Did you walk all the way here?’

  Jacob shook his head, from which tufts of copper-coloured hair, the same shade as his countless freckles, stuck up messily. ‘My horse is tethered, Miss Rivers,’ he said, gesturing beyond Shear House’s iron-bound double doors. His breathing was still ragged from hard riding. And crying, Mun thought.

  ‘What has happened, lad?’ Mun turned to see his father halfway down the stairs, fingers wrapped round a brass chamber stick whose candle guttered as he came, his other hand rubbing tired eyes. His mother followed, one hand sweeping down the polished banister, red hair spilled across her shoulders.

  ‘Tell them what you just told me, Jacob,’ Tom said, handing the candle lamp to Mun and striding off.

  ‘Where are you going?’ Mun asked.

  ‘To get dressed,’ Tom called, bounding up the stairs past their parents.

  ‘Well, young Jacob?’ Sir Francis said. ‘What in the Devil’s name has happened that you would hammer on my door at this hour?’ Isaac shuffled around the hallway lighting candles, so that by their blooming light nightshirts, tousled hair and untidy beards were revealed. So too were the fresh tears welling in the boy’s eyes.

  ‘Men broke into our house,’ Jacob said. ‘They attacked Father. They said he is a secret Catholic. That he must answer for his crime.’

  ‘Crime?’ Bess said, shooting Mun a worried look.

  ‘All priests who have disobeyed the royal proclamation to leave the country are to be arrested,’ Sir Francis said, frowning. ‘The King is trying to appease the mob.’

  ‘But Father is not a priest,’ Jacob protested, bursting into tears. ‘He’s not!’

  ‘All will be well, Jacob,’ Bess said, stepping forward and hugging the boy to her bosom. But a moment later the lad pulled away, his anguish finding an edge. ‘My father is a Protestant, Sir Francis!’ he announced fiercely, young eyes raking the folk around him, daring them to suggest otherwise.

  ‘Who are these men? Who has your father?’ Sir Francis asked.

  ‘I only knew one of them,’ Jacob replied, ‘Lord Denton’s son Henry. Last year he rode across my father’s field in the hunt. My sister says he is a devil.’

  Mun shared a knowing look with Bess, neither surprised at Henry Denton’s involvement.

  ‘Master Henry struck my father when he refused to go with them,’ Jacob said.

  ‘Was your sister there? Martha?’ Lady Mary asked, glancing at Sir Francis, who looked back towards the stai
rs up which Tom had vanished. The boy nodded.

  ‘Have they hurt her?’ Mun asked.

  Jacob shook his head. ‘But she might hurt them,’ he said with a brave smile.

  ‘They have the decency not to involve Minister Green’s family at least. That is something, I suppose,’ Lady Mary said. There was a knock at the door.

  ‘Who is it now?’ Sir Francis said exasperatedly, nodding at Isaac to open the door, which the servant did, allowing a blast of frigid air to fill the hall. The candles guttered and the ladies pulled their nightgowns tightly around themselves as a young stablehand named Vincent stepped inside, doffing his hat to all.

  ‘Begging your pardon, sir,’ he said to Sir Francis, ‘but Master Tom asked me to tell him when Achilles was saddled and ready.’

  ‘And why would Tom want Achilles saddled?’ Sir Francis asked.

  ‘I couldn’t say, sir,’ Vincent replied, hands grasping each other, eyes averted from the women.

  But Mun knew why.

  ‘Because I’m riding to the village, Father,’ Tom said, striding downstairs. He had dressed in breeches, tall boots, shirt, waistcoat, doublet and thick black cloak. He also wore a sword scabbarded and fixed to a baldrick strapped over his right shoulder.

  ‘You are not!’ Sir Francis barked.

  ‘I will not be stopped, Father,’ Tom said without breaking stride. ‘Are you coming?’ he asked Mun.

  Mun glanced at Sir Francis, who shook his head, eyes as cold as the air swirling through Shear House.

  ‘Vincent, saddle Hector and bring him up,’ Mun said, the words out before he’d had time to think it through.

  ‘Hector is ready and champing at his bit, brother,’ Tom said before Vincent could answer. ‘I took the liberty of having him saddled.’ He shrugged at the question in Mun’s eyes.

  Mun saw anger in their father fighting to slip its bridle. In his own stomach he felt the butterfly wings of excitement begin to flicker.

  ‘Wait for me,’ he said to Tom, walking off to get dressed. ‘Do not dare leave without me.’

  ‘We will save your father from these ruffians, do not worry, Jacob,’ he heard Tom say as he took the stairs three at a time.

  He dressed hurriedly and, taking up his own sword, slipped the baldrick over his head and shoulder as he came back down the stairs. Into the maelstrom of words.

  ‘You will not leave this house, Thomas. And neither will your brother,’ their father said, pointing a threatening finger.

  ‘But what about the boy’s poor father?’ Bess said. ‘We cannot leave him to be beaten. Or worse. How could we live with ourselves?’

  ‘It is not our concern, Bess,’ their father said curtly, then turned to Jacob. ‘I am sorry, lad, but your father should have been more careful. The man is no fool, he knows the dangers.’

  Jacob looked up at Tom who was glaring at his father. ‘You would leave him to the mob, Father?’ Tom asked, fire in his eyes.

  ‘I would,’ Sir Francis said.

  ‘Then you are a coward,’ Tom spat.

  ‘Tom! Enough!’ Mun said, but Sir Francis was already going for his brother, fists balled.

  ‘Francis!’ Lady Mary yelled. He halted and turned to his wife, who gave a slight shake of her head, imploring him to hold. He held.

  ‘Martha Green is to be my wife,’ Tom said, putting on his hat, ‘and I will not abandon her when she needs me. Honour will not allow it.’

  ‘He is right, Father,’ Mun said, throwing his cloak around his shoulders. ‘It would not be right to stand by and do nothing while a good man, a minister, is so cruelly used. And by the likes of Henry Denton,’ he said, the name tasting like dirt in his mouth.

  ‘You would both disobey me?’ Sir Francis asked, incredulity twisting his flushing face.

  ‘We must do what is right,’ Mun said as evenly as he could, glancing at Bess, who gave an almost imperceptible nod. She looked horrified by the discord around her, for like Mun she had never before had to choose between obedience to her father and her own conscience.

  Sir Francis shook his head in bewilderment. ‘My father used to say, “God is good, but never dance in a small boat.”’ He looked at his wife and shook his head. ‘Why do our boys insist on bloody dancing?’ Lady Mary put her arm around Jacob Green and Sir Francis shook his head again because her silence was all but condonation of their sons’ disobedience. He knew he was outnumbered. ‘Fetch Priam,’ he growled at Vincent. The stablehand turned and was gone.

  ‘You will stay with us, Jacob, until the matter is resolved,’ Lady Mary said. ‘Isaac, fetch the lad some small beer and something to eat.’ Bess ruffled the boy’s hair, trying to coax a smile out of him. ‘Be careful, husband,’ Lady Mary warned, stepping forward to take Sir Francis’s hands in her own. ‘Bring our sons safely back.’ Sir Francis nodded darkly and stormed off to dress. Then Mary leant in to Mun, fixing him with eyes that were suddenly cold despite the candlelight glossing them.

  ‘Do not risk harm for the boy’s father,’ she whispered, clutching his arm with a grip that surprised him.

  He nodded. Then he turned and strode through the still-open door. Into the piercing December night.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  THEY RODE HARD, their mounts’ hot breath trailing in moon-silvered tendrils as they galloped across fields of frozen mud and along sunken lanes whose hedgerows clawed at them greedily. Hooves thumped out a breakneck beat, pounding the iron-hard earth. Sword scabbards bounced, saddles and straps creaked, and buckles, metal fittings and tack jingled. The frigid night air scoured Mun’s face, dragging tears across his freezing cheeks and biting through his gloves into raw finger bones. And he would have wagered a shilling that even their father, out in front on his noble black stallion, Priam, was finding it exhilarating, that even he was charged with the mad thrill of it. It takes him back to his years at Theobalds House hunting with King James, Mun thought. It reminds him of when he was young.

  In the dark the moon-touched sandstone hills loomed, mere pimples compared with their lofty cousins to the east, yet standing like ancient sentinels and made more ominous by night’s veil. The Rivers men flew across this darkling countryside, like the shadows of owls sweeping close to the ground after prey. And yet they came to Minister Green’s house too late.

  ‘They took him,’ Martha sobbed, hurling herself against Tom who wrapped his arms around her as though to shield her from the night itself. ‘Those devils took Father.’ Her hair, black as a raven’s wing, fell about her pale face in soft, tear-tangled curls, and Mun could see plainly why his brother loved the girl, why he had risked their father’s wrath by their secret betrothal. Though Tom was still a fool to ask her hand in marriage when he had no means to support himself let alone a wife.

  ‘They hurt him, Tom. They struck Jacob too.’

  ‘Do not worry for Jacob, Miss Green,’ Mun said, ‘he is safe at Shear House. Our sister Bess will see to the boy.’

  ‘Thank you for coming, Edmund. And God bless you, Sir Francis,’ she said, her voice muffled against Tom’s chest.

  Whilst Tom soothed Martha, Mun glanced about him in the candle-lit murk. The parlour had been much disturbed, with furniture, books and ornaments strewn across the floor. It was a small, modest house and though their father was yet catching his breath after the ride, Mun knew what he would be thinking. He would be wondering at his son’s folly in supposing a marriage to this country minister’s daughter would ever have received his blessing. For what property could the widowed churchman bring as a dowry to the marriage? And yet Mun could not deny that the girl was a beauty, and a woman’s beauty could hold a man in thrall. His father would see that, too. By Mun’s reckoning, advanced years had not cooled his father’s blood so much that he would not see how a young man could be stripped of sense by Martha Green’s full red lips, clear white skin and slender waist.

  ‘They will take him into the village,’ Mun said, meaning Lathom, for they were nearer there now than Parbold. ‘To stir up the wasps’ nest.�
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  Sir Francis nodded. ‘I’d wager they’ll ride to the church, too, for they’ll be looking for proof of Minister Green’s popery. If they don’t already have it.’

  ‘Of course they do not have proof!’ Martha exclaimed, pulling away from Tom to scowl at Sir Francis, who raised his hands by way of an apology.

  ‘Bolt the door,’ Tom told her, gripping her shoulders, his eyes locked on hers. ‘We will ride after them and make them give your father up. Do not open to anyone until we return, do you understand?’ She nodded. ‘Did they put your father on a horse?’

  Martha shook her head. ‘I don’t know. One of them held me as they tied him and took him out. Miles Walton,’ she spat.

  ‘Did he hurt you?’ Tom asked, glancing at Mun for they both knew Walton. Whenever Henry Denton was throwing his weight around Miles Walton could normally be found nearby.

  Martha pursed her lips. ‘No,’ she admitted, and Mun noticed an expression pass across his brother’s face that looked a close relation of disappointment. He means to make them pay anyway, he thought.

  ‘They can’t be moving fast if George is bound,’ Tom suggested.

  Mun agreed. ‘And they have their prize thus no reason to hurry. We’ll catch them, Martha,’ he said, following his father towards the door.

  ‘All will be well, my love,’ Tom said, kissing Martha’s lips.

  ‘Let’s ride, brother,’ Mun said, his words prising the young lovers apart, and Tom’s jaw firmed once more.

  So, leaving Martha Green standing in the doorway, her breath pluming in the frosty night, the three of them mounted sweat-lathered horses and rode west along Briar Lane, their mounts’ hooves thundering. Hawthorn, blackthorn and field maple crowded into the well-worn track, shadowy dark masses that threatened to swallow these intruders who dared to be abroad in the dead of night. In Mun’s peripheral vision bats swirled and darted above the hedgerows, no more than silent blurs, and amongst the wash of wind past his ears he heard owls hooting and screeching high up in elms whose bare crooked branches were laced with frost and glittering in the moonlight.