The Bleeding Land (9 page)

‘And one of the most powerful men in the land,’ Sir Francis warned, pointing the pipe at Mun, ‘which is why this family is better off clear of this whole mire.’ His eyes sharpened. ‘And Tom doesn’t need to know. That I went to see Denton or about the threats to prosecute him for what he did to Henry. I don’t want him blaming himself for any of it. I just want him out of it.’

Mun had agreed to say no more about it, hoping that Tom would stay out of trouble, that George Green would be found innocent, and that things could go back to normal around Shear House. His mother had insisted that Martha Green and her brother Jacob stay with them until the matter with their father was resolved. It would be unwise, she said, and unsafe too, for them to remain alone at the minister’s house, and Sir Francis had, albeit reluctantly, agreed. And though he understood the reasons for them being there, Mun could not help but feel that their presence was a thorn in Tom’s side. How could his brother walk away from the matter with Martha and young Jacob always there to prick his conscience?

Tom’s anger festered and Sir Francis’s temper simmered until, on Plough Monday, the pot boiled over. The three of them were riding across the estate, calling on each and every tenant as they always did at the commencement of the agricultural year
after
Christmas. Over the next week every freehold farmer, miller and smith, every copyholder and leaseholder across the sandstone hills or the West Lancashire plain would receive a visit from the Rivers men during which they would be praised for last year’s work and reminded of next year’s obligations, however small.

They had so far visited three tenant families and Tom had said not a word, a sullen presence on a sullen January day, and there were still another twenty-one tenants to call on. Mun had sensed the storm brewing without seeing any way to avoid it.

‘Are we to drag your ill-temper along all week?’ their father asked Tom, breaking the heavy silence as they rode across the heath, following the brook eastward towards John Buck’s farm. Tom said nothing. He was watching a long ellipse of black shapes jostling across the iron-grey sky: rooks and jackdaws riding a bitter northerly towards their evening roost. ‘Open your eyes, lad,’ Sir Francis said. ‘We can’t do any more for the man than we already have. Green knows it, too, and will content himself that Martha and Jacob are safe thanks to us.’

‘They are going to kill him, Father, did you know?’ Tom said.

Sir Francis took off a glove and huffed into his hand. ‘They might,’ he acknowledged with a nod, ‘and I am sorry for it. You know I am. But no one is safe nowadays. You saw for yourself how they treated Robert Phillip and he is the Queen’s friend and confessor. If such as he can be locked up then what chance has a man of George Green’s standing? Any of us could be next. Accused of some crime.’

A raven flapped into the sky
kaah
ing angrily at the men and horses that had disturbed its feast: the rotting remains of an old sheep that had not survived the winter, half covered by the brambles thronging the stream-bank and stinking.

‘So we are to cower from men such as William Denton?’ Tom said through gritted teeth.

‘Let it go, brother,’ Mun said.

‘Aye and not just Denton,’ Sir Francis said, ‘but the King too. The order for the expulsion of priests came from His Majesty’s own lips. Damn it, Tom, I am a courtier! You expect me to go against the King? For the sake of a bloody minister who may even
be
a Catholic?
And
a spy for all I know?’

‘I expect you to do what is right, Father,’ Tom said.

‘Hold your damned tongue!’ Mun growled at his brother.

But Sir Francis held up a hand indicating that he still had more to say. ‘When you become a man, Tom, you will learn that there is no right or wrong.’ He glanced up at the grey sky as though trying to judge if it would be dark when they left John Buck’s farm. They had long passed the rotting sheep, but the cold breeze whipped up its stink and carried it after them, so that Priam snorted in disgust. ‘There is just survival,’ he said, as the cold seeped through Mun’s clothes, beginning to gnaw at his flesh. ‘Or ruin.’

Martha Green had told no one she was going to Baston House. She told herself that she had not mentioned it to Tom because she had only decided to go that morning and now Tom was somewhere out on the estate with his father and brother. But then neither had she told Lady Mary or Bess or even Jacob and there were no excuses she could think of for that, other than that she already felt herself a burden to Lady Mary and had no wish to burden her further. Instead she had told Lady Mary that she would very much like to ride across the fields up to Old Gore meadow and as far as Gerard’s Wood, for Tom, she said, had talked fondly of that route which he had so often ridden as a boy.

‘It will be good for you to take the air,’ Lady Mary had agreed kindly, ‘so long as you wrap up warm. There is a dampness to the air that makes it feel much colder than it is.’ With that she had had Vincent saddle one of the smaller, docile mares and Martha had thanked her and headed off, promising to be back soon.

Now, her mount taken off by a stablehand to be watered, she stood in the grand, oak-panelled entrance hall of Baston House while a portly servant went off to fetch Lord Denton. The hall was festooned with tapestries which Martha thought were the most beautiful she had ever seen, and gilt-framed portraits of stern, rich-looking men, which she found intimidating. Flanking the hall were two enormous wings, one given over to household functions and the other for the entertainment of visitors, and Martha could almost hear the cacophony of feasts gone by, the raucous guests of Lord Denton’s ancestors making merry. The sweet smell of burning birch was undercut by the iron tang of fresh meat, and beeswax candles flickered in wall-mounted sconces but could not ward off the oppressive dark of so much ancient oak.

To her right a large door clunked open and a man appeared, holding a glass of dark wine and silhouetted by the glow of flames behind him.

‘This is a rare pleasure, Miss Green,’ Lord Denton said, raising his glass at her and half bowing. ‘Please, do come in where it’s warm. It is quite impossible to heat a house like this, you know.’ She nodded and entered the parlour. ‘My wife, God keep her, used to say that the frigid air is good for the soul. That it keeps our thoughts pure and the humours balanced.’

‘And what do you think, Lord Denton?’ Martha asked, suddenly aware that her hands were tight knots at her sides. She took off her hat and placed it on the bench beside her.

William Denton smiled, revealing white teeth amongst elaborate moustaches and beard. His greying hair fell in long oiled curls beneath which Martha could see golden hoops hanging from his ears.

‘I think I would rather be warm,’ he said, closing the door and gesturing towards a tall-backed chair carved from a glossy, rich-looking wood which Martha guessed to be walnut. She sat, hoping she would be offered a drink, for her mouth was so dry, and took in the man before her. Martha had never met
Lord
Denton before but she could now see from where Henry Denton got his good looks and the vanity to match. Dressed in a fine doublet that was slashed to reveal a purple silk lining, white breeches, silk stockings held up with purple garters, and shoes of soft-looking leather, Lord Denton was clearly a man who liked to be noticed. It came to her then how different Sir Francis was from this man.

‘So, Miss Green, have you come to Baston House to admire our famous gardens? If so I am afraid you will be disappointed, for there is very little of beauty to be found at this time of year.’ His blue eyes flashed and his moustaches twitched above the hint of a smile. ‘Though I would suggest that only makes one more appreciative of beauty when one does come across it.’

Martha forced her own lips into a smile. ‘My lord, if I may be so bold, we both know why I am here.’ There was no turning back now. ‘I believe it was under your orders that my father was taken from his house in the night and imprisoned.’

Lord Denton produced a pipe from the waistcoat beneath his doublet and walked over to a table, lifting the lid of a small, silver dish. ‘His Majesty’s orders, actually,’ Denton said, stuffing the clay bowl with tobacco. ‘If indirectly. For it was the King who ordered all priests to leave England.’ He held a taper to a candle and took the flame to the pipe, sucking on the stem until the tobacco in the bowl took, at which point he smiled and tilted the thing to show Martha the smouldering contents. ‘Your father disobeyed the King. We obey the King.’

‘But my father is no Catholic,’ Martha said. She opened her hands and saw little crescent-shaped dents in her palms where her fingernails had dug in.

‘Ah, but you see he is just that,’ William said, pointing the stem of his pipe towards her. ‘So say enough of the villagers to make it more likely true than false. An honest tenant of mine says your father would not speak against Laud’s reforms. Another said he saw your father perform extreme unction on a dying woman.’ He shrugged shoulders that were still
broad
. ‘The people are afraid of Catholic plots, girl, and as their minister George Green has done little to allay their fears. Indeed he has done the opposite. He has inflamed them.’

Martha felt sick. She suddenly understood what was going on, that Lord Denton was simply looking out for his own skin, keeping the common folk happy by giving them the scapegoat they all so desperately needed. Perhaps Denton himself was a Catholic. It was not impossible. But so long as he kept the wolves fed he would have no trouble. The harvests would be gathered, his tenants would pay their dues and all would be well.

‘The whispers of frightened people cannot be taken as truth, my lord. You must present proof before you condemn a man.’

‘What I
must
do, Miss Green, is preserve the King’s peace,’ William snapped, a scowl marring his good looks. ‘These are troubled times and none of us knows what is coming.’ He stood gazing at a tapestry on the wall of a young man hunting on horseback, two dogs trotting obediently behind their master. The man looked strong, long fair hair falling to his shoulders, and Martha wondered if it was Lord Denton himself, immortalized for ever as the young hunter.

‘Sir Francis will speak for my father at his trial,’ Martha said. It was not true as far as she knew, but she hoped it might give Lord Denton cause to reconsider.

He spun towards her. ‘Your protector,’ he snarled, ‘ought to be helping me keep a hand on the reins, not questioning my judgement. He and those delinquent sons of his ought to consider themselves lucky that I have not brought the law against them. That troublemaker Thomas Rivers set upon my son. Wounded him grievously.’ He swept the pipe through the air. ‘Slashed him about the shoulder, do you hear?’ he said, then put the pipe back to his mouth. ‘A perturbing business which I have convinced Henry to put behind him, for which Sir Francis should thank me. Instead he comes here and points his finger at me. Next time I’ll whip the man. Remind him of the order
of
things. If he’s not careful the mob will think
he
’s a damned papist. Come banging on his door in the small hours.’

That threat was not lost in the cloud of tobacco smoke pluming around Lord Denton’s curled hair and Martha swallowed dryly, her heart hammering in her chest because of what she was about to do. The fire crackled and spat. She felt the weight of eyes staring down at her from the paintings on the walls.

‘Please, my lord, I beg you to reconsider,’ she said, pleading with her own eyes whilst removing her coif and shaking her head just enough that she could feel her hair tumbling freely to her shoulders. ‘My brother is only thirteen years old and our mother died when he was nine. Father is the only family we have.’ This was not quite true but true enough seeing as her uncle and cousins had sailed for the New World two years ago. ‘Is there anything I can do to prevail on your mercy, Lord Denton?’ she asked, feeling tears – they were true enough – well in her eyes. ‘Do you have need of a maid? I am a good cook and would ask no pay, just that my father be freed and left alone.’

‘And have a papist’s daughter under my roof?’ William asked, one eyebrow hitched as he exhaled yellow-grey smoke that drifted in lazy tendrils up to the carved oak ceiling. ‘Besides, I already have more servants than I need.’

Martha saw something different in his eyes now, something predatory. And so, swallowing the lump that had risen in her throat, she removed her neckcloth, feeling the fire’s glow on the bare skin of her shoulders. Her cheeks had begun to burn hotly.

‘My apologies, Miss Green,’ he said, turning, ‘but I have not yet offered you a drink. This tobacco smoke can dry the gills and is even worse for those not partaking. Malmsey?’ He was already pouring the dark liquid into a glass.

‘Thank you, my lord,’ she said. She did not normally drink strong wine but today she would and gladly. The stronger the
better
. He walked over and offered her the glass, which she took in two trembling hands.

‘Now then, I am not an unreasonable man, as anyone that knows me will testify. Let us see if we can come to any sort of arrangement, shall we?’ Martha nodded and, putting the glass to her lips, sipped the sweet wine so that its warmth bloomed in her throat and chest.
God forgive me
, her mind whispered.

‘What other . . . services . . . can you offer a man in my position?’ Lord Denton dared, the thing barely veiled at all now.

Martha let the question go unanswered, which was answer in itself, and Lord Denton went back to the table and laid the pipe on a plate, where it sat smouldering.

‘The door is locked?’ Martha asked, her whole body shaking now, so that she thought even her soul was trembling.

‘No one will come in,’ Lord Denton said, assuring her with a smile.

‘And you give me your word you will have my father freed?’ she asked, fingers fumbling at the lace of her bodice.

‘You have my word that your father will not spend another week in that prison.’ He gestured for her to stand, so she did, though she feared her legs might buckle at any moment. ‘Now take off your skirts, girl,’ Lord Denton said, teeth worrying his bottom lip. His forehead glistened with sweat and the firelight danced across his face and Martha thought he was the Devil in human form.