The Blood List Read Online Free

bellowed and the trees shook with his cry. ‘My son! My own true son is returned to me!’
    He scooped the child up in his arms and held it aloft. Below her Frances heard gasps and cries of shock as the villagers of Beltane Ridge took in the sight: of the handsome young merchant with
the rich wife holding up, like an offering to God, his fine, bonny, pink-skinned, blond-haired son.
    Frances felt herself falling backwards. The sky wheeled over her head and the trees lunged at her, and the last thing she saw was the bright yellow head of the boy that was not her son, glinting
like a brass nail in the sunlight.

1
The Black Dog
    The coney was plump and beautiful, with a peppery coat that glistened in the sunlight and eyes like pools of tar. Barnaby watched it from behind the trunk of the plane tree,
waiting for the right moment.
    At present the animal was too near a tangle of brambles and would bolt to safety if it caught the movement of the bow. He needed it to come further out into the open, but so far it had ignored
the trail of grain he had left.
    He was pleased with the bow. Since his and Abel’s tutor had been dismissed the previous year he’d had far more time to concentrate on the things he actually enjoyed. He’d
chosen yew because that was the wood Cromwell’s army used for their longbows. It was incredibly strong and even when the string was fully extended retained its perfect arc. Too good for
coneys. He would get his father to ask the baron’s steward if he could hunt hares in the forest.
    The coney made a single, slow hop away from the brambles. Then another. Towards the grain trail.
    He slid an arrow from the quiver on his back and the barely audible rasp was enough to make the creature’s ears prick. At this point, if Griff were here, the coney would be off; spooked by
Barnaby’s friend’s noisy breaths and inability to keep his clumsy limbs still. Hunting alone had its advantages, although mostly it was deathly boring. He’d have to get used to
it, however, because come harvest season all his friends would be busy on their parents’ farms.
    Slipping the fletch beneath the string he slowly drew the arrow back. The shaft didn’t even tremble. He’d paid good money for these arrows and was glad he had done so. If he managed
to make a clean hole through the back of the animal’s neck he could make the fur into a hood for their housemaid Juliet. Thanks to his hunting skill Juliet was easily the best-dressed maid in
Beltane Ridge. Although now that the furrier was dead he’d have to cure the pelt himself, which wasn’t much fun.
    The coney had found the grain trail, and now moved with the heedless abandon of greed, pale paws kicking up, pale tail flashing an invitation to any passing hawk.
    Barnaby was about to release the arrow when a flash of white to his left caught his attention.
    The other end of the trail he’d laid had been discovered too, but this animal was unlike any coney he’d seen before: it was pure white, with scarlet eyes and ears of the softest
pink. The sun shone through them, making them glow. It must be young because it was still plump, its coat flawless and glossy. Invisible whiskers twitched as it nibbled the grain.
    Very slowly he revolved on his heels until the arrow was trained on the back of the creature’s plump neck.
    Now this
would
be a gift for Juliet. Everyone would think it was ermine. He would have to keep the feet as proof she was not breaking the sumptuary laws: he was pretty sure servants were
only allowed to wear rabbit fur.
    The white coney dipped its head for another helping of grain and he waited for it to raise it again.
    The black shape came out of nowhere, startling him so much that he dropped the bow. The white coney’s shrill scream, like a child’s, was drowned out by guttural snarling, then
finally cut off altogether. Blood arced up into the blue sky and spattered down on the grass beneath the tree he was standing under.
    Barnaby almost