BONE HOUSE (11 page)

“Of course it is,” I say. “How long will you remain here?”

“As long as my presence is required,” he replies.

“And then?”

“Another commission, God willing.”

“You do not fear such . . . uncertainty?” I grope for this last word, but what really strikes me is the rootlessness of his life. He is tied to nothing but his talent, and I do not know whether I envy or pity him for this.

“I have always found my way,” he says.

“But you have no home to return to,” I ask. He looks around at the walls of the Great House, then back at me.

“None such as this,” he says, with a thin smile. His meaning is evident: only half-cloaked in politeness. I look around the room at the book-lined walls, heavy velvet drapes, and thick, studded floors. What home is this for me? I think. Where am I lodged within these walls? I turn back to him and his expression has suddenly softened.

“You are fortunate,” he says quietly.

But I do not believe him.

*        *        *

A few minutes later I take the tray down to the kitchen, and as I enter I see Mary at the door. Cook turns to me, her face ashen, and Mary steps forward with urgency.

“She’s been found,” says Mary breathlessly, her hands cradling her massive belly. “In a cave by the river. Some children found her there this morning.”

In my mind I see the children playing by the river—see their stricken faces.

“Has anyone gone to fetch her?” I ask.

“Samuell and John and a few of the others,” she says. “They’ve yet to return.”

“What of the boy?” I ask. “Does he know?”

“Not yet. I came straight here. I thought it best that you . . . ” she says.

I nod. “What will they do with her?”

“Bring her to the barn at the alehouse for now. Tomorrow the magistrate can decide.” She stands in the doorway, her face twitching with alarm.

“What is it?” I ask. She looks from me to Cook, and takes a deep breath.

“They’ve cut her open,” she says. “The children said her belly had been split like a melon.”

“She was with child,” I murmur.

Mary shakes her head. “There was no mention of a child,” she says.

Cook crosses herself. “Lord help us,” she says under her breath. “ ’Tis the devil’s work.” Mary and I stare at each other intently.

“I must get back,” she says finally.

“I’ll come with you,” I say, and go to get my cloak.

We hurry along to the alehouse, and by the time we arrive there is already a small crowd of people awaiting the party’s return. Mary tells them fiercely to buy a drink or be gone—a few scatter but most shuffle inside and for the next few minutes she is kept
busy at the taps, filling tankards of ale. I hover in the kitchen, peering out the back door from time to time. At length I hear the men return and we file into the yard to meet them. Samuell nods grimly to Mary and me. They have strapped the body to a sledge and covered it entirely with a horse blanket. Samuell tells the men to take the body inside the barn, then turns back to the small crowd that has flooded the yard with curiosity.

“You can all go back inside,” he says. “There’ll be no public showing.” The crowd hesitates, then one young farmer steps forward.

“What news do you bring, Samuell?”

“Naught,” he replies brusquely. “ ’Tis but a corpse. And one you’ve seen before. So be gone with you.” He waits while the crowd slowly disperses, then turns back to Mary and me. Mary lays a hand on his arm.

“It’s her then, is it?” she says quietly.

“Aye,” he replies with a tired sigh. He lowers his voice then. “And she’s a bloody mess.”

“They cut her then?”

He looks around a little furtively before continuing. “It was as they said . . . split her belly open.”

“Was there any sign of a baby within?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “If she was with child, then they’ve taken it, for she’s been gutted like a fish.”

At that moment I am overcome with nausea and must turn aside. Mary lays a hand upon my shoulder and gently steers me back into the kitchen, where she forces me to sit. She pours a mug of ale from a jug on the table and places it in my hands. “Who would do such a thing?” I ask. “I mean . . . for what purpose?” Mary shakes her head slowly from side to side. “I thought . . . it was
her
they wanted. But now it seems as if it was the child.”

“Maybe the father,” she suggests.

“But why? Why not let her take it to the grave? There is no sense in it.”

“Drink,” she orders, then watches to make sure I do. “Perhaps Cook was right,” she says finally. “Perhaps it
was
the devil’s work.”

I think of my mother, and Long Boy in his bed. If I do not go to them, someone else will, for news travels quickly in our little village.

“I must go,” I say, taking up my cloak. Samuell enters and I turn to him.

“What will you do with her?” I ask.

“Keep her under lock and key tonight. The magistrate will come tomorrow.” I nod, start to take my leave, when another thought occurs to me: the painter and his commission. “Samuell,” I say slowly. “How is her face?” He looks at me strangely. “I mean . . . is it the same?”

“It was untouched,” he says a little suspiciously. “Why?” Mary and I exchange glances, and in an instant she reads my mind.

“The boy may wish to see her,” I say, not entirely untruthfully. Samuell nods, and I slip out the door, avoiding Mary’s disapproving gaze.

When I arrive my mother and the boy are at the table eating supper. It is as cozy a scene as one could wish for, and in that instant I am sorry she was ever found. They both look up as I enter, and I smile a little nervously, tell Long Boy he is looking well. He nods and continues eating, and I ask my mother to come outside so I may have a word in private. She hesitates, then dons her cloak, following me out the door.

“What is it?” she says, still chewing. I tell her the news, and as I do the color slowly drains from her face. When I tell her the baby has been taken, she reaches out a hand to grab my arm, just as she did at the funeral, just as she did the day Dora first came to us all those years ago. After a moment, she turns and looks within the cottage.

“The boy should not be told,” she says decisively. “He is better today, but the news could set him back again.”

“It is for you to decide,” I say.

“Where is the body?” she asks.

“At the alehouse.”

“Will she be given a proper burial?”

“I do not know,” I say. My mother nods and slowly walks back to the cottage.

“Are you all right?” I ask. But she does not hear me, and in a second she has disappeared behind the door.

D
usk has fallen when I finally return to the Great House. I go at once to check upon my mistress, hoping I will not have been missed, but I need not have worried. I find her dozing in her chamber, her thin gray hair matted against her skull, her parched lips slightly parted in sleep. Her breath comes in short whistles, and when I lean over her to rearrange the bedclothes, I can smell the bile in her blood. The noisome odor shocks me, for it strikes me as the very essence of decay. Despite the smell I lean in more closely, and with alarm I see that the tip of her tongue is blackened by the disease that seems to have lodged itself within her. For the first time I am frightened on her behalf, for her condition seems less the result of Lucius than some other, greater evil. Her favorite volume of Scripture lies open on the bedside table, and its presence seems almost to mock her. I cannot help but wonder what good are holy words in the face of such devastation, a thought she herself would find heretical in the extreme. I stay and watch her sleep until I can no longer bear the sight nor smell, then I steal out of the room like a thief, taking my youth with me.

I hurry quickly to the tower in search of the painter. Dora’s corpse may be buried again tomorrow—if he has any hope of seeing her it must be tonight. When I reach his room the door is closed and I listen for a moment before knocking. But before I have a chance to do so, the door opens and he is standing there,
as if he has been waiting my arrival. I jump back, startled, and he smiles at me.

“Were you spying on me?” he says with obvious amusement.

“I was just about to knock,” I stammer, for he flusters me with his half-smile.

“By all means, come in,” he says, and stands aside for me to enter. I see now that he is wearing his cloak and hat, and his gloves are in his hand.

“You were on your way out,” I say apologetically. He shrugs.

“It can wait,” he says. I step into his room a little hesitantly, see his drawings stacked in piles upon the table, his leather satchel upon the floor. “I’m afraid I have no refreshment to offer you,” he says. I flush, embarrassed at the suggestion that I have come to call.

“She’s been found,” I say. “Her body.”

“Where?” he asks.

“In some caves, not far from where she died.”

“Will it be possible to see her?”

I nod. “Tonight. Tomorrow they will decide what to do with her.”

He indicates the door. “Now?” he says.

I shake my head no. “Later. Meet me at the alehouse. She is under lock and key there, and I must contrive a way.” He removes his hat, runs a hand through his hair, then fixes me with his knowing half-smile.

“You take your duties seriously,” he says, the ring of challenge in his voice. I look around the room before responding.

“I do not wish to fail,” I say.

“I never thought you would,” he replies, and for a moment our eyes are locked together. It is he who eventually breaks the hold. He gestures to the library below us.

“Does your master know of this?” he asks. I consider this; it is only a matter of time before my master hears the news.

“No,” I say. “But I shall tell him.”

*        *        *

As usual I find him buried in his books. When I enter, he rises swiftly to his feet and smiles. “Come in,” he says more politely than usual. It seems my newfound role has already altered me in his eyes.

“I have news,” I say. “Of her.” His face blanches, then he limps around to the front of his desk, as if he can somehow bring her nearer by closing the gap between us.

“Yes?” he says anxiously.

“Her body has been found,” I say. “In a cave by the river.” He blinks several times, does not seem to take this in. Did he think she was alive? Finally, he looks down at the volume in his hands.

“It is a great relief,” he says, his voice hollow. I tell him of the children and the cave, and of her removal to the alehouse. But I cannot bring myself to tell him of the injury to her womb. He slowly shuffles back to his chair and sits down heavily.

“The painter would like to see the body,” I say. “It would help him greatly.”

“Yes, of course,” he murmurs. “He must see.”

“I shall take him to her this evening, for they will likely bury her again tomorrow.”

“So soon?” he asks, as if he will be losing her all over again.

“I do not know, sir.” He sits in silence for a moment.

“I should like to look upon her one last time,” he says at last.

I hesitate. It will be difficult enough without him. And yet he is my master. I think of Mary and her chiding words about my willingness. And then I think of the painter, and the sureness with which he handled him.

“It would prove . . . difficult,” I say delicately. “She is under lock and key, and your presence would almost certainly cause suspicion.” His face falls. I refer to his title and stature within the village, but of course he thinks only of his disfigurement.

“Yes, of course,” he says.

“And too, she may be altered,” I add. He stares at me for sev
eral moments, swallows, and looks away. This last is too much for him.

“Thank you for coming,” he says quietly. And I understand that I should go.

By suppertime, the news has already reached the others, and much has been made of the cut to her womb. The fact that she was pregnant and the baby has been stolen is now common knowledge, and I wonder how much time will lapse before my master learns of it. Or the boy, for surely time will out all secrets, despite my mother’s efforts to protect him.

“ ’Tis a foul thing indeed,” says Josias, shaking his head. “An act of wickedness beyond belief.” He and Lydia appear truly shocked by this latest episode, while the others seem merely titillated.

“Perhaps this time they’ll chain her to the casket,” offers Rafe.

“Perhaps this time there’ll be no need,” I say, then instantly regret it, for now all eyes are immediately upon me. Rafe continues chewing slowly.

“So it was the bairn they wanted,” he says after a moment. They all turn to me and I shrug.

“I do not know,” I say.

“It is possible. Perhaps it was the devil’s child,” he says, and I am instantly reminded of Dora’s warning to my mother. I stare at my food, determined to say nothing more.

“Aye, there could be sorcery involved,” says Lydia.

“I’ve heard tales of witches using babies of the dead,” Alice adds excitedly.

“And casting spells upon the womb,” says Lydia. I raise my eyes and see their flushed faces nod in unison. I cannot bear to hear more, so I quickly finish my food and retreat to the kitchen, where Cook is busy with a pot of soup. I have not seen her since this afternoon.

“There is trouble about,” she says, fixing me with a knowing look. I lay a hand upon her arm to reassure her.

“It is past,” I say firmly.

She shakes her head slowly from side to side. “This is not the end of it,” she says.

I delay some hours before going to the alehouse, waiting in my room until the time is right. When I arrive the painter is already there in the corner by the fire, an empty tankard by his side. His face is flushed from the heat and his eyes are bright with anticipation, and I cannot help but wonder whether it is the prospect of seeing me or her which brings the sparkle to his eye. I take a seat opposite him.

“I thought perhaps you’d changed your mind,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” I reply, lowering my voice. “I only wished to wait until there were fewer people about.” He nods and I glance nervously around the room. A dozen hardy drinkers surround us, but alcohol has dimmed their wits and they take little notice. The sheaf of drawing paper lies in front of him, together with a few lumps of charcoal.

“You’ve been drawing.”

He smiles and shrugs. “It passes the time.”

“You do not tire of it?”

“Not really,” he says. “I do it without thinking.” He looks down at his hands, spans his long, slender fingers across the wooden table. “What my eyes see, my hands need to re-create . . . the urge to draw is part of me.” He smiles at me, then adds, “Perhaps they cannot bear to be idle.” I think at once of my mother: they share this need for constant occupation. What do they fear in stillness?

I indicate the sketches. “May I see?” I ask.

He nods and I take up the sheaf of papers and leaf through them. The sketches are rough and quickly rendered, but they are hauntingly lifelike. He has made several and each time the faces are shown in great detail, but the rest is hastily filled in. I glance around the room, identifying each of his subjects in turn: old
men, mostly, their expressions marred by drink. But he has captured them on paper: frozen them in time.

“These are very fine,” I say.

“They are only sketches.”

“But they are very like.”

“I draw what I see.”

“And you draw only people?”

“They are all that interests me. Flesh and blood . . . and bones. And what happens when these things are brought together . . . the endless possibilities. But always what I seek to render is not the surface, but the life within. It is like a game. One must find the clues in the arch of a brow . . . or the set of the jaw . . . or the shadow beneath the eye. This, for me, is the challenge. I have no interest in emblems or allegory. The truth is there in front of us . . . we must only learn to see it.”

He speaks with great intensity, and as he does I continue to flip through the portraits. When I get to the final page I catch my breath, for there is Mary upon the paper. He has caught it all—the laugh within her eyes and the generosity of her expression. I stare at the sketch and then suddenly, disconcertingly, I hear her laugh. When I raise my head Mary is standing over us, her face brimming with delight at the sight of the drawing.

“Why, ’tis a mighty chin upon that lass!” she says teasingly. “Did she charge you for her service?” The painter smiles and shakes his head.

“She was very generous, and agreed to sit in return for a portrait,” he replies, and with that he tears the paper loose from the sheaf and hands it to her. For once Mary is struck dumb, but she is obviously pleased with the portrait.

“You are very kind,” she murmurs.

“And you have been very attentive in your service,” he replies with a smile.

Mary finally tears her eyes from the portrait and lays a hand upon his shoulder.

“That is because you are the only man worth gazing twice upon within the room!” She throws back her head with a laugh, and the painter flushes. She holds the drawing up next to her face. “I must find Samuell. Perhaps he’ll prefer the new one to the old, for she is quieter and less likely to abuse him!” She spies Samuell through the doorway then and disappears after him, waving the portrait over her head like a banner. The painter looks at me and gives an embarrassed shrug of his shoulders.

“I know no one in this place,” he says, by way of explanation. “And she has always had a kind word for me.” For the first time it occurs to me that his life must be a lonely one indeed. I slide the pages back across to him and he stows them in his satchel.

“You did not have to help me,” he says quietly. His honesty startles me. I feel the heat from the fire spackle my face, feel it too within me, rising slowly from my depths.

“I wanted to,” I reply. He nods then, just barely. A group of old men in the corner begin to sing, their voices low and thick with drink. The painter and I both turn our heads to watch, and while I see them clearly enough in the half-light of the fire, their voices come to me as if through water. After a moment I feel his eyes upon me, and I turn back to meet his gaze, quiet and expectant, unwavering. For a moment, it unnerves me. What does he want?

And then I remember the corpse outside.

“Wait here,” I tell him, and I rise and go in search of Mary.

I find her in the kitchen scouring platters, her face still flushed with pleasure. Samuell holds the portrait up admiringly.

“Your friend is a magician,” he says.

“He is a painter, Samuell. And he is not my friend,” I reply self-consciously. Samuell smiles somewhat archly.

“Tell him I should like my own portrait done.”

“You can tell him yourself,” I say.

“Perhaps I will,” he says, picking up the jug and disappearing
into the other room. I am relieved when he goes, as I wish to speak with Mary alone.

“I need your help,” I say.

She looks at me and in an instant divines my purpose. She shakes her head a little ruefully.

“We’ll not be long,” I say. “And no one need know.” She eyes me steadily, wipes her hands upon her apron.

“Samuell will skin me if he learns,” she says, but I can see from the glint in her eye that she is not unwilling. She reaches under her kirtle and takes out an iron ring, upon which hang two keys.

“For whom do you do this?” she asks. “Your master? Or him?” She nods again toward the other room.

“For neither,” I say.

“You cannot think that
she
would want it,” she says.

“I have no cause to think she wouldn’t,” I reply.