The House of Lanyon

by Valerie Anand

  Liza’s effort won her a little smile from Catherine and an approving nod from Mistress Mary, but these too were lost in the gathering gloom and her valiant attempt hadn’t, unfortunately, managed to impress Baldwin.

  “This new wing has added to the value of the farm, whatever the reason for building it,” Baldwin said to all the Lanyons impartially, and then addressed his father. “I don’t say we should order them to pull it down, but shouldn’t their rent go up to reflect the increase in the worth of the place? Wouldn’t you say?”

  There was a startled hush, except for an intake of breath, a communal gasp, which seemed to go right around the table. Richard, in the act of lifting his cider tankard to his lips, banged it down again. Then he broke the hush. “I paid for every last stone, every slate, every inch of timber in this hall. I paid for it. No Sweetwater did.”

  “My son has a point,” said Walter, though his voice held a hint of mischief. He took some of the meat Liza was still patiently holding out to him and began to eat it. He had an air of private amusement.

  “It’s Sweetwater property, though,” said Baldwin, persistently and quite seriously. “Rents should be charged to fit the nature of the property. It’ll come to me one day and to my son John after me,” he added, and there was a trace of self-satisfied emphasis on the word son.

  “Baldwin. We are guests here!” His mother spoke quite sharply. Catherine glanced from her mother-in-law to her husband and back again, bit her lip and clearly didn’t know which opinion to hold. She looked down at her platter and kept silent.

  “If I’ve put up the value of your property, Master Sweetwater,” said Richard, “Master Walter Sweetwater, that is, for your son has nothing to say in this matter—if I’ve raised the value of your property, that’s no good reason to fine me for it! You do that, and I will pull it down! I’ll burn this damned hall to the ground again and take my biggest hammer and knock down what won’t burn! What do you say to that?”

  “It might be as well for you to remember,” said Walter Sweetwater, “that I am indeed your landlord and that your right to occupy Allerbrook rests with me, and therefore to remember your manners.”

  There was a pause. The light by now was very bad, except for the flicker of the distant lightning. Thunder growled, low but almost continuous. The air felt scanty in the lungs, so that breathing seemed difficult. It was full of a huge tension, half of it nature’s contribution and the other half emanating from the people at the table.

  Betsy, seated below the salt, said frankly, “Now, that’s not fair!” and another voice, male and anonymous, muttered audibly, “Aye, remember poor George Lanyon’s coffin goin’ in that there river?”

  Walter peered along the table, but could see only a row of expressionless bucolic faces. He had sense enough not to ask who had said that last sentence. No one would tell him. All the same, he couldn’t let the insult pass.

  “I’ll need to think this over,” he remarked. “I must consider how much the value of the house has been raised by this addition, offset, of course, by how much the stock could have been improved if you had spent your money differently, Lanyon.”

  “The animals are mine, same as the hall!” said Richard angrily.

  “But the right to run stock on the moor goes with the farm. Pretty sight you’d make, Lanyon, if you had to leave here. There you’d be, driving them along the tracks, with no idea where you were going or how to feed them on the way.”

  “Master Sweetwater,” said Liza, getting in quickly before Peter could join in, “please…you surely don’t mean any of this?” She had put the meat dish down on the table and resumed her seat, rather quickly, because her legs now felt very weak indeed. “You wouldn’t harm us, would you?” She looked at him pleadingly. “We’ve been good tenants, have we not?”

  “Yes, we have!” Peter snapped, joining in anyway. “And if anyone tries to turn us off our land—yes, I did say our land because we till it and seed it and cut the corn and it’s our hands that work it, no one else’s—then we’ll find some authority to appeal to!”

  “And if we left, you’d be hard put to find folk as good and hardworking as us to replace us!” Richard shouted.

  “Don’t speak to my father like that!” Baldwin was on his feet. He had had his dagger out to cut his meat. Now his fist was holding it at a threatening angle, straight toward Richard Lanyon.

  He was not within arm’s reach of Richard, and it was a gesture rather than a threat, but Richard, infuriated, instantly shot to his feet as well, pushed back his chair and started around the table. Mary Sweetwater looked horrified and Catherine, her eyes enormous, clapped her hands to her mouth to stifle a shriek.

  Then several things happened, in rapid and shocking succession. A huge flash of lightning filled the hall with blazing blue light, causing people to cry out in alarm. It was followed almost instantly by a gigantic crash of thunder, so loud that the building seemed to shake.

  And Liza Lanyon, tilting slowly forward, slumped over the table, slithered sideways off her bench and fell to the floor in a faint.

  “It’s all right. It’s all right!” The lightning and the noise had passed and the hall and its occupants were all apparently undamaged. Richard, forgetting Baldwin, had dashed to the outer door to look at the rest of the house and that, too, was still standing, even its chimneys unharmed. As he stood there, rain came down, sudden and heavy, as though the lightning had released something inside the dark sky. He shut the door and came back. “Can’t see any damage. It was just a big flash. I’ll have to look at the cattle when the rain stops, though…. What’s amiss with Liza?”

  Betsy had already gone to Liza’s aid and so had Margaret Weaver. She was coming around. They helped her up and settled her once more on the bench and Kat, who had hurried out to the kitchen, came back with a jug. “Well water. That’s what she needs.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Liza. “Sorry.” She looked at the three women and suddenly smiled. Then she said something, very quietly. Margaret, her eyes widening, also whispered something, and Liza replied.

  Standing up again, Margaret turned to the worried gathering, most of whom, now that they had realised that the lightning hadn’t killed any of them, were looking at Liza in consternation. She turned to Richard. “Master Lanyon, pour me some wine! Quickly, now! There’s a reason!”

  Richard, bemused by her sudden air of command, did as she asked and handed her the goblet. Taking it, she raised it high.

  “Everyone, listen! You, too, Master Sweetwater and you, Master Baldwin. This is no time for threats and quarrelling. It’s a time for congratulations to the Lanyons, especially to Liza and Peter. God willing, there will be a child in this house by next spring.”

  “What? What’s this?” Nicholas had gone scarlet with excitement, looking more like his old self than he had in years. “Is Liza…are you saying…?”

  “Yes, I am,” said Margaret strongly, “and I hope there’ll be no more talk of turning folk out of their homes because they’ve toiled like slaves, which they’re not, to grow good corn and improve their houses! What’s wrong with that?” She gave a fierce glance to Walter and Baldwin, but then swung her attention back to the rest of them. “Fill your cups, every one of you, and drink to their health and to the baby’s safe arrival and to good luck to this house!”

  Mary Sweetwater unobtrusively put a persuasive hand on her husband’s arm. Walter Sweetwater looked at it and at her, and then said, “Oh, very well. This changes things—I grant you that. I’ll drink the toast, and so will you, Baldwin.” Catherine, who had clearly been wondering what to do, took the hint and filled her own goblet. Goblets and beakers were raised all around the room.

  “To Liza and Peter!” Richard bellowed.

  The thunder rumbled, like an echo. Kittenish Catherine giggled. Walter looked at her and then laughed. Around the table, the atmosphere lightened.

  Richard, thankful enough to find friendly relations restored, played the genial host until all the guests h
ad gone, except for Liza’s parents, who were staying the night. But when Liza had been put to bed by her mother, and the Weavers had retired, and Richard was alone in the parlour with Peter, he gave voice to his real feelings.

  “They could have killed her! With the trouble she’s had in the past, those threats could have made her miscarry again and who’s to say she’d have come through?” he said furiously, sounding for all the world as though he had been Liza’s earnest defender and protector since the day she’d come to Allerbrook. “That would have been Liza as well as Deb! How dare that young devil Baldwin point a dagger at me, here in my own home, at my own table?”

  “He’s just young,” said Peter, wishing his father would calm down.

  “He’s the same as Sir Humphrey and that bully Reginald were, and so is Walter—just not so crude, more sly. I reckon most of all that talk about throwing us out was just cat and mouse, reminding us of his power. Inviting themselves, pushing their way in, throwing their weight about…”

  “The storm’s lost us two cows,” Peter said, trying to change the subject. “I was afraid that lightning would get something.”

  “Yes, and one of them was Clover, our best milker,” Richard growled. “It would be! See here, Peter, it’s good news about Liza and that was a clever move that Margaret made, proposing that toast, but considering what’s happened in the past, it’s too soon for rejoicing. I just hope we don’t have any more storms or trouble from the Sweetwaters.”

  “We’ll take good care of Liza,” said Peter. “We’ll all pray for a good healthy child this time and may it be a son. There’s still a long way to go.”

  “And not only as far as Liza’s concerned,” Richard remarked.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m talking about the Sweetwaters. So we’ve got a hall as good as theirs. But that’s just the beginning, boy. I’ve told you before. One day we’ll have a house as good as theirs, as well. That’s my next step, however long it takes.”

  “Father, we’ve no need of such a house. We—”

  “Don’t make any mistake,” said Richard grimly. “I mean it.”

  “As easy as though she’d been oiled,” said Betsy joyfully, coming down the stairs to give the good news to Richard and Peter. “Not a problem in the world. Wish mine had come as quick and smooth. The mistress’ll be ready to see ’ee soon, Master Peter. Kat’s givin’ her a wash. And the baby’s as pretty as a newborn lamb and I don’t know what’s sweeter than that. She’s got a tuft of brown hair, just like her mother’s.”

  “She?” queried Richard.

  “Yes, it’s a wench,” said Betsy with an air of challenge. “But strong, healthy, bawling her lungs out.”

  “Now that there’s been one child, there could be another. Maybe a boy next time,” said Peter. “After what’s happened in the past, I’m glad there’s just a strong baby and that Liza’s safe.”

  “Humph!” Richard shrugged. “What do you want to call her?”

  “We’d have called a boy either after you or Master Weaver, but if it was a girl, Liza said her mother’s mother was called Quentin and she liked the name and could we use that?”

  “Margaret Weaver’s mother? I met her when I was a boy, I think.” Richard was mildly interested. “Carroty-haired woman. Good thing Liza didn’t inherit that. I don’t call it pretty. Call this one Quentin if you like. If you ever get that boy, call him Nicholas. We don’t want two Richards under one roof—too confusing. But get on with it. Time’s going by.”

  “At least he lived long enough to know about Liza’s daughter,” said Margaret, struggling to find comfort as she looked down at the emaciated image which had been her husband. He was only three hours dead and already a terrible remoteness had laid hold of him. “One comes and one goes—b’ain’t that the sayin’? Well, I’m glad that it was over quick, when it came to the point. Only three days from when he was took ill, to this.”

  “I fancy he’d had pain he didn’t talk about. He was gettin’ thin and lookin’ drawn and not eatin’ right, for a long while,” said Aunt Cecy.

  “What a cheerin’ soul you are,” Margaret said. “Always ready with a few words to make folk feel better. Did your mother make a habit of walkin’ through graveyards when she was carryin’ you?”

  “No need to be nasty, just because this is a sad day. Oh, what is it?”

  The last sentence was addressed not to Margaret, but to Elena, who had poked her head around the door of the bedchamber where Nicholas lay, awaiting the arrival of the coffin maker.

  “It’s Master Herbert Dyer from Washford. He’d like to see Aunt Margaret, to give her his condolences.”

  “How did he get to hear of all this, away in Washford?” demanded Aunt Cecy before Margaret could speak.

  “Laurence called at Cleeve Abbey two days ago,” said Elena, who wasn’t intimidated by Aunt Cecy. “He called on Master Dyer as well, out of courtesy, and must have let on that Cousin Nicholas’s illness looked serious because Master Dyer set out today, to see how he was faring. I’ve just told him what’s happened.”

  “I’ll see him,” said Margaret.

  She was glad, on descending the stairs, to find Herbert waiting alone in the main room. He was so big and cheerful, darker than the flaxen Nicholas but similar in type and he had a wide, kindly smile.

  It seemed quite natural to say, “Oh, Herbert, this is dreadful. Nicholas is gone and I can’t believe it!” and walk into his arms for comfort.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  DREAMS ARE SECRET

  “You have a fine place here,” Herbert Dyer said, standing respectfully in the Allerbrook hall, velvet cap held politely in his hand. His lavishly pleated tawny doublet was probably meant to conceal his well-fed stomach, but didn’t quite succeed. Shrewd blue eyes scanned his surroundings.

  “Those fine horses that I saw in the pasture along with some ponies are yours, I take it? Very unusual colouring, I noticed—one’s a striking dark dapple grey and the other’s piebald. They were never bred out on the moor.”

  “No, they weren’t,” said Richard, rather shortly. “They’re both mine. I like a horse with looks. The grey’s old now. He’s never rightly got over being half-starved on the way south when I came home from Towton. He lives out at grass except in bad weather and takes his ease. Magpie, the piebald, is a Barbary horse. Four years old and full of fire is Magpie, though he needs a stable and corn after a day’s riding. Peter prefers a moor pony. Plume, he calls his, because of its great thick tail. Surely you didn’t come here to talk about horses?”

  “No, I came to talk business, but it’s a chance to see Mistress Liza, too. You weren’t at the wedding, Mistress, and I did wonder…”

  “I’m not upset,” Liza assured him. “I’m sure Mother knows what she’s about. But it’s a long way in lambing time. We’re always busy then.”

  “My daughter-in-law has a way with ewes in trouble,” Richard said. After considering the matter, he had decided that the birth of Quentin, even though she was only a girl, was a sign that Liza might yet fulfil her real purpose as a wife. Where there was a healthy daughter there might in due course be a son, as well. He had warmed very much toward Liza. Quentin was now two, and so far there had been no hint that a brother for her might be on the way, but it wasn’t all that long since Liza had stopped feeding her. For the time being, he was willing to be patient.

  “We did send a gift,” Peter said mildly. “There’s been no bad feeling here, sir, don’t fret about that.”

  “I always liked your mother, in the most proper manner,” Dyer said to Liza. “And after my Bess died, I used to think, well, Nicholas is a lucky man. But he’s gone and there are things you very likely don’t know, things your mother told me. I’m family now, so I suppose I can talk of them to you—I wouldn’t otherwise. But your aunt Cecy as you all call her fairly made your mother’s life a burden to her after she lost your father.”

  “Aunt Cecy?” said Liza. “Yes. I can imagine.”

&n
bsp; “Your father,” said Herbert, “was the eldest son in a line of eldest sons. He was the head of the house, since your great-uncle Will sat back and said he was tired of running it, and that made your mother the first woman in the house, as well. But after Nicholas went, Aunt Cecy started saying she was the senior woman and she took to giving orders and countering what Marge—”

  “Marge?” said Liza.

  “My name for your mother, my wench. My pet name.” Herbert Dyer’s luxuriant brown beard fairly bristled with merriment. “Aunt Cecy would change Marge’s orders—over what to cook for dinner, and who was to work at which looms and who was to tend the garden. All sorts of things. It was hard for Marge to bear.”

  “Aunt Cecy always did have an edge on her tongue,” Liza agreed.

  “Edge! Like a saw. I was glad to take Marge out of it. I gave her time to mourn, but then I went courting and she was happy to say yes. I’m six years younger than she is but that doesn’t worry either of us. She’s got a good home with me and no heavy work, and her younger children are off her hands. Your two brothers, Arthur and Tommy, are both grown up and working in the weaving shed. Tommy’s so handy there, everyone marvels at it. And your little sister Jane’s been married to a weaver in Timberscombe, just up the valley from Dunster.”

  “Yes, I know,” Liza said, somewhat acidly. “I hear news of my family often. After all, we work with them, supplying fleeces and so on.”

  “Well, then. Your mother’s well-off with me, I promise.” The glance his deep-set eyes gave to Liza, who had come from the dairy in an undyed gown and the old, streaky pinkish-red overdress she used when working, and with her hair pushed into a creased coif, suggested that in his opinion, Liza might well envy her mother.

  “I’ve got servants,” Herbert said, “and my sons are grown up and gone, except for the eldest, Simon, and he’s my partner in the dyeing workshop. I’ll take care of Marge, I promise. Well, I’m your stepfather now, and if you ever need anything…”