Wakelin was used to being outdoors at all times and in all weathers. His best friend was Tom Lathy, although Tom was twice Wakelin's age. On summer nights the two of them often prowled around the woods, tracking badgers. They would block up entrances to setts and wait for the grunting badgers to return homeward. Once trussed up, the creatures were kept in cages in a barn. Bets were taken, and the badgers baited with terriers and bulldogs in the inn yard.

Soon he approached Tunnygrave Manor. The house stood in an elevated position over the valley, surveying sweeping fields. The sky was darkening above the stone-tiled roof and massive chimneys. Dogs barked in the stockyard. It would not be long before corn threshing. That was pleasant, warm work for winter, when he readily joined in with the men's cheerful banter.

Moonlight shone on the bowed nursery window. A pony whinnied. Strangely, the sound seemed to come from within the chamber. Overcome by a sense of unease, he thought, *I must be really sick.'

Branches rustled overhead. Sniggering. Something landed behind him with a thud.

Whirling around, he saw a demonic creature with penetrating eyes glaring at him. A poll of matted fur tumbled between its horns. Its body was that of a man dressed in leather breeches. Over a ruffled shirt, exquisitely bound with lace, it wore a spotted yellow and brown tailcoat. Emitting a bloodthirsty cry, the bull stabbed a curved sword into the air and charged.

Overwhelmed with guilt, Wakelin pressed his hands against his eyes and cried, *I'm sorry! I didn't mean to do it!'

The beast halted before him. *What did you not mean to do?'

*I took our Eppie. I can't think why.'

*Would you like me to sharpen your memory?'

Wakelin felt the tip of a blade prick the skin on his neck. *Dun hurt us!'

With a triumphant snort of laughter, the monster tore off its head.

*Thurstan!' Wakelin cried, upon setting eyes on the person he most despised.

Everything about the young man's face was sharp, though toned-down by loose brown curls which framed his face.

*I thought you was the devil,' Wakelin said, relieved.

*The role of devil suits me, Cud. Would you not concur?'

Wakelin followed the direction of Thurstan's upturned face. Cudbert Catesby, the son of a silversmith, was straddled on a branch, swigging from a tankard. He wafted his fringe from his eyes. *Who's your friend?'

*You cannot have forgotten Dung Heap, the oaf we beat up at the last sheaf cutting? As to calling him a friend, I should say not. He is far too peevish for my liking.' He stooped to retrieve the bull's head. *In fact, I would venture to say that Dung Heap is a perpetual thorn in my backside.'

Filled with a conquering urge, Wakelin lunged and made to wrestle the sword off his assailant, intent on giving him more than a thorn in his rear.

Thurstan was older, stronger and practiced at strategic manoeuvres. In a flash he threw him off. *Like my sword do you? I picked it up on my travels in Japan. You have never heard of the country, I suppose?' He cast Cudbert a wry smile. *Dung Heap only knows his lice-infested back yard. The wretch lives the life of a hog, digging ditches for my uncle. His mother is the filthiest sow you would ever have the misfortune to set eyes upon.'

Beside himself with rage, Wakelin aimed a punch at Thurstan. *Don't you talk like that about my ma!'

Thurstan fended him off, smirking at his honourable words. *Existing in your dreary sty, you know nothing of the world. You are uneducated, whereas Cud and I are destined for places of great learning. I am forgetting my manners. As your superior, I must educate you to lessen your ignorance.'

Cudbert yawned. *Come on, Thurs. I'm tired and we're both drunk.' He leapt down.

*A moment, my friend. Since Dung Heap is so smitten with my sword I feel it is my duty to inform him of its origins. It is a samurai sword, once owned by a member of a powerful military caste in feudal Japan. It has killed thousands, if not millions, of rogues like you.'

*I couldn't care less about your sword, ya gr'it clod,' Wakelin yelled.

Cudbert tittered.

*You should also be enlightened as to the meaning of the word caste,' Thurstan continued. *In India, that is where people are grouped according to their importance, their superiority, or, as in your case, their inferiority. You are what would be known as an untouchable, a member of the lower caste. See his hands, Cud? Don't you agree that they are fearfully untouchable? He was born with four thumbs. After his father chopped off two they festered and turned the colour of bile. Shame he didn't miss and cut off Dung Heap's head.

*I have a capital idea, and I say capital with all due intent. Trying to deprive me of my sword merits the death penalty. Cud and I have a pastime of travelling to watch worthless wretches like you swing on the gallows. I have not seen a good hanging for at least a week. The last one was a boy hung outside Litcombe Castle for pick-pocketing. He bit his tongue clean in half. I bought it as a keepsake. Pickled in a bottle on my writing desk, it does wonders for my concentration. I tell you what I would really like, Cud, is to slice off Dung Heap's weird hands. They would make excellent bookends.' He twisted one of Wakelin's wrists behind his back.

Without warning, a shaggy dog bounded from the woods. Leaping upon Thurstan, he buffeted him to the ground.

*Off, Twiss!' Gillow ordered. *Time and ag'in, Wakelin, I've told you to have nowt to do with Thurstan du Quesne.'

Thurstan lay sprawled between exposed tree roots. *Weaklin, that's a good name for you, having to be rescued by your father,' he goaded.

*I ain't no weakling!'

*Home, Wakelin!' Gillow demanded. *We can't risk trouble with his lordship.'

*Why not?' Wakelin retorted. *You always talk about Lord du Quesne like he's so high n' mighty when he's nowt but a mean, penny-pinching scum.'

*Is that so, Wakelin Dunham?' a man asked in a commanding voice.

Robert du Quesne had ventured out of his home to discover the source of the commotion. He unlatched the gate in the filbert walk that bordered the western perimeter of the manor garden. A stocky man, he was known to regale himself on a hearty breakfast of collared head, rolled beef and ham. He was adorned in a snuff-coloured tailcoat lined with red-flame silk. Upon his head was perched a powdered wig. The impression of a strong character could be gleaned from his face, though his hanging lower lip was suggestive of obstinacy.

Gillow snatched off his hat in homage.

Ignoring him, du Quesne fixed his steely blue eyes upon Wakelin. *How dare you attack my nephew!'

*'e picked on me.'

In the distance came a gunshot, followed by the shriek of a creature in its death throes.

*It would seem that my gamekeeper has had a successful night,' du Quesne said. *He shoots vermin. Vermin includes trespassers. From now on, Wakelin Dunham, I do not want to see you loitering near my home, day or night. Do you understand?'

Wakelin glowered.

Gillow shifted, embarrassed by his son's insolence. Humbly, he answered, *I'm sure he do, sir. He's right sorry for the trouble he's caused you and your nephew.'

Wakelin objected. *I ain't ...'

*As just reward for your querulous talk, Wakelin Dunham,' Robert du Quesne interjected, *I will no longer suffer you working on my estate. Not that you know the meaning of the word work. You revel in any opportunity to sleep, and after my bailiff has shaken you into some semblance of wakefulness you are as senseless as a tarsier for an hour.'

Thurstan hooted with laughter. *That's it Uncle, you tell him. You're an animated piece of offal, Dung Heap. And if that dog attacks me again, I'll run him through.'

Seated on the bench beside the porch, a bowl of raspberries upon his lap, Wakelin squashed escaping maggots between his fingertips.

Since the events of last night, Gillow had been unable to throw off his temper. *Stop gaming about, Wakelin.' He returned to his task. Moments later, he shot up. *What have you been doing to these peas?'

*Picking *em,' Wakelin sniped back.

*Don't use that tone of voice when speaking to me,' Gillow answered, incensed by his son's maladroit handling of his precious vegetables. *You've pulled up the roots. There were dozens more pods growing. They're nearly all dead.'

Riled by his father's passionate outburst, Wakelin thrust his fist into the raspberries, mashing them to a pulp.

*You have to use both hands.' His father demonstrated. *One hand steadies the main stem whilst the other holds the pod. Wakelin, watch!'

*Ah, go stew yer head. I've had to put up with this all morning. First ya went on at me for dusting the celery with soot to discourage flies, and then got mad with me for hoeing the onions.'

*Old soot, I said. When I came out to check how you were getting on, I found that you'd thrown a pan of hot ash, straight from the hearth, upon the plants, scalding the flesh. And I only pointed out that as the onions are swelling, it would be helpful if you gently scraped soil from the bulbs. You've ripped most of them to shreds.' He sighed in frustration. *I've had all I can take. We'll go in and I'll let you have another attempt at the loom, though I can't understand why you can't grasp how to separate the warp-threads and bring the weft into proper position on the frame. You're as hopeless at weaving as you are in the garden.'

Betsy's shrill voice rang out, *I've finished spinning this yarn. Are you feeling better, Wakelin, m'dear? You'll be glad to get back to the field.'

Martha came out to cut a lettuce. *Wakelin, why are you scowling at Betsy? What have you done to those raspberries?'

Wakelin chucked the wooden bowl at his father, slopping juice onto the cobbled path, pushed past his mother and went indoors to fetch his jacket.

Martha sidled up to Betsy and spoke confidingly. *Wakelin's lost his job.'

*Ooo, thar is bad news. Mind you, the lad's no doubt making himself handy around the garden.'

Gillow listened in disbelief to the hollow crunches as Wakelin stomped towards the stream, trampling vegetables left drying in the sun.

*Oy, watch my onions! Where are you off to?'

Wakelin ignored him. *Twiss!' The dog bounded over the bridge and followed his master.

Gillow hurled his hoe to the ground, outraged by his son's lack of respect.

CHAPTER FIVE.

REQUIEM.

Tinkling over stones, the leaping stream was pleasant music to Martha's ears. She stood in the water, kneading Eppie's pilchers, the loop ties swirling about her bare knees. Soothing birdsong saturated the garden. Meadowsweet shone like curd cheese upon the stream bank.

Wakelin was resting in the loft. Eppie, having worn herself out crying, had gone back to sleep. Gillow was across the lane at old Jacob Leiff's, talking beetroot. Even whilst courting Martha he had been involved in friendly competition with Jacob about who could grow the biggest vegetables.

Surging out of the stream, the wicker basket balanced on her hip, she plodded to the buckthorn which fronted the lane. Uncoiling the woollen triangles, she tossed them on the hedge to dry.

The labourers were making the most of the fine weather to work in the fields.

Breaking the stillness, horses tramped in unison over the packhorse bridge. Jingling harnesses glittered.

Only once before, at the funeral of Talia du Quesne, had Martha seen such elegant black horses, ribbons tied into their manes and tails. Within the glass carriage, etched with frosted images of floral urns, rested a baby's coffin. The procession was far more impressive than the labourers' funerals. A few months ago, villagers had attended the funeral of Fay Hix's youngest, Tess, who had died of smallpox. Bill had carried the coffin on his shoulder.

Lord du Quesne stared rigidly ahead, the silk band on his hat fluttering. Beside him sat Gabriel. *He looks such a gentle child,' Martha thought. *He'll be a comfort to his mother.'

Following in an open carriage were Squire Obadiah Bulwar and his wife, Sapphira, firm friends of the du Quesnes. Bulldog-faced, the squire had small, close-set eyes. Reaching up beneath her veil to dab her eyes, Sapphira appeared dignified and gentile. Opposite them reclined Thurstan, his expression revealing how tedious he found the occasion.

In the wake of the convoy paced pallbearers. Covered from head to toe in black crepe cloaks, heads bowed, they resembled crows following carrion.

Martha's reverie was shattered when Wakelin burst from the cottage. Throwing back his head, he howled like a trapped beast. Saliva dribbled down the sides of his mouth.

*Goodness! Whatever is the matter?' She glanced at neighbouring cottages. *Stop it, someone will see. You know your father's particular.'

Without a word of reply he stumbled after the cavalcade.

Parson Hector Lowford sat beside Wakelin on the bench beneath the mulberry tree. *Did you enjoy the christening?'

*Yur,' Wakelin answered unenthusiastically, wiping his sweating forehead with his sleeve.

The parson was a short man with a stern, set expression of the mouth. It was so hot that he had removed his periwig. His nose and balding head shone in the heat. *You will be proud of your new sister, though wishing you had a brother?'

*Yur.' Wakelin loathed the shackles of convention that meant he had to endure uncomfortable, newly-laundered clothes and, worse, mind his manners.

The parson nodded benevolently at folk mulling around the orchard. *Euphemia. Delightful.'

*Yur.' Wakelin compared his calloused hands with the nimble fingers of the parson. Outside his clerical duties the parson kept a pottery workshop, but Wakelin wondered whether the man really understood how hard life was for the cottagers. The parson could look forward to regular payments of tithes, plump chickens for his stove, sides of the best pork and bags of the finest wheat flour, whereas the farm labourers could never be sure of their earnings. If the weather turned bad they were laid off, without pay.

A wry smile crossed his lips seeing the parson accept another brimming goblet of his mother's vintage elderberry wine. Knowing the strength of the brew, occasionally pinching a few bottles from the wring-shed when his mother's back was turned, he contemplated whether the parson would make it back to his cottage without falling from his horse.

Martha scurried around for the umpteenth time, balancing platefuls of fruit tarts for her guests.

She had done her best to clean the cottage: piled strings of onions in the loft above the cart shed, stowed smelly trout beside Wakelin's sack, and put down beer traps for the larder beetles. She and Wakelin had collected armfuls of ox-eye daisies and purple marsh orchids to make the cottage gay. He wondered why she made the effort. He longed for them to be left alone, to get back to their topsy-turvy world; there was an order and comfortable familiarity in that.

Though he tried to stop his mind from wandering back to the christening, it was impossible: The sounding board above the pulpit amplified the parson's voice which had boomed on, interminably.

Inside his head, Wakelin screamed with guilt. *She can't be christened Eppie! That's not her name!' He was sure the parson could sense the battle going on within him. Could see into his mind. Know the dreadful truth. It was the near silence that brought him back to reality.

Parson Lowford made the sign of the cross upon the baby's forehead. *Be merciful to Euphemia, O God. In the shadow of your wings let her find protection until the raging storm is over.'

Wakelin was confused. *If God's protecting Eppie, perhaps it ain't so bad that I stole her?' he thought. *If I tell God I'm sorry, he'll stop me feeling bad. Maybe I ought to tell ma what I've done?' By not confiding in her he knew his suffering would intensify as the years rolled by. Sneaking a look at Martha, he saw her gazing adoringly at the baby. Never could he remember seeing his mother look so content.

In the churchyard, after the christening, Betsy, Sarah, Fay and Claire, the women who span yarn for his father, stood around, gossiping. Wakelin listened in.

*Lady Constance is unable to move in her bed,' Claire said. *It's unlikely she'll do so for several months.'

*My guess is that her ladyship has had a severe strain of the backbone,' Betsy said. *Birth is such an ordeal. I should know.' Rudely, Wakelin mouthed the words he knew she would utter. *After all, I've born and raised thirteen children of my own.'

*Even if her ladyship rises, it's unlikely that she'll go without a stick,' Sarah, Jacob's wife, put in.

*At worst, she may have to spend the remainder of her days in an invalid's chair,' Fay reflected.

Wakelin went away sniggering about the clucking hens, about their words of gloom and doom. It was not long before his dread returned.

Now, at the christening party, the four women were seated beside the stream upon his mother's rough chairs, heads bent and tongues wagging as though scheming. Wakelin glared suspiciously at them. He felt sure that Betsy was a witch. *Does that meddlesome old hag, Salty, know that I stole Genevieve?' he wondered.

*Your mother informs me that Euphemia was your grandmother's name,' Parson Lowford said. *Mrs Dunham clearly favours the atavistic belief in reincarnation.'