We Shall Not Sleep by Anne Perry Read Free Book Online

make them look at reason and reality in the future," Mason answered.
    The Peacemaker stood also, an inch or two taller than Mason. 'There's no time to weigh and measure," he said grimly. "It sounds like the evasion of a moral coward who won't say no to a man's face."
    At another time, even months ago, Mason's temper would have risen to such a charge. Now he was too weary, too clenched inside in his gut with the reality of death, to be stung by the wound of words. He smiled. "And that sounds like the attempt at manipulation of an armchair warrior who is used to shedding other people's blood," he answered. "I told you, I would consider what I think, and then act accordingly. I am just as aware as you of how little time there is." And without looking back to see if the Peacemakers face was twisted with rage or pain, or simply blank with surprise, he walked to the door, down the steps, and finally into the dark, windy street.
    By early afternoon the following day, Mason was back in Yorkshire, in the land he loved. He had booked a room at the village pub and, after a late lunch of homemade sausages—he did not ask what went into them in these times of hardship—he put on good walking shoes and set out in the evening light. He was high up, and the whole panorama of the dales spread out in front of him, valleys already shadowed, high slopes gold in the sun. The purple was fading from the heather, and the dark bronze bracken gave the color a sudden depth. The sky was ragged with clouds toward the west, and there was a chill in the air with the sweetness of great distances and clean winds.
    The South had a gentleness with its great trees and richly harvested fields, its winding lanes and meal-drift autumn skies, but it never healed him as this land did. It was too soft, too comfortable. It forgave too much.
    The North was different. The bones of the earth were naked here, and there was a beauty in it that spared nothing. You could stand on a narrow road like this and stare across the hills, fold after fold, wind-scoured, to the horizon. In a months time, when at last there was peace in the world, there would be the first snows on the shaws, pale-gleaming. The air would smell of it. The wild birds would be flying in for the winter, long skeins of them across the sky, wings creaking. The reeds would spear upward in the rippled water of the tarns. Strangers would disappear, and only the men who loved them would walk these ways.
    There was wood smoke rising below him. Over the hills he could see, perhaps five miles away, the roofs of the next village, the church spire high above them.
    He turned and continued climbing. He would be tired by the time he got back to the pub, and probably cold, but he would not lose himself up here. There was only one road, and he was long familiar with it. He needed to be alone in the darkness with the wind and the stars.
    He thought of Judith Reavley. The painful memory was something he should let go of. Their last parting a year ago had seemed final, and yet he kept turning it over and over. He could not change to please her. Her dreams, like Joseph's, had no foothold in reality. She fought battles she could not win, for ideals that were rooted in religion rather than the nature of men or of nations.
    And yet her face haunted his mind. He found himself watching women who walked as she did, with the same ease, the stride that was a little too long for femininity yet filled with its own grace. He heard someone laugh and turned to find her, then disappointment cut deep when he realized it was a woman he had never seen before but who, for a moment, had sounded like her.
    He wanted her ridiculous hopes to be attainable, and he was angry because they were not, and she would always be hurt. He was angry with Joseph Reavley for not having taught her better, protected her. And yet how could he? He was just as naive himself. Perhaps Matthew, the second brother, was more of a realist. At least he was not a preacher,