Wilbert slunk up behind her. *Guess who I saw looking through your window last night?'

*Parson Lowford?'

*Death! He's coming back tonight to shred you with his talons. His face is black from never washing an' his hair's all moppy.'

*The only one I know who resembles that description is you, Wilbert Hix,' Eppie replied blithely.

*Think you're clever, hey?' he said, enraged at her for dispassionately dispelling his imaginative tale. *Well I tell ya, my pa's braver than yours. He's sliced off Ranger's ...'

*Wilbert!' Bill leapt to his feet and grabbed his son by the ear. *Off home, lessin' ya want me to give ya a raw hide.'

*What about the food? Mrs Leiff says there's a cheese for the children. She's hid a chunk o' money in it. I'm set on getting that.'

Glaring dangerously, his father raised his fist.

Knowing better than to argue, Wilbert tore off.

Repairing a boundary where a cow had escaped, a hedger doffed his cap and stared in mute respect at the passing of the plaintive procession.

Upon the horizon, du Quesne could be seen galloping on Ranger. He headed towards Maygott, who was checking fields fertilized with shoddy waste from a cotton mill.

Wakelin and Tobias were engrossed in conversation as they walked along.

*I ain't experienced,' Wakelin said.

*You don't need none. Speed's the thing. We work night and day with relays of horses, two men off, two on. Don't expect steady money. Late with a delivery, the company loses orders and we ain't paid.'

*You sure there's a place for me?'

*My friend fell in the lock and got crushed to death between the boat and the wall. I can't be surer than that.'

The parson waited before the church door in readiness to receive the coffin. Snatched by gusts of wind, his black clerical robes writhed around his legs.

From somewhere up ahead, the baying of dogs was borne upon the blustery breeze. Shoulders heaving, tongues lolling, a pack of mongrels bounded around the corner and sped towards the mourners.

Eppie halted with a jerk, recalling Wilbert's tale about the Dogs of Death that hunted the souls of the recently deceased.

Sensitive noses attracted to the flimsy coffin, some dogs leapt at the cart, whilst others, detecting the scent of badger, circled Eppie and Dawkin, snarling.

So far, Wakelin had concealed his grief at the death of his beloved. Now he gave his repressed emotions vent, cursing in fury, and pelting the dogs with stones.

*Stop this!' Gillow cried, mortified by his son's coarse language. *You shame your mother and me with your wicked words.'

Wakelin pulled back his shoulders so that he stood as tall as his father. *By, I'll be glad to see the last of you!'

*And what do you mean by that?'

*I'm off to work on the flyboats.'

*Flyboats? You haven't asked my consent.'

*That's because I don't need it.' Snatching more stones from the lane-side, he continued his onslaught.

Around the corner advanced a cavalcade of travellers' wagons drawn by hill ponies. Some gypsies raced up to Wakelin and pushed him around, keen to pick a fight. Bawling her apologies to Molly's mother, the gypsy matriarch, adorned in a picturesque costume with a crimson cowl, called off her lads.

The rumpus over, the mourners made their way to the church. Singing the Lord's Prayer, they cast circumspect glances back at the gypsies who were turning their wagons into the field opposite.

*Thanks for frightening those scary dogs off Dawkin and me,' Eppie said gratefully to Wakelin. *I'm sorry pa shouted at you.'

He nodded, realising she understood his suffering. Hand-in-hand, they strode into the graveyard.

Hymns were sung low and mournful, their steady flow broken by occasional sobs and Hannah's thunderous nose blowing.

Singing snatches of hymns, Eppie gazed upon the coffin. It was draped with white linen, symbolising the death of an unmarried person. The sun dipping behind bruised clouds, three candles, set into a candelabrum upon the top of the coffin, glowed in the stony gloominess.

Eppie recalled how Lord du Quesne had forbidden villagers from attending the funeral of Lady Constance. Longing to pay her respects, however, she had discreetly shadowed the hearse. The last time she had seen Gabriel, when he had given her the flute, he had told her how, although no windows or doors were open in the church, a white robin had alighted upon his mother's coffin. It was his belief that the bird was the spirit of Talia.

Glum, black-headed sheep eyed the pensive mourners, who silently crossed the close-cropped grass and stepped warily over little heaps of droppings. Happier to see them, Blinkinsopp, the sexton, tossed down his spade in expectation of the mourners' offerings for his effort in preparing the grave.

At the moment the coffin came to rest in the bowels of the earth, the mourners heard du Quesne's sharp demand, *How dare you camp here?'

The swarthy complexioned travellers were settled around a blazing fire, one man playing a fiddle.

With a sweep of his tongue, du Quesne painted travellers with the same unjust brush, *Your sorts of people are nothing but turnip-pilferers, idlers and poachers. No, I do not want my fortune read. Leave my land this instance or I will have you hung for theft of firewood.'

Flip clambered on top of Aunt Zelda's upturned-rowing-boat grave to get a better look. *Hey, look at Ranger!'

Hearing the boy's shout, and unwilling to cause himself any inconvenience in vaulting from his horse, du Quesne rode into the churchyard. Vases bursting with garlands placed by loved ones on Flowering Sunday were knocked flying by Ranger's hooves.

Hector Lowford, not having quite the middling morning he had expected, clapped his hands to his temples. *Sir, you must not ride that beast in here! This is consecrated ground!'

*Last night,' du Quesne bellowed at the uneasy mourners, ignoring the parson's outburst, *some evil-disposed person maliciously hacked off my horse's tail. Ranger is a thoroughbred worth hundreds of guineas. Who amongst you know something of this crime? I warn you, I will deal severely with any person found to be withholding knowledge.'

Recalling Wilbert's words at the inn, Eppie and Dawkin could not help but cast furtive glances at Bill. He glared back, hard.

Dismounting his own steed beneath the lychgate, Maygott hurried towards the mourners.

Aware of Wakelin scowling, du Quesne formed his own supposition. *It was you, wasn't it, Dunham!'

In astonishment, Eppie stared at Wakelin. For once short of an answer he gaped like a half-wit, stunned at finding himself arraigned for something he knew nothing about.

*For sure it weren't Wakelin, sir,' Jacob said. *Straight after his labours he came over and held vigil with Sarah and meself.'

Du Quesne was piqued that Wakelin should get away with the crime. *But after that, Dunham,' his rancorous words spilled out, *you stole into my stables. Admit it!'

*I didn't do it, but if any one of us here did, I reckon he had good cause.'

Gillow was expectant of trouble. *Bide your silence, boy.'

*Why should I hold my tongue? I've done nowt wrong.' Wakelin deflected his wrath at du Quesne. *If some fellow's chopped your horse's tail, as vengeance most like, it comes as no surprise to me. You keep us here like brainless fowl, so poor we *ave to peck dust to stay alive on the miserly wages you dish out.'

The huddle of workers murmured their agreement.

*That's preposterous,' Maygott said. *Every man here is paid a fair day's wage for a fair day's work. To demand more than you rightfully earn is robbery.'

*If it's stealing you're on about, what about these land enclosures we've had to put up with?' Wakelin asked.

*Land enclosures can hardly be described as theft,' du Quesne replied. *Any cottager who is able to establish his claim is left with a parcel of land.'

*Please, sir,' Percy Timmins piped up, *that scrap you gave me an' the missus ain't enough to grow a string of peas.'

*Claire and I have a good-sized plot, sir, but since losing my job as bailiff I'm worse off,' Henry put in. *Holding a quarter of an acre or more of garden-ground renders me independent of any assistance from parish relief. Besides, with these day-labourers coming in from afar and them prepared to work for lower wages, well, that pushes my wages down further.'

*We'd all be six feet under, like my girl, if it weren't for helping each other through the hard times,' Wakelin declared. *Even if we knew who'd slashed your horse we wouldn't squeal.'

*Yes, you are as thick as thieves,' du Quesne answered, *each and every one of you too cowardly to speak against him who has wronged me.' Seeing the black looks of his labourers, however, he began to regret that, distraught at finding Ranger abused he had perhaps overstepped himself on this occasion. By speaking in a slanderous manner to Wakelin he had incited the men's wrath. Bad feeling amongst his workers was not a risk he could take or, as had occurred at other estates, he might find his hayricks blazing, thanks to the teaching of agitators that landowning farmers are tyrants. He was all too aware that reflexes of panic and class antagonism inflamed against the aristocracy by the French Revolution were such as to remove inhibitions and to aggravate the exploitative relationship between master and servants.

*On this occasion, I shall let the matter drop,' he said, seeking to pacify the men. *Having been placed here by Divine Providence as a landowner I feel the responsibility of my situation. God has allotted you to your lowly path in life. It is your part to faithfully discharge your duties to me and contentedly to bear its inconveniences.'

*And ya can bet there's plenty of *em,' Bill grumbled. *These men called at The Duck, trying to get us labourers to join their Friendly Society. They reckon we should be asking you for a fixed minimum wage. With this war against the Frenchies, prices have risen sky-high.'

*Such organisations are a guise for revolutionary workers' unions,' du Quesne replied hotly. *It is within my power to have you severely punished for conniving with these men. What I pay is more than generous and a wage on which you can live.'

Wakelin glared at du Quesne with loathing eyes. *If you gave us fair wages we could afford a physician when we get sick. Molly might've had a chance to get better instead of coughing up her guts.'

*God alone points the finger of death,' du Quesne answered. *Beside which, you should be thanking, not castigating me. It was I who was more than generous in tolerating the girl's less than wholesome character. Frequently, I was forced to reprimand her for her churlish attitude. Pert and obstinate, she proved herself to be a wicked, meddling prevaricator. My housekeeper informed me that the girl stole keys from her cupboard in order to gain admittance to the scullery and the former nursery at the time when your mother and sister besieged my home. If I had been acquainted with this knowledge before the girl left my employment in failing health, I would have had no compunction in seeing her thrown into jail. If anyone deserved death it was she.'

Tormented by du Quesne's callous words, Wakelin emitted a vehement cry. Leaping over the gaping pit he grabbed hold of Ranger's reins and attempted to drag du Quesne from his saddle.

His horse's flanks pressed against encircling gravestones, the terrified beast reared, kicking the air with his front legs. Ranger's massive belly became a living roof above the mourners. They backed off, shrieking, frightened of being struck by the animal's hooves.

Pounding down, perilously close to the crumbling edge of the grave, the horse slithered. Loose earth rained upon the coffin lid, making dull thuds.

Trying to force Wakelin to release the reins, du Quesne hit out with the toe of his boot, catching him beneath the chin.

Undeterred, the light of madness in his eyes, Wakelin ripped the hunting knife from his boot.

Gillow, sensing imminent disaster, sprang between du Quesne and his son. A blast echoed and re-echoed around the graveyard.

Hit, as from a leaden object, his face an agony of surprise, Gillow fell forwards. Blood drenched the jacket on his broad back.

*No, Pa!' Wakelin yelled, catching his father before he crumpled to the ground.

A horrible quiet consumed the watchers.

Vapour, smelling strongly of gunpowder, drifted from the barrel of du Quesne's pistol.

Eppie was filled with a nebulous sensation, as though she were watching the tragedy from afar. So overpowering was the stabbing in her heart, though, she knew this to be no illusion.

Martha dropped to her knees beside her husband, dumbstruck at what she was witnessing.

Lying with his head on Wakelin's lap, his father forced open his eyelids as though they were weighted with rocks. *I'm sorry, lad. I've ... wronged ya.'

*Don't die, Pa! It's me what's bad. Say ya forgive us. Say it, Pa! Say ya forgive us!'

Focusing upon the iron-grey clouds, Gillow spoke in a cracked whisper, blood trickling down the sides of his mouth. *So ... cold.'

Smattering, the first drops of rain fell into his unseeing eyes.

CHAPTER FORTY.

A CHILL IN THE AIR.

Christmas Eve. The white ghost of a sun shed no warmth upon the slumbering land.

Following Gillow's death nine months ago, Martha suggested to Wakelin that he take up weaving.

*I had enough of being cooped up, cropping at Strutt's. I'm me own man. No way am I gonna step into pa's cold boots.'

Accepted as head of the household, he had grown serious of spirit, his vision bent solely on keeping the family from poverty. Doggedly driving him on was his determination to do right by his mother. Recognising this, she had come to rely upon his strength of mind and body, believing his rebellious streak to be spent. In truth, he was chomping at the bit like a wilful pony, longing to get even with his father's killer. Playing a waiting game, he was watching for an opportunity when he could pounce and furtively murder Robert du Quesne, without bringing the law of the land upon his head.

After Gillow's death, du Quesne, for his part, had taken refuge behind the power attendant upon his title and the capricious nature of the law system. His revulsion at finding his horse's tail shorn and his contempt for Wakelin had been so overwhelming that it took him several days to cool and realise the impact of having taken the life of an innocent man. It was a disagreeable thought, but no more than having a bad taste in his mouth. By degrees he spat out the notion until he felt whole again. Drawing himself up tall and dignified in front of his labourers he convinced himself that not a jot of blame could be thrown his way. His act had been one of self-preservation. What he repressed in his subconscious was the truth that, on that fateful day, he had been consumed by the idea of deadly revenge. The weaver had simply got in the way of his nefarious resolve.

Working on the floor, surrounded by woodworking tools, Wakelin was making Martha a pair of snowshoes, threading a latticework of rawhide lacing onto a willow frame, with bindings to attach them to her feet. Over the last few days he had been kept busy threshing barley in the barn at the manor. Though a monotonous task, he was glad of the companionship of his fellow workers.

Icy puddles splintered beneath the wheels of Haggard's wagon as he drew it to a halt before Dank Cottage. *Wakelin, is you about?'

*Can't come today,' he shouted from the porch. In the freezing weather the canals were iced over, so steersmen could not transport fuel to Litcombe. *I'm off to the pit-mouth near Garn Hall to fetch a load of coal for the manor. It means an extra shilling for my ma.'

*So long as we've a good stock of wattles come spring,' returned the hurdle-maker, urging his horse onward. *There's bound to be a rush for them at lambing time.'

Morose, Eppie was reluctant to leave the comfort of the hearth. The sight she could see out of the window, of a frozen crow dangling upside down by one leg in the oak tree, did little to raise her spirits. Beside her, Lottie played merrily, banging a pewter mug with a spoon.

Wakelin reached for the fowling gun. *On the way, I'll see if I can kill summat for ya, Ma.'

Rolling skeins of wool onto a spindle, she nodded her acquiescence. Though heavy fines, even imprisonment, or death, were the punishments for those caught poaching, she no longer stopped him taking firewood and the occasional meal from his lordship's land. Nearly every other man in the village was apt to carry out a little poaching to feed his family. Being older and wiser her son was, she assumed, more adept about concealing his illicit activities.

*Wild creatures are simply that, wild,' he had bawled at her shortly after Gillow's death, when she had expressed her worries about the sinfulness of stealing. *If a pigeon perches in a tree belonging to du Quesne why should that mean the bird belongs to him? Simply because a coney hops across one of his fields, du Quesne can't argue that it's his property.'

His simple logic rang true to Martha.

Knocking snow from his boots, Dawkin traipsed in, the badger at his heels, and untied the geese from the rafters. He and Eppie were off to Litcombe market. *I'll go and stuff these in Dusty's panniers.'