Devil Water

by Anya Seton

  The priest compressed his lips, torn as usual between a possible duty and the intense discomforts he foresaw on the journey.

  “I thank thee for the gold, master,” said Bailey with dignity, dismissing the whole subject, which was no longer his concern. “And I’ll play the pipes for thee in return.” He began to work the bellows with his arm, and James, always interested in music and always courteous, smiled indulgently, as the melodious dronings began. Petre gave an exclamation and darted out the door, leaving it ajar.

  It was thus that Charles, who had been puzzled by James’s disappearance from the dance, heard the sound of the pipes and followed it to the guard room. “God’s bones, Brother!” he cried as he burst in. “Have you lost your mind? Here’s Dolly Forster wanting to dance with you, and you skulk in here with this infernal racket, which I vow is like starving rats trapped in a drain!” Being half tipsy Charles burst into a guffaw and gave the piper a rough playful shove which punched the bag into a truly ludicrous squeal. Even James bit his lips to keep from laughing before he said, “Charles! Behave yourself. I’m sure the tinker pipes well.”

  Bailey knew himself to be the best piper in the North, and had been playing for James the very difficult “Keening on the Moors.” He let the pipes dangle, and raising his head stepped back. He gave James a look of contempt and Charles a look of pure hatred. Then he bowed.

  “I’ll bother thee no more wi’ the noise o’ starving rats trapped in a drain,” he said. His heavy-lidded black eyes rested a moment on Charles’s grinning face. The piper walked out of the guard room and disappeared down the passage.

  “You’ve made no friend of him!” said James, “and you’ve drunk quite enough, my lad, but never mind. Let’s enjoy ourselves, there’s only two hours left before Lent comes in.”

  After Easter, James set out on his trip to Cumberland for the inspection of his lands near Keswick and on Lake Derwentwater. From there he proceeded into Lancashire and duly met all the members of the secret society of Walton-le-Dale, in which he was at once enrolled. He had been right that there was no great urgency about his coming. News of a Stuart landing in Devon proved untrue. Now the members simply wanted to welcome Derwentwater, and to hear all they could of conditions at St. Germain. They wanted the reassurance that King Louis of France, as well as their exiled King James, was alert and ready to act fast when Queen Anne died. But the Queen’s health was said to be better now. And the society’s proceedings consisted mostly of drinking loyal toasts, electing officers, and laying plans for the happy future.

  Mr. Petre and Sir Marmaduke accompanied James on his expedition. Charles too would naturally have gone, and was infuriated that he couldn’t. On Easter Monday he had come down with a bad case of measles. So ill was he that for several days’ he did not mind the ministrations of Lady Constable and Mrs. Busby, who took over the sickroom. Then after his spots faded he continued to ail for some time with earaches and continued weakness. The two women, backed by Mr. Brown, kept him confined to his room until after May Day, and as the first part of that month brought chilling rains, Charles was made to stay in the castle and was very much bored, so that he wrote several tender letters to Betty, and even waded through a volume of Robert Herrick’s love poems in search of verses to copy for her. In return she sent him her miniature and he spent many moments admiring the pert laughing face in its frame of auburn curls. June and their marriage would soon come. Then what merry times they would have together, Charles thought.

  On the first warm day Charles was at last permitted to go out.

  He went to the stable to see his mare, who greeted him with whickers of delight, while Charles rubbed her nose and fed her a sugarplum.

  “Saddle her for me,” he said to one of the grooms. “I can see she wants exercise, and so by God do I!” As the man touched his forehead, Charles saw a small boy come staggering between the stalls with buckets of water for James’s new hunter, a dappled gray stallion named Monarch. There was something familiar about the boy, who had a shock of dark hair and a cocky tilt to his head.

  “Who’s that?” said Charles to the groom. “Have I seen him before?”

  “Shouldn’t think so, sir. Mr. Busby took him on while ye was sick. We needed another stable lad, ‘n’ this one claimed he’d worked wi’ pit ponies on Tyneside.”

  Pit ponies. Tyneside. But surely it couldn’t be that one! Charles said nothing. He watched until the boy came out of the stallion’s stall, then he cried, “You there -- come here!” The boy had been going in the other direction, but he stopped and came slowly up to Charles. “Aye?”

  Charles stared at the bright hazel eyes, the square face, no longer sooty, the mouth which quirked at the corners with an effect of impudence. “Aren’t you Rob Wilson from the Bensham colliery?” asked Charles, finding that his heart was beating hard.

  “I am,” said the lad, staring straight back at Charles. “An’ wot’s that ter thee?”

  “Rob!” cried the groom sharply. “This is Mr. Radcliffe, his lordship’s brother!”

  “I knaw that,” said the boy with a peculiar emphasis, which brought the blood to Charles’s cheeks. Rob seemed to recollect himself; he stopped staring boldly at Charles and looked at the hay-strewn floor. “Bensham pit blew up, sir,” he said in a more respectful voice. “There was eighty killed i’ the blast. Not being wan o’ ‘em, I thought I’d look fur some other wark, an’ found it here.”

  “He’s a good lad, sir,” put in the groom, seeing Charles frown. “Deft wi’ the horses.”

  “Were any of the rest of your family hurt in the pits?” Charles asked unwillingly. He resented the boy’s appearance at Dilston, resented reminder of Dick and Geordie Wilson and those callow weeks of shameful folly with Meg.

  Rob raised his head and stared again at Charles, the hazel eyes calm and surprisingly mature. “None hurt i’ the pits” he said. At once he added in a brisk voice, “Shall I saddle the mare? Will ye be riding out, sir?”

  Charles nodded, and the groom said importantly, “To be sure,

  Mr. Charles’ll be riding out every day, now he’s well.” Rob disappeared at once towards the saddle room, while the groom led the mare from her stall. Charles did not see the boy again.

  While Charles rode down towards the Devil Water Bridge, he spent some minutes brooding over Rob Wilson’s presence at Dilston, and wondering why it made him uneasy. Yet in truth there was nothing strange about it, and in justice no complaint that he could make about the lad except want of manners. I’ve grown fanciful through my sickness, Charles thought impatiently, and soon forgot everything but the joy of a brisk gallop towards the Linnel Rocks.

  On the next two days he rode into Corbridge, as he had used to do, sampling the Angel’s punch and bandying jests with a new barmaid whose saucy looks and reddish hair reminded him a little of Betty. On the third day, the weather still held and he set off again towards Corbridge, rejoicing over two things. One, that James would be home tomorrow for Whitsun, which was the next Sunday, and the other, the discovery that Rob Wilson had unaccountably disappeared. “Run off, sir, he did,” said the angry groom, “the very day ye spoke wi’ him. Serves Mr. Busby right for taking on pit trash. They’ll alius do ye dirty.”

  Charles shrugged, feeling relief. “You can find plenty of other stable lads,” he said, and rode lightheartedly past the castle, down the hill towards the Tyne. As he entered Corbridge and turned towards the Angel, he suddenly changed his mind. It was a beautiful day for a gallop across the moors near the Roman Wall -- not too hot, yet a flood of liquid gold streaming from behind the dark clouds. In fact it would be a fine day for shooting wildfowl on the loughs beyond the wall. I should have brought my fowling piece, Charles thought, and drew rein near St. Andrew’s Church while he considered going back for it

  From behind a pier below the bridge, bright hazel eyes had watched Charles, saw him pause and then continue on through Corbridge. Charles had decided against going back for his gun. It was too late for shooting today
since Cousin Maud had delayed him with tiresome questions about the exact number of small clothes and night gear which the seamstresses should make him for his wedding. His new suits were naturally being tailored in London. Such a pother, Charles thought, as he drew the mare off the highway to let a wagon train full of market stuff go past

  Behind him in Corbridge, Rob Wilson was running towards the abandoned loft of a house in Water Row. He swarmed up a ladder and addressed the three men who stood waiting inside. “He’s no’ gan t’ the Angel terdayl He’s heading north fur Stagshaw.”

  The three men stared at Rob. There were two young ones and one of nearly sixty with long grizzled hair and beard. They were wearing black bonnets and plaids. All three were powerful, sinewy Borderers, with harsh weather-beaten faces. All three were Snowdons from Coquetdale -- Meg’s brothers and her father. It was the father, John Snowdon, who answered instantly. “All the better. He’ll be up by the moors sune. Off wi’ us. Hasten!”

  They hurried down to the lane, where their mounts were tethered. Good sturdy horseflesh for the Snowdons, and a little Galloway for Rob.

  In ten minutes Rob saw the outline of Charles’s figure on the road ahead of them. There was no mistaking the long back in its buff velvet coat, the clubbed fair hair under a gentleman’s tricorne, the easy swagger with which Charles sat on the trotting mare.

  “ ‘Tis him,” said Rob pulling up his pony.

  John Snowdon bowed his head. He had the beaked and bearded face of a patriarch, the fanatical eyes of a prophet, and it was as a prophet he spoke. “The Lord hath delivered him unto us, as I knew ‘twould be. We’ll follow and watch our chance, which God’ll gi’ us anon.”

  Roger Snowdon fell back behind his father. Will Snowdon gave a grunt and fingered his pistol, which his father noted. “Mind!” he said sharply. “Ye’re not to shoot that Satan’s spawn! Ye’ll do as I say!”

  “Aye, Faither,” murmured the young man, sighing.

  John Snowdon turned to Rob. “Gan ye back to Gateshead, laddie. Ye’ve done ye’re part. No need to further mix in this.”

  The boy’s face darkened, he looked up at the stern old man. “Divven’t send me awa’, Mr. Snowdon. I’ve a reet ter be here -- wi’ him murdering our Dickie.” The boy’s hands clenched fiercely on the pony’s mane.

  Snowdon shook his head. “Your brother wasna murdered, Rob. Ye munna tell falsehoods.”

  “Same as then,” retorted Rob stubbornly, and kept on riding with the others, while Charles’s figure moved ahead of them, just in sight.

  The lines deepened around John Snowdon’s mouth, but he did not speak. There was no actual murder about Dick Wilson’s drowning -- drunk he was and fell off his keelboat just where the current swirled fiercest by the Black Middens. But Dick Wilson hadn’t taken to the drink until after he came to Coquetdale and found Meg, and saw how it was with her. After that, as Nanny wrote, he pined and dwindled. All the spirit drained out of him. He lost pride in his work. From morning till midnight he’d huddle in his boat with a jug of whisky at his mouth. He’d not even had the satisfaction of knowing who was the man had done this to Meg. Because the lass had lied. Had lied like a Jezebel, saying she had been raped one dark night in Newcastle by someone she couldn’t see. And in Coquetdale they’d believed her and pitied her disgrace and her misery. Until the Faws came back to Tosson, and Jem Bailey, the piper, with them. Bailey got the truth out of Meg at last. When he mentioned meeting Charles Radcliffe at Widdrington, a blind man could have seen Meg blench, and when Bailey went on to tell of the scoundrel’s coming marriage to some great lady, Meg had finally broken down and confessed her many vicious deeds of fornication. That Sabbath they had forced her to go the twenty miles to Falstone kirk, had made her sit three hours in sackcloth on the repentance stool enduring the jeers and sneers of the other Covenanters, until she swooned. And later he, her father, had beaten her. Beaten her until Roger grabbed the arm which plied the blackthorn stick, saying, “Halt, Faither -- we’ve other matters to do for Meg.” And Roger was right. That was why they were here, after Rob Wilson had galloped all the way to Coquetdale and summoned them.

  Charles neared the Roman Wall, along which ran the main road between Newcastle and Carlisle. There were occasional passersby -- market wagons, peddlers, a shepherd with his flock, chance travelers. Charles was tired of the road and seized with an urge to strike west across the moors towards a Roman ruin Mr. Brown had told him of. A ruin where they said one might find an old coin or even the statue of a heathen god. He flicked the mare and plunged into the waste of rough hummocks and little hills, covered with grass and patches of heather.

  “Ah-h --” said John Snowdon with a majestic nod. “He’s off into the moss, we’ve got him!” He signaled to his sons, who obeyed silently, watching their quarry and yet keeping themselves hidden behind bushes and hummocks. This was a game they knew well in the dales. Nor had the Union with Scotland three years ago lessened their skill in tracking Border thieves. Rob had no such skill, and it was his small distant form on the Galloway that Charles noticed with annoyance, since he was not eager to have some urchin’s company. Charles quickened his pace down the great grassy outcropping of the Whinsill. The mare plunged her hoof in a rabbit hole and stumbled. John Snowdon, seeing this and noting that they were well out of sight of the highway, raised his arm in signal and began to gallop, his sons converging with him.

  Charles, who had pulled up the mare and was relieved to find she had not hurt herself, stared in surprise. He saw the three gaunt figures on raw-boned horses, saw that they wore bonnets like the Scots’, that their plaids were streaming behind them. And an unearthly battle cry came from their throats: “Yet! Yet! Yet! A-Snawdon! A-Snawdon!”

  What in Mary’s name are they doing? Charles thought, convinced he had stumbled into some sort of sport. The two young men were off their horses and had yanked Charles off his before he knew enough to struggle. He felt his arms jerked behind his back, saw a flash of stout cord in somebody’s hand, and tried to fight then, though still bewildered. Charles had strength and courage, but these adversaries were not like the ridiculous Paulet, whom Charles had bested on Twelfth Night. These men were as rugged and grim as their own mountains. Charles’s twistings and writhings produced only a violent pain in his arm as Roger Snowdon tied his wrists behind his back.

  “Gin ye kick like that, I’ll break your leg fur ye,” said Will Snowdon, clutching Charles’s ankles in a vicious grip. “An’ they’ll be no use yalping,” he added as Charles tried to shout for help. He dealt Charles a great blow across the mouth with his open hand.

  “Hist him up on his nag,” said the father, who had been watching quietly. “Then lead on!” His sons obeyed. They threw Charles onto his horse and lashed the stirrups to his boots. Will pulled the reins over the mare’s head and began to lead her. Charles swayed in the saddle, blood trickled down his chin from the blow. The cavalcade set out over the bleak and trackless moors. “What do you want of me?” mumbled Charles when he could speak over the pain in his teeth. “I’ve no money on me.”

  Nobody answered him. John Snowdon and Will, leading the mare, rode silently on ahead, Roger Snowdon behind. And now a little way to the left Charles saw the urchin on the pony, and recognized him. It was the sight of Rob Wilson that penetrated Charles’s daze and washed him in fear. A blind animal panic, while he strained at the bonds which held his wrists, then hammered with his lashed feet against the mare’s flanks. She started and reared and tried to bolt, and Charles fell off sidewise, though his feet were not free of the stirrups and the saddle turned under him. He hit his right cheek against a sharp rock. The gash spurted red from his ear to his jawbone, while he was dragged a few feet half on half off the mare.

  “Ye blarsted young fule!” cried John Snowdon, as Will quieted the mare and hoisted Charles back on the regirthed saddle. “A bonny face ye’ve gi’en yoursel’! The lasses’ll not favor ye so much now. Here.” He threw a dirty brown kerchief to his son. “Stanch his wound.
We’d not ha’ him bleed to deeth yet.”

  Will mopped at the gash on Charles’s cheek with a handful of grass, then bound the kerchief tight around his head and chin. “Na mair o’ your tricks,” he growled. “We’ve a lang way t’get hame as ‘tis.”

  Charles slumped down in the saddle. The procession started off again. They went on for an hour over moors and through copses, splashing along burns, sometimes trotting on a disused cart road. Twice they passed a farmhouse at a distance. Once a man with a gun and dog shaded his eyes to peer at them from a nearby hillock. Will Snowdon waved in a friendly way, the man waved back and disappeared.

  The fitful sun had vanished for good behind a black cloudbank when they reached the lake called Sweethope Lough, and saw the high sandstone Wanny Crags behind it. The country grew wilder, ravens circled over the crags, and a curlew shrilled three times through the heavy air.

  “Sune we’ll be i’ the forest,” said John Snowdon with satisfaction. “Hurry on, lads.”

  “Aye,” said Will tugging the mare’s bridle. “I’d not wish to meet the bogle o’ Fallowlees after dark, nor yet the wee folk who dwell i’ Selby’s Cove.” He gave an uneasy laugh. Rothbury Forest was well known to be haunted.

  “Who are you men?” said Charles speaking at last. “Where’re you taking me? What have I done to you?”

  John Snowdon did not hear. Will and little Rob did not answer, but Roger, who had in him a trace of his dead mother’s softness, was impressed by the numb desperation in their captive’s voice. He came up beside the mare, and said, “Is it truth ye dinna ken who we are? Did ye think the wicked ruin o’ a poor lass’ld gan unavenged fur aye?”

  “You are Snowdons then,” whispered Charles after a moment. “But what I did with Meg is over long ago, and is no more than happens every day in London!” He didn’t understand, and the pain in his wrists and ankles and the throbbing of his cheek wound confused his thinking.