Lies of the flesh, p.21
Lies of the Flesh, page 21
‘Would you rather I was hanged or died in prison because of those scoundrels?’
‘That won’t happen.’ He is not so sure, of course. ‘I will think of something to prove your innocence for everyone else.’
‘Perhaps.’ Adam stands there, forlorn, a great weariness pulling at his limbs. He speaks quietly, but with a great longing, this life long since spent. ‘But do you think I can sit quietly by my own fire for the rest of my days looking like this? Do you think people will forget what I did? Who I became? Do you think I will?’
Fran struggles to breathe. Darkness has fallen and the sun not even set.
‘I’m dying anyway. The fire did it. But it will not be a good death. Just a slow one.’ Adam has his own sword in his hand, though Fran doesn’t remember seeing him draw it. ‘Take it out!’ Now he is become vehement.
But Fran cannot move, will not believe this strange, vital, honourable man has asked such a thing of him. He folds his arms, shakes his head, eyes fixed on Adam’s. For a moment the Earth stops turning, the sun stays its course, nothing breathes.
And then everything begins to move at once. Lifting his sword high above his head in both hands, Adam runs towards him as if possessed, screaming like a demon. Fran only has time to duck out of the way, Adam’s fists glancing off his shoulder with the blade only inches from his face. He runs to the other side of the courtyard, pulling at his sword, cursing slippery fingers.
Adam circles the remains of the fire, but he coughs now, stopping to try to draw breath.
‘Enough, I beg you!’ Fran keeps his sword down at his side, the other hand held out in supplication. ‘We should go back to Hexham to see if the monks can do anything more.’
But Adam merely rouses himself, runs at him again. Their swords ring out before Fran manages to slip away. He is younger and stronger, but a reluctant fighter, while Adam is full of impossible conviction. He comes at Fran again, sword above his head. Fran steps back, trying to avoid a scattering of rocks. But he is nearly at the remains of the back wall, great ropes of ivy reaching for him. He puts his left hand against the wall, intent on turning Adam’s sword aside, sweeping his own blade across his body where he expects the other to come.
But Adam never brings his sword down, running on with a scream that suddenly pierces the very heavens. His sword falls, he clutches at Fran, the blood leaping from his neck, seeping through his tunic. And Fran is screaming too, his mind full of the woodsman’s wife, drowning in the blood. And he goes on screaming, clutching at Adam, long after Adam’s spirit finally escapes his exhausted body.
Part Three
Chapter 13
F ran has locked herself in her chamber. She lies in bed for most of the day in a state of complete undress, her nakedness a failure, not a comfort. Sometimes she sits by the fire, arms clasped tight around her legs, chin on knees, looking for signs in the flames. She will not allow anyone to come to her, even Sarah, sipping water from a jug when she can no longer bear her thirst. Though she is undoubtedly here in Hilton, in truth her mind cannot leave the desolation of Elsdon, feels Adam still pressing heavy upon her, his blood binding them together.
Edie creeps to the door, whispers in a low voice. ‘I is bringing something for you, tae mak you feel better. We is wanting tae see you, sir. We is wanting you not tae be sad.’
But Fran scarcely hears, his thoughts consumed by Adam, his perfidy, his desperation, the way he seemed to control everything, the way his fortunes were knocked entirely off course, the look on his face when he died, the look on his face when they talked on the fells, his gentleness, his unflinching determination. The inventory is endless.
Fran hates him. But only because she wishes Adam had been able to live. Without him, she can see no resolution for herself, the two worlds she hovers between set to collide, to shatter, to tear her apart just as Adam could live neither as beast nor man.
For he cannot help but think that what Adam asked of him was just, that he had no choice in seeking his own death at the end of Fran’s sword.
Giles knocks this time, speaking so gently that Fran cannot help but try to pick out the words. ‘I don’t know what ails you, sir. But I don’t think you should keep your troubles to yourself.’
Fran wants to cry out, throw open the door. He wants to throw his arms round someone, anyone, even Giles, and cry her heart out. And because she cannot, she stays here alone, nursing her black mood, nurturing it through a constant dwelling in it. And already she’s grown sure of one thing. She cannot, will not, live as a man among men. Their world is full of evil, throwing them all under a curse. Above all, she wants someone to care for her, to look after her, take away all this pain and strife.
They come together, Giles and Edie and Willow. They tell him he must eat something, that Tom Strickland has made a venison pie and they cannot eat it all.
She wonders who they’re talking to.
Harry Sowerby coughs just once behind the door, prays forgiveness for disturbing him, but there are petitioners come to ask about their rents and other pressing matters. Fran feels sorry for them, but as if they importune someone else, a distant calamity. Sarah comes often, rattling the door as if she would pull it off its hinges. Fran turns her head away, lets Sarah’s howls flow through him, feels them as her own.
And then, perhaps on the fourth or fifth day after Fran’s return, a voice reaches out to him. It is as familiar as his own, though she only dimly recognises it, cannot understand what it’s doing here, so near and yet not at hand. Will speaks gently, though there is a quiver in his voice that escapes from time to time. He regrets not being able to come sooner, but he had to administer the last rites to Simon Blackstock over at Sandford. The old man lingered longer than anyone expected, so that a visit of a few hours became a vigil two nights long. Will talks as if there is nothing amiss in his being sat on one side of a locked door. And yet sometimes he can speak no more, the silence filling the space between them, morose and empty.
And then he begins again, using every argument he can think of to try to turn aside the evil that seems to have Fran in its grip. He speaks of God’s will, that it is impossible for mere mortals to understand it, of the infinite ways in which His mercy can and will be shown to those whose hearts are true. He reminds Fran why our Lord was sent to die on a cross. The silences grow longer until he too submits to the desire to press hard at the door, as if it has miraculously sprung open. He cries out then, finally escaping his priestly patience. ‘You can have until the morrow. Then I swear I will fetch the blacksmith to prise you out.’
Stamping away, he comes back almost immediately, leans his head on the door with a dull thud. ‘Forgive me. It seems I do not have the words for you.’ His voice is thick with resentment and despair.
Fran lies in bed facing the wall, the blanket pulled right over him. She doesn’t want the voice to stop. If the voice keeps talking, he will be safe, for when people are talking, there’s no blood. That comes later. But it always comes. She wants the voice to come nearer, pulls the blanket around her, stumbles to the door. The voice is there, just behind it.
‘For pity’s sake, Fran. You torment me beyond all reason.’ Will sinks down on to the floor.
Fran puts his hands on the door. She listens but can hear only muffled weeping. ‘Is that you, Will?’
‘Jesu!’ Will springs to his feet, leans his head once more on the door.
‘How did I come here?’ Fran’s mind twists to try to find the answer.
‘Can you not remember?’
‘I don’t want to.’ Fran closes his eyes, feels Adam beside him.
‘Will you open the door?’
Fran tries to remember why she locked it, wants to curl up in bed again. But he should not, if Will has come to visit. ‘Let me get dressed. I will come to the solar.’
‘You promise?’
‘Yes.’
Fran waits until he hears Will move off along the passageway. But still she doesn’t move, wrapped in the blanket in the middle of the room. At last, he goes to his chest, drops the blanket, pulls out clean braies, a shirt and breeches. But even dressed he still feels uncertain, exposed, so he wraps the blanket round him again. He considers the stink on him, of sweat and horse, and suddenly remembers approaching Hexham for the second time, the pain of being there without Adam.
He shakes his head, pushing Adam away. She feels the cold of the metal bolt chilling her fingers, walks unsteadily out of the door, catching a glimpse of a tousled autumn day shaking with leaves. Swaying on his feet, he must steady himself, leaning a hand on the wooden panelling, feeling its roughness. She looks down at the place where she once scratched her name and earned herself a thrashing. He thinks he walks on air, or perhaps angels carry him, it’s impossible to tell. All she knows is that the world is not as it was. Or at least he has changed her opinion of it.
The door to the solar opens and Will stands in the half light, his white habit spattered with mud. He gives a little cry to see Fran walking towards him, puts a hand over his heart as he turns back into the room. It’s cool inside, no fire lit, nothing to bid them welcome. Fran sees the book she was reading before she left for Elsdon lying on the window seat, as if there is no reason why she shouldn’t pick it up and read on. But all that came before is now turned to dust.
Will can scarcely stand still for even a moment, walking this way and that, a hand pushing at his hair, tugging at his mouth. But he stops suddenly. ‘You must eat. Edie must bring you something.’ He launches himself at the door, as if suddenly eager to escape.
‘I don’t want to.’ Fran goes to the window seat, sits there hunched in her blanket, watching.
Will turns back, stands in the middle of the floor, slipping his hands inside his sleeves. ‘You will fade away to nothing if you do not. And there is little enough of you as it is.’ Neither of them smiles. He goes to sit in the seat opposite Fran, hugging himself tight. ‘Will you tell me what happened?’
Fran breathes out, a noisome fluttering.
‘Then pray tell me where Adam is.’
‘He lies at Elsdon.’ Fran gently traces a finger over her lips, as if astonished such words should leave them. ‘With the others.’
‘He is dead?’
Fran nods, still wondering that she sits here, so near to Will, in her own house, seemingly alive. ‘I killed him.’ She hears himself say it, knows it’s true. But those words have no real meaning.
Will gasps, all the same.
Fran gnaws at the back of a finger, the blanket falling from her shoulders. She doesn’t pull it back up, lets it rest at her waist. ‘He meant me to.’ She looks straight at Will, biting the knuckle of her thumb now.
Will leans forward, seizes Fran’s hands. ‘Tell me.’
Fran shivers, rocks endlessly to try to ease the pain.
‘Please.’
‘Everything happened the way he said. Everything was as he meant it to be.’
Will frowns. ‘I don’t understand. You mean, what happened at Elsdon was as Adam said, not the Dickinsons? As you thought? Did he give you the proof?’
Fran blinks, suddenly sees Will there opposite her as flesh and blood talking about earthly things of the kind you think you can tie neatly together, make clear in the mind. She nods, but already she’s slipping away again, back into the dark. They sit together, saying nothing, for what is there to say?
But, out of the darkness, Adam appears to Fran, urging him to tell the story, to give voice to its ending, the sacrifice that had to be made because there was no other way. ‘When we went to Hexham the first time, he told the monks privily what he was going to do. I have been remembering the things we said as we rode towards Elsdon: he was already speaking as if he were a dead man. But I did not know it then.’
Will lowers their hands, holds them tight in his lap, keeps his eyes fixed on Fran’s face.
‘They didn’t want him to do it, the monks. They told me afterwards they begged him to hold his life more dear, to God and to himself. And not to burden me.’ She lowers her head, tears trembling, falling.
Will gets to his knees, tries to make Fran look at him.
Fran bites her lip, the world clouded with tears. ‘He told them he would think on it, but that was the only thing he said or did that wasn’t honest. And he made them take a paper, to give to me if I came back alone, that explained . . . that said he would force me to defend myself, and he would . . . he would run on to my blade and it was entirely his wish that he should die, that he could not live any longer now he had avenged the people of Elsdon but hoped one day he would be forgiven, in this world and the next.’ Fran pulls her hands from Will’s, slips off the seat. Stumbling away, she wraps herself in the folds of a hanging, lets the tears overwhelm her, sobbing until she has no breath left.
Will follows him, puts out a hand, draws it back inside his sleeve. He waits, puts out his hand again, reaches for Fran’s shoulder. ‘Then you have nothing to reproach yourself with.’
‘How can that be true?’
‘It must be true. You said Adam was honest. Then take him at his word.’
‘But that’s it exactly!’ She turns to look at him, fire in her eyes. ‘There is no truth here!’ She knows that wasn’t what he was talking about, but it’s all that matters to her now. Adam has ruined the pretence. For what use is imagining himself at ease, loved even, by those he cares for too when it’s all a lie?
Will puts both hands on Fran’s shoulders, tugging him towards him, lifting his face so their lips collide, teeth collide, breath extinguished.
She spins out of time, all feeling absorbed by the places where they touch, their mouths, their hands on each other’s faces, speaking so furiously though they are beyond speech.
But already Will is hauling himself away with a cry, stumbling to the door, face in his hands.
Sinking to the floor, Fran lifts a hand to the tapestry to trace a finger down a filigree of leaves and flowers. She thinks it’s more real than she is.
After Will leaves, she walks downstairs, her mind still trapped in the solar and at Elsdon, both at the same time. But suddenly Sarah is before her, clapping madly, a great hollaing calling the rest of the household. They enter the hall, Dolfyn rising from his doleful watch by the door, bounding towards Fran, threading himself between her legs. Giles comes running into the hall, bows deeply to disguise the breadth of his smile. ‘That is good, sir. To see you. To have you among us.’ He nods most sagely, follows Fran to the table, sits down, stands up, retreats to the wall where he leans with his arms crossed, eyes flitting around the room.
Edie has dashed up the stairs, stands at the door, Jack the kitchen boy peeking round her skirts. ‘I is bringing you food, sir. Don’t be going anywhere.’ They both dash away again.
Harry and Willow Sowerby come rushing in together. Willow keeps running, coming to a halt at Fran’s side, putting a hand on his shoulder as if to be sure he is flesh and blood. ‘God keep you, sir. We were at our wit’s end what to do about you.’
Fran pats his hand, nods, more tears threatening.
‘Willow, come out of the way.’ Harry Sowerby sits at the far end of the table, a hand placed flat in front of him, his face fallen into sorrowful lines.
Edie returns, placing a thin potage in front of him. ‘My father is being most sorry not tae have summat better for you, sir. ’Tis the price o’ goods now. He isn’t knowing you’d be feeling better today.’ She too retreats to sit on the floor nearby, keeping a strict eye upon him.
Fran turns her attention to the potage, her belly gurgling despite the lack of anything much beyond warm water and the suggestion of a few worts in the bowl in front of her. She feels all eyes upon her, is both warmed and discomfited by it, for it is him they love. Could they ever love her?
She knows they want to hear what happened, have a right to know, considering they have been so often by her side these past months. And always Will calls to her through the leaf-strewn miles between here and Warcop, though what they might say to one another is so huge, so monstrous, it leaves her utterly despondent to dwell on it for even a moment.
She pushes the bowl away after a few sips, a nausea rising harshly up into her nostrils. ‘Pray thank your father, Edie. I am still somewhat unwell.’
Edie nods, removes the bowl, goes back to sit with it beside her.
Willow looks over at Edie, a curl in his lip. ‘Don’t you have work to do?’
She reddens, looks at her feet.
‘Leave her be, Willow.’ Fran is annoyed with him for trying to break even one of the bonds that hold them all together. He gets up from the bench, strides over to his usual chair, Dolfyn close enough to trip him up. Sarah follows, leans on the back of the chair singing softly. Luke scuttles through the door, head down, slipping on to the floor near Edie as if he’s been blown in. Fran smiles at him and Luke finally looks up, smiles back.
‘I suppose I must tell you what happened.’ He glances round the expectant faces.
They all nod, settling themselves so as to be comfortable.
He tells it as if it were written in a book, each word exact and true and almost certainly not what happened, at least in its entirety. It is only just bearable. Sometimes they ask questions, and that pains him. But he shuts himself away as much as she can.
She tries to shake off the questions buzzing round her mind. What can Will be thinking? Will they ever speak again? How can they not?
She finishes her story, the exhaustion pressing hard. Her head aches so badly the room begins to shift and drop. ‘I must . . .’ She stands up, swaying.
Edie rushes to her side, an arm across her shoulders. Sarah leans over the chair, tries to push her away.
Instantly Fran takes hold of Edie’s hand, trying to pull herself free as gently as she can. ‘Perhaps I stood up too quickly.’ She watches Edie carefully, sees a question flit briefly across her face. But then the girl just smiles, goes to pick up the bowl before disappearing back towards the kitchen. Fran doesn’t know if she’s been discovered, if that would be a relief, cursing herself for being a fool and a coward.
