Фрэнсис Хардинг - A Skinful of Shadows

‘We’re on a hunt.’ There was a fierce, wild light in the apprentice’s eyes. ‘Hunting old William the Fox — old Archbishop Laud.’ Makepeace had heard that name hundreds of times, usually being cursed as one of the King’s evil advisers. ‘We’re just going to go and knock on his door, and say hello. Like good neighbours.’ He hefted his cudgel and slapped it hard into his other palm, fizzing and fidgeting with excitement.

Too late, Makepeace guessed at the meaning of all the placards. They had been announcing a great and angry gathering in St George’s Fields. The crowd was full of apprentices, Makepeace realized, as her eyes adjusted. All of them were hefting makeshift weapons — hammers, broom-handles, fire-irons and planks — with a fierce jollity that meant business. They were hell-bent on dragging evil out of its palace and breaking its crown. But in their bright eyes Makepeace could see that it was also a game — a game of blood, like a bear-baiting.

‘I need to go home!’ Even as Makepeace spoke the words, they had a bitter taste. She had lost her one chance of finding out more about her past, but what if she had lost her home too? Her mother had called her bluff by telling her to run away, and Makepeace had done just that.

The apprentice’s brow wrinkled, and he stood on tiptoe, craning to see past the crowds. Makepeace did the same as best she could, and realized that the road she had run down was now clogged with a solid mass of figures, all pouring into St George’s Fields.

‘You stick with me,’ the apprentice said anxiously, as the crowd started to surge forwards, carrying the two of them with it. ‘You’ll be safe with me.’

It was hard for Makepeace to see past the crush of taller figures, but as she was swept along, she heard more and more voices joining the rallying cries and laughing at the jests. The apprentice army sounded vast now. No wonder they were so confident, so bristling with purpose!

‘Makepeace! Where are you?’

The call was almost swallowed by the crescendo of yells and bellows, but Makepeace heard it. It was Mother’s voice, she was sure of it. Mother had followed her, and was now caught up in the crowd somewhere behind her.

‘Ma!’ Makepeace called out as the crowd bore her relentlessly onward.

‘There’s Lambeth Palace!’ came a cry ahead. ‘There’s lights at the windows!’ Makepeace could smell the river again, and could see a great building ahead at the water’s edge, with high, square towers, its silhouetted crenellations biting into the evening sky.

From the front of the mob came sounds of furious argument, and the crowd took on a feverish, wavering tension.

‘Turn yourselves about!’ somebody was bellowing. ‘Go home!’

‘Who’s there ahead?’ a dozen voices in the crowd were demanding, and a dozen different answers came back. Some said it was the army, some the King’s men, some that it was the archbishop himself.

‘Ah, shut your mouth!’ one of the apprentices shouted at last. ‘Put William the Fox out of doors, or we’ll break in and halloo the whole bunch of you!’

The other apprentices responded with a deafening roar, and there was a furious press forward. The patch of sky above Makepeace shrank as she was half crushed by taller figures. There were battle-cries ahead, and the bellow and yell of men fighting.

‘Force the door!’ somebody was shouting. ‘Give ’im the crowbar!’

‘Smash their lights!’ came another cry.

When the first shot rang out, Makepeace thought somebody had dropped something heavy on the cobbles. Then a second shot rang out and a third. The crowd convulsed, some pulling back, some charging forward. Makepeace took a knee in the gut, and a careless cudgel jab in the eye.

‘Makepeace!’ It was Mother’s voice again, shrill and desperate, and closer than before.

‘Ma!’ The crowd around Makepeace was thrashing now, but she fought her way through it towards the sound of her mother’s voice. ‘I’m here!’

Ahead of her, someone screamed.

It was a harsh, brief sound, and at first Makepeace did not know what it was. She had never heard Mother scream before. But as she elbowed her way forward, she saw a woman lying on the ground at the base of a wall, being stepped on by the blind, surging crowd.

‘Ma!’

With Makepeace’s help, Mother unsteadily rose to her feet. She was ashen pale, and even in the darkness Makepeace could see inky lines of blood pouring down the left side of her face. She was moving wrong as well, one eyelid drooping and her right arm jerking awkwardly.

‘I’ll get you home,’ whispered Makepeace, her mouth dry. ‘I’m sorry, Ma. I’m sorry . . .’

Mother stared at Makepeace glassily for a moment, as if she did not know her. Then, her face tensed and contorted.

‘No!’ she screamed hoarsely, and lashed out, striking Makepeace across the face and then shoving her away. ‘Stay away from me! Go away! Go away!’

Caught off balance, Makepeace fell over. She had one last glimpse of Mother’s face, still fixed in a fierce and desperate glare, and then took a kick to the face that set her eyes streaming. Somebody else trod on her calf.

‘Be ready!’ somebody was shouting. ‘Here they come!’ Gunshots sounded again, as though the stars were exploding.

Then strong hands were hooked under Makepeace’s armpits, and she was hauled to her feet. A tall apprentice tucked her over his shoulder without ceremony, and carried her bodily away from the front line, while she struggled and called for Mother. He dumped her in the mouth of an alleyway.

‘You run home!’ he screamed at Makepeace, red-faced, then plunged back into the fray, hammer raised high.

She never found out who he was, or what happened to him.

Nor did she ever see Mother alive again.

Mother’s body was found after the bloodshed and the arrests, after the rioters were thrown into retreat. Nobody was ever quite sure what it was that had struck her in the head, and caused her death. Perhaps a wildly swung poker, perhaps an accidental kick to the head with a hobnailed boot, perhaps a stray bullet that struck her and moved on.

Makepeace did not know, and did not care. The riot had killed Mother, and Makepeace had led her there. It was all Makepeace’s fault.

And the people of the parish, who had bought Mother’s lace and embroidery when it suited them, decided that their precious churchyard was no place for a woman with a child out of wedlock. The minister, who had always been kind in the street, now stood in the pulpit and said that Margaret Lightfoot had not been one of the Saved.

Mother was buried instead in unconsecrated land on the edge of the Poplar marshes. It was stubbornly brambled, welcoming only the wind and the birds, and as secretive as Margaret Lightfoot herself.

You’ll be the death of me.

Makepeace could not forget Mother’s words. They were her companion through every daylight moment, every nocturnal hour. She could imagine Mother saying them, but now in a tone steady and cold.

I killed her , Makepeace thought. I ran away and she followed me into danger. It was my fault, and she hated me for it at the end.

Makepeace had thought that now she might find herself sleeping in the same bed as her little cousins, but she was still left to sleep alone on the bolster she had shared with Mother. Perhaps everybody sensed that she was a murderess. Or perhaps Aunt and Uncle were no longer sure what to do with her, now that Mother’s lace-making was no longer paying for her keep.

She was alone. The little fence that had run around Makepeace and Mother now ran round only Makepeace, cutting her off from the rest of the world.