The Crimson Ribbon by Katherine Clements Read Free Book Online

comfrey—’
    ‘There is nothing to be done, nothing that you can help with. The wound is deeper than you can ever know.’
    My own heart aches as though it is cut. I want to tell him that I do know, that I understand what it is to have a loved one taken so suddenly, so violently. I want him to know the real reason I am here. I want him to understand that I, too, am fleeing for my life, with wounds just as deep, and fresher than his. Most of all, I want to have him reach his arms around me, and tell me that I am not alone in this.
    But I do none of these things. The truth chokes me as I say, ‘They took my mother . . .’
    For a moment he does nothing. The muscles in his jaw twitch. Slowly, he reaches out and takes my hand from where it rests in my lap. He enfolds my fingers in his palm. I cannot speak, or meet his gaze, for fear that the sorrow will come spilling out of me, and never stop.
    We sit in silence. The rain is easing, leaving behind the biting chill of a fresh spring morning. In the distance, the sky is turning from black to grey. The clouds flash every now and then to the south, towards London and our journey’s end. And over that great city, the sky trembles with thunder, like the sound of distant guns.

Chapter 6
    By morning the storm-soaked roads are muddy and spoiled by puddles. But the rain brings one blessing: the heat of the day before is gone and the sky is hazy and pale blue, the sun tempered by a fresh breeze. My clothes, still damp and itchy from the night-time rain, begin to dry, and I tie my shawl to the side of the cart and let it hang loose, fluttering and catching the wind, like a flag.
    Every now and then the mud holds us back, our wheels caught axle deep. I spend the better part of the morning climbing down from my perch among the pelts to tug at the reins of the horse while Siddal and Joseph clear the spokes.
    Joseph is gruff and churlish. By sunrise any trace of the sad, unguarded man I came to know in the night has vanished. He grunts in answer to Siddal’s orders and refuses to meet my eye. I suppose he is ashamed. After all, I am a stranger to him, pretending siblings or not. I imagine a fighting man like him will suffer to be seen so weak and troubled. Still, the change in his manner is so marked that I cannot help but be hurt by it. I did not choose his company, or ask for the burden of his secrets. The burning of my own grief leaves little room for sympathy, but I am puzzled that whatever affinity moved me by darkness seems such a dreamlike thing in the light of day.
    During the afternoon, as we pass through Waltham Woods, Joseph is dozing in the back of the cart. I loll next to him, marvelling at the tall trees that stretch their boughs towards the sky, making a green and gold canopy overhead, like the hangings on the master’s old four-poster. Joseph lies with his hat pulled low over his brow. The light trickles from above, making the leaves glow so many hues. I watch shadow patterns dance on Joseph’s clothes and skin. I notice the hairs on his chin spark deep red as the sun hits them.
    After a while his jaw grows slack and his lips part. They are full lips, well shaped. His looks are softer with the innocence of sleep. I long to lean across and raise his hat from his face, to see him vulnerable again. I want to feel the comfort of my hand in his. Instead I touch his sleeve lightly with my fingers.
    ‘I’m sorry for your brother,’ I say quietly.
    He stirs and lifts his hat. ‘What?’
    ‘Naseby, your brother, your poor wounded belly . . . I’m sorry for it all.’
    He scowls. ‘I have no brother,’ he says. ‘And I never was at Naseby Fight.’ He pushes himself up, twisting away from me to check whether Siddal is listening. Satisfied we are not overheard, he leans in so close that as he whispers I feel spittle land upon my cheek.
    ‘I should never have told you aught of Naseby. Promise me you’ll not speak of it.’ He grabs my arm insistently, fingers