Summer at Dorne

by Mira Stables

  On the second day they rode together, she on Pegeen, he on a raking thoroughbred hunter of his father’s. This was Quorn country, and they were happily absorbed in studying the great rolling fields, the banks and hedges, and in exchanging stories of gallant horses and sagacious hounds. They stopped at an isolated farmhouse round about noon and were warmly welcomed by the farmer’s wife with offers of refreshment. They ate bacon sandwiches and wedges of green gooseberry pie. Dominic talked of crops and prices while Chantal admired the beautifully carved wooden cradle that stood on the hearth and talked gravely to its solemn-eyed occupant. She declined her hostess’s offer of cowslip wine but accepted instead a mug of the home-brewed ale which had obviously won Dominic’s approval.

  “You always was a one for a bacon sandwich, wasn’t you, milord?” said the good woman fondly, and was reluctant to let them go when, after suitable enquiries had been made as to her husband’s health and a sovereign had been pressed into the baby’s pink starfish fist, they bade her goodbye.

  “She was one of the nursery maids when we were small,” said Dominic, as though feeling that this informal visit required some apology. “Noll will be pleased that we managed to pay her a visit.” He put Chantal up and swung into the saddle himself. “Makes a good brew of ale, too,” he grinned. “Let us hope it does not prove too strong for you.”

  Whether or no it was the influence of the ale, Chantal felt impelled to tease him a little. “I am happy, milord,” she told him sweetly, “that you can find some useful purpose for the female sex, even if it be only so humble a one as the brewing of ale. I had thought you considered us wholly superfluous.”

  His mood met hers. “Now what can have given you that idea?” he wondered innocently. “No such thing, I promise you. I find women quite charming, if a little unreliable. The world would be a much more boring place without them. They are frequently ornamental. As for their usefulness” – his voice dropped to a confidential note – “that is a secret that has been known to my family for generations. I think it was during the French wars – or maybe after the Black Death – that the then Merriden noticed a lamentable shortage of lusty serfs to till the ancestral acres. Old men aplenty and women of all ages, but alas! No husbands for them, these poor wenches. He was a long-headed gentleman, this ancestor of mine. Perhaps he had a strong infusion of the de Montfort blood,” he put in provocatively. But she refused to rise to the jibe so he resumed solemnly, “At the next manorial court he announced that in future he would forego the payment of merchet. The word was quickly spread. Within the year every cot in the vill had its tenant. New ones were building, thatches were mended, yardlands ploughed. And is some of the noble neighbours looked askance at the motley collection of old soldiers, runaway serfs and freedmen who had moved in, the village wiseacres were well pleased. They reckoned – and rightly, as it proved, that the newcomers would soon learn to walk meekly under the cat’s foot. Equally pleased – or so results would seem to indicate – were the village maidens, now no longer condemned to go spinsters to the grave. Oh no! You cannot say that we Merridens set no value on women.”

  Chantal had no idea what ‘merchet’ was, and no intention of betraying her ignorance. She said noncommittally, “A provident gentleman indeed. One is compelled to admiration.”

  The blue eyes lit to unholy mirth. She guessed that he had detected her subterfuge. What on earth was ‘merchet’?

  But he said only, with suspicious meekness, “Would you like to let the horses out for a stretch?”

  Chapter Six

  “Oliver, what is the right of merchet?” demanded Chantal coming into the hall just before dinner. Oliver, who had been desultorily flicking over the pages of a book, looked up in rather natural surprise. What would the child be at next? She was a constant delight to him. He was watching the development of her relations with Dominic with the deepest interest. The more he saw them together the more convinced he was that they were well suited – if only they could be brought to acknowledge it. The thought of himself in the unlikely role of Eros brought a wry smile to his lips as he gave the required explanation.

  “It was a marriage fine; in feudal times. When the daughter of a serf married, either her father or her husband had to pay a fee to the lord of the manor. It varied with the value of the girl,” he went on, warming to his subject, since he, too, found ancient customs fascinating. “A skilled weaver or lacemaker was quite a valuable asset, and if she wished to marry away from the manor she and her children would become the property of a new manor lord.”

  Chantal was silent, pulling thoughtfully at her lower lip. It seemed that this information did not quite fill her need for knowledge. Oliver said mischievously, “I believe it was a valuable source of revenue when the parties most concerned had – er – anticipated the blessing of the Church.”

  She blinked, and gazed at him wide-eyed, the light of comprehension dawning in her face. “The wretch!” she said softly. “No wonder he smiled!”

  Oliver laughed outright at her expression. “Do tell me,” he begged.

  She twinkled back at him and did so. “One can see why he found it so funny,” she admitted, “but just let him say one more word about Simon de Montfort’s methods. I wonder what was Eleanor’s value in terms of merchet. Pretty high, would you not think?”

  Dominic came in and found them laughing together but they refused to share the joke and Oliver turned the conversation to next day’s journey. The stages now would be longer, he explained. “We are passing into a harsh countryside, with little of beauty remaining for the traveller to enjoy. Though I suppose there is much to admire if one considers the inventive genius that has gone to the making of the industries established there. For my part I can only be thankful that Providence has not condemned me to live in a town and heartily pity those who must do so. A hundred miles and more. Let us say three days before we are in open country and sweet air again. But be patient, for at the end of that time you shall see the finest scenery this side of the border.”

  Dominic laughed. “There spoke your Scottish blood,” he teased. “We are mongrels, you must understand, Jan. But as soon as Oliver sniffs the border air he becomes all Scot. His very voice changes. By the end of the month he is practically unintelligible to a Southron ear. You will see. Indeed I entertain the gravest doubts about the wisdom of this prolonged stay in northern parts. It would not surprise me in the least if he were to don the white cockade and proclaim Papa as the rightful king of Scotland by virtue of some imagined tincture of Stuart blood.”

  Oliver laughed too, but with a rueful quirk to the corners of his mouth which suggested that there might be some basis of truth for the absurd charge, and returned to the planning of next day’s journey.

  Chantal was quite sorry to leave Merriden. It was by no means so hideous as Dominic had given her to understand, and though it might be every bit as inconvenient as he had claimed, she was not required to manage it. She found it very comfortable indeed and was up betimes next morning to bid it farewell, strolling along the terraces, admiring the topiary work and passing into a very fine rose garden that was just coming into its full glory. The hound, Jester, joined her and insisted on prolonging the stroll until the chime of the stable clock sent Chantal hurrying back to the house, cheeks glowing, hair ruffled by her haste, to be scolded by Dominic for her tardiness.

  “It was such a perfect morning,” she told him cheerfully. “I went out to say goodbye to the house and Jester coaxed me down to the lake.” She accepted the plate of ham that he had carved for her and began her breakfast with good appetite. “It’s a lovely house,” she told them kindly. “Not stiff and self-important like so many great houses, but friendly and welcoming. I wish I might be here in a week’s time to see the roses.”

  Both gentlemen looked gratified. “We are really quite fond of it ourselves,” admitted Oliver. “But just wait till you see Dorne.” And he sounded quite unlike sedate mild-mannered Oliver in his eager anticipation.

  The w
eather, which had favoured them so far, turned fickle. They passed from Derbyshire into Lancashire to the accompaniment of a shattering storm, and by the time they reached Manchester the rain had settled into a relentless downpour. Not until they reached Carlisle was there any real improvement, and all that Chantal saw of the fine scenery that Oliver had promised were the grim flanks of mountains whose crests were shrouded in mist and an occasional glimpse of steel-grey, rain-lashed water. Fortunately the three of them were now on such comfortable terms that the long hours of confinement passed more pleasantly than might have been expected. The brothers planned excursions to be made in the neighbourhood of Dorne. There was no wheeled traffic on the island itself they told her. Indeed it was so small that you could walk all round it in an afternoon. The stables and coach house were on the mainland.

  Crossing the border was disappointing. The little river Sark was unimpressive and the countryside looked just the same. The two men teased her unmercifully when she voiced this opinion, but it was nothing to the roasting they gave her when she foolishly confessed to a naive interest in Gretna Green. Fortunately argument sprang up between them as to whether the marriages took place in the inn or in the smithy, so she was spared some of their mischievous suggestions as to the reason for her interest, and a timely shower prevented Dominic from fulfilling his threat of escorting her to inspect the premises for herself, partly to settle the argument but also in the hope that the blacksmith – or the innkeeper, if Oliver was in the right of it – would take them for an eloping couple.

  “Think we are eloping – with all this cortege!” retorted Chantal scornfully, the toss of her head indicating the second carriage, the led horses and the bloodhound bitch lolloping happily along the muddy road. “He is more likely to take us for an invading army than to mistake you for a prospective bridegroom.” Whereupon it was Oliver’s turn to express pained surprise at her knowledge of the circumstances proper to an elopement. Between the two of them her cheeks were scarcely cool by the time they clattered into Dumfries.

  Over supper that night they decided to make a push to reach Dorne next day. Oliver was impatient to be home, and Oliver’s wish was Dominic’s law. So it was that they came down to Glenluce in the gloaming and Chantal saw the castle of Dorne outlined against the golden glory of the western sky and succumbed to its magic in that first breath.

  No doubt it had been built on the tiny island for strategic reasons in the days of fierce family feuds. The sea made a natural barrier difficult to overcome in face of a determined defence. But those savage days were done, and the little dark castle floating so serenely between sea and sky was a castle out of a child’s fairy tale. Chantal paid little heed to the business of transferring themselves and their belongings to the boats. She was vaguely aware that servants were bustling about between the carriages, the landing stage where she stood by Oliver’s chair, and a group of buildings which must be the stables and the grooms’ quarters that had been described to her. She heard the ring of Dominic’s voice as he ordered the embarkation, but her gaze was held by the castle itself where now one or two golden lights glimmered, to be dimly reflected in the shadowed waters beneath the castle rock.

  She was sleepy, drowsed with fresh air, for she had ridden a good deal of the way. Perhaps that accounted for her willing surrender to the spell of the place. Oliver, studying her air of bemusement with deep satisfaction, decided that this was just how the future Marchioness of Dorne should look, on first beholding the cradle of the family. When his day was done – and life was not so joyous a business that he wished it unduly prolonged – Dorne would be safe with Dominic and Chantal. Moreover, he reflected comfortably, he might now abandon his efforts to bring the two to terms. Dorne would do the business for him. Nothing could so endear Chantal to his difficult brother as this prompt capitulation. With a little sigh, half pleasure in his home-coming, half satisfaction with the prosperous way in which the future seemed to be shaping he drew Chantal’s attention to the fact that the boats were now ready to shove off and only awaited their complement of passengers.

  There was nothing to mar the girl’s content. The sea was still as glass. The last streaks of crimson still lingered on the western horizon and the only sounds that broke the deep silence were the creak of the oars in the rowlocks and the gentle lapping of the water against the boat. Once they put up some birds who sounded indignant protest and promptly settled again a few yards away. Then they were drifting gently down to the castle landing stage, the short voyage over.

  The path was lit by lanterns hung in the trees. So far as Chantal could see there seemed to be gardens bordering it, gardens filled with sweet scented plants and low-growing shrubs that cast grotesque shadows in the yellow lantern light. The path twisted and turned and gradually climbed, making the most of the island’s limited area, so that it took them some time to reach the sturdy oaken door that stood welcomingly open. Though it was mid-June a fire glowed cheerfully on the wide stone hearth of the hall, where Murdoch, the steward of Dorne, was waiting to greet them and to enquire their wishes as to refreshment. Lady Celia, he said, had not really expected them until next day and had dined at her usual hour, but a meal could be served to them at once if they desired it.

  “We dined in Newton Stewart,” Oliver told him. “And we are all tired. An early night, I think, once we have greeted Aunt Celia.”

  Dominic nodded. “A bowl of negus in the gun room,” he suggested. And then to Chantal, “Would you like that? It is really very harmless.”

  But Chantal declined; saying that she would rather go straight to bed and would prefer hot milk. Hilda nodded austere approval and went off to unpack her mistress’s night-rail and see that her bed was nicely warmed. It might be high summer, but the sea air was cool and there was nothing like a warm bed to induce sound sleep.

  They would find Lady Celia in the Tower room, said Murdoch, so Dominic and Chantal climbed the winding stone stair to this apartment while the steward pushed Oliver’s chair into the gunroom. It was like stepping back into a historic past, thought Chantal, as her fingers touched the rough-hewn stone walls that had stood firm for centuries. She noted narrow lancet windows and steps worn away by the tread of countless feet, and looked forward eagerly to days of leisurely exploration.

  The Tower room was roughly circular, and its stone walls, cavernous hearth and heavy furniture might have come straight from the pages of a mediaeval romance. But the windows had been modernised. The arrow slits of Chantal’s imagining had given place to large casements, one of which stood open to admit the sound of the sea. Lady Celia was sitting at a table heaped with papers peering at a small volume bound in rusty vellum, holding it close under the lamp in an attempt to decipher the faded writing. Chantal discovered later that it was the household book of a long-dead chatelaine of Dorne. Lady Celia had embarked on the formidable task of writing a family history and, immersed in the fascinating pages that recorded her predecessor’s struggles with dirt, sickness, the difficulty of obtaining supplies of fresh food and the best ways of preserving such meat and fish as were readily obtainable, had quite forgotten the impending arrival of two living Merridens and their guest.

  She was a slight little creature looking scarcely old enough to be Dominic’s aunt. She had the dominant Merriden nose but her eyes were still beautiful, shaped and set like Dominic’s, but the vivid blue of his deepened, in Celia’s, to shadowed violet.

  She put down her book and came forward swiftly, standing on tiptoe to kiss her tall nephew’s cheek. “Dear boy,” she said happily. “So nice to have you here for the whole summer; and Oliver, too. Murdoch did remind me, but the time must have slipped away. I had meant to be in the hall to greet you. Pray forgive me. And this is little Jan.” She put out a slim hand and pressed Chantal’s kindly. “My good-sister tells me that you have been sadly pulled down by the anxieties that you have suffered. Poor child! We shall soon set that to rights, here at Dorne. The boys will look after you and keep you entertained, but don’t l
et them tease you to attempt anything that is beyond your strength.” She surveyed the girl more critically and added, with a slightly puzzled air, “Though I must say you look to me to be in high bloom.”

  “The journey has done much to restore Jan to her usual self,” interposed Dominic smoothly. “We took things very easily so that we should not overtire her. But Mama is insistent that she live secluded for a while and Dorne seemed to be the very place. No morning callers here, and no persistent suitors either. She may be at peace and do just as she likes.”

  Lady Celia murmured sympathetic agreement and then, on a more bracing note declared, “If you are to be here for the whole summer, you must sit for me. It need not interfere with your pleasuring – there are bound to be plenty of wet days – and it will be delightful to have a new subject. Do say yes.”

  Naturally Chantal said that she would be only too happy to be of use to her hostess. Lady Celia patted her kindly, told her that she must be sure to take breakfast in bed until she felt stronger, added vaguely, “So like dear Fiona Macdonald,” and said that she must go and greet her other nephew. She then flitted off, leaving Dominic shaking with laughter and Chantal slightly dazed.