The Giant, O'Brien: A Novel

Table of Contents

Title Page

Epigraph

one

two

three

four

five

six

seven

eight

nine

ten

eleven

twelve

note

ALSO BY HILARY MANTEL

Copyright Page

For Lesley Glaister

… But then,

All crib from skulls and bones who push the pen.

Readers crave bodies. We’re the resurrection men.

—GEORGE MACBETH, The Cleaver Garden

one

“Bring in the cows now. Time to shut up for the night.”

There came three cows, breathing in the near-dark: swishing with the tips of their tails, their bones showing through hide. They set down their hooves among the men, jostling. Flames from the fire danced in their eyes. Through the open door, the moon sailed against the mountain.

“Or O’Shea will have them away over the hill,” Connor said. Connor was their host. “Three cows my grandfather had of his grandfather. Never a night goes by that he doesn’t look to get the debt paid.”

“An old quarrel,” Claffey said. “They’re the best.”

Pybus spat. “O’Shea, he’d grudge you the earache. If you’d a boil he’d grudge it you. His soul is as narrow as a needle.”

“Look now, Connor,” the Giant said. His tone was interested. “What’d you do if you had four cows?”

“I can only dream of it,” Connor said.

“But for house-room?”

Connor shrugged. “They’d have to come in just the same.”

“What if you’d six cows?”

“The men would be further off the fire,” Claffey said.

“What if you’d ten cows?”

“The cows would come in and the men would squat outside,” said Pybus.

Connor nodded. “That’s true.”

The Giant laughed. “A fine host you are. The men would squat outside!”

“We’d be safe enough out there,” Claffey said. “O’Shea may want interest on the debt, but he’d never steal away a tribe of men.”

“Such men as we,” said Pybus.

Said Jankin, “What’s interest?”

“I could never get ten cows,” Connor said. “You are right, Charles O’Brien. The walls would not hold them.”

“Well, you see,” the Giant said. “There’s the limit to your ambition. And all because of some maul-and-bawl in your grandfather’s time.”

The door closed, there was only the rushlight; the light out, there was only the dying fire, and the wet breathing of the beasts, and the mad glow of the red head of Pybus. “Draw near the embers,” the Giant said. In the smoky half-light, his voice was a blur, like a moth’s wing. They moved forward on their stools, and Pybus, who was a boy, shifted his buttocks on the floor of bare rock. “What story will it be?”

“You decide, mester,” Jankin said. “We can’t choose a tale.”

Claffey looked sideways at him, when he called the Giant “mester.” The Giant noted the look. Claffey had his bad parts: but men are not quite like potatoes, where the rot spreads straight through, and when Claffey turned back to him his face was transparent, eager for the tale he wished he could disdain.

The Giant hesitated, looked deep into the smoke of the fire. Outside, mist gathered on the mountain. Shapes