The House of Lanyon

by Valerie Anand

  “About us?” said Liza. “Well, what else could we expect?”

  “He didn’t give in easy,” Richard said. “Blustered and shouted and swore and called us the sort of names that would make the air stink if I spoke them. And—I’m sorry, Liza—but in the middle of it all your mother came out to us. She’d heard the noise. He told her I was insulting him and making up slanders about his work, and he said that you two had been prowling and sniffing round when you came to visit and then she started calling us—all of us—names as well…. I don’t like telling you this….”

  “Calling Liza names?” said Peter indignantly.

  “Herbert’s her husband,” said Liza, her face stiff. “If only my mother hadn’t heard the shouting. What happened next?”

  “I’m sorry for her,” Richard told her. “She’s a decent woman and she’d had a shock, but when I heard her saying things about you…well, I lost my temper. I reckoned she ought to know who was telling the truth and who weren’t. My nose told me what yours told you. I could tell which vats had piss and vinegar in them and you’ve explained the meaning of it. I grabbed her by the arm and walked her into the workshop and told her, you just sniff at that there vat. Pushed her head down to make her breathe the smell in, as a matter of fact. And this one as well, I said…”

  “Father-in-law, you didn’t!”

  “Yes, I did. Herbert had told her what I was accusing him of and he’d denied it. I made her know it was true. I tell you, I wouldn’t stand hearing you and Peter abused like that. She started crying and broke away and ran into the house and I finished dealing with Herbert. I told him what he could expect if the constable got to hear of it, and said that if it didn’t stop, the constable would hear of it, from me. And I said, don’t think you can fool me. I’ll know if you cheat. I’ll be visiting once in a while, unexpected like, and I’ll look at this workshop and you’d better let me in because if you don’t, that’ll send me straight to the parish constable, too. He said he’d do no more business with me, but then I said, well, that means not doing business with the Weavers either, which might be quite a loss, and what’ll folk say when word gets round that you’ve parted company with your wife’s own family?”

  “I wish I’d been there,” said Peter.

  “I’m glad I wasn’t,” said Liza.

  “Anyway,” Richard said, “I told him, if you refuse to work with us, maybe that’s another thing might send me to the authorities. I left him cursing but not before I’d made him swear, on the crosshilt of my dagger, to give up using cheap dyes and mordants and stop charging customers for what they hadn’t had. I swore, too, that I wouldn’t tell on him, as long as he stayed honest. That was for your mother’s sake.”

  “She’ll be saved from trouble in the end,” Peter said to Liza. “Whatever she feels now, think how it would be if he were taken up for cheating! Why, the men in his workshop must all know. What if one of them were to turn nasty?”

  “They were all very young, didn’t you notice?” said Richard. “Hardly a boy over fourteen and one or two of them almost simple, I’d say. I doubt if they know what’s in the mordants, or what ought to be, either. Cunning bugger, that man Dyer is. He guards his back.”

  Liza looked miserable. “I know it’s best for my mother that he stops cheating. But I hate to think how it is with them now. They may be quarrelling. I wish I knew she was all right.”

  “He was scared when I started talking about penalties,” Richard said, reaching for a chicken leg. “He’s quite a personage in Washford. He didn’t fancy having a vat of bad dye poured over him and then being marched through the village covered with it.”

  “Please, don’t!”

  “It won’t happen now,” Richard reassured her. “There’s nothing to worry about, Liza.”

  Margaret arrived the following day, tearful and furious.

  They were at dinner, all the household, eating quickly because in May cows needed milking three times a day, weeds grew in the fields between dusk and dawn, and paths vanished under overhanging grass if left untended for a week. The day was dry and most of them would be out of doors again the moment the meal was finished. It was Richard, busily mopping up gravy with the last of his bread, who glanced through the hall windows and said, “We have visitors. Got a packhorse with them, too. Liza! It’s your mother!”

  “What?” Liza, who had been helping Quentin with her food, twisted around to stare through the window. Quentin, perched in a high chair Higg had made for her, wailed. “There, there, you’ve finished anyway,” said Liza. Hurriedly she wiped her daughter’s mouth and ran out just as Margaret and Simon Dyer, leading a pack pony, came to a halt.

  Simon was better dressed than when they had seen him last, but with a face as hard and closed as a bolted oak door, while Margaret had tear streaks on her face. The pack pony was hardly visible under the bundles and hampers strapped on its back.

  “What on earth…?” Liza began.

  “Here you are.” Simon ignored her and spoke over his shoulder to Margaret. “Get down.” He made no move to assist her. Margaret, who had been riding astride but without breeches to protect her legs from the stirrup leathers, scrambled painfully off.

  “What is all this?” Liza hurried forward and Simon, acknowledging her existence at last, thrust the pony’s leading rein at her.

  “Here. The pony’s your mother’s, same as the mare she’s on. I shan’t take them back. I’ve brought Mistress Dyer safely here. I’ll go home and say I’ve done my errand. Good day to you.”

  “But won’t you come in? There’s water in the trough for your horse and—”

  “No,” said Simon shortly. “I won’t. The Allerbrook’s good enough for any horse. Good day!”

  “Ohhhh!” wailed Margaret, and burst out crying, though in a way which sounded as much like rage as grief.

  The others were outside now, some of them with their mouths full, all exclaiming. Higg led the pony and the mare away and Liza went quickly to Margaret’s side. “Mother? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong?” screamed Margaret, and struck her an openhanded blow in the face, with such force that Liza staggered away with a cry of pain and bumped into Roger, who grasped her supportingly and said, “Here, what’s all this? There’s no call to go on like that, Mistress!”

  Peter got in between mother and daughter just in time, as Margaret lunged after Liza and tried to hit her again. “Stop it! What’s the matter with you? Mistress Dyer!”

  “Yes, none of that!” Richard grabbed Margaret’s upper arm, shouted, “Get inside!” and hustled her roughly through the door into the hall. He bundled her to a settle and shoved her into it, not letting go of her until she was seated and more or less imprisoned because he had planted himself in front of her. “Now then!” Richard bellowed. “Let’s hear the meaning of this!”

  Margaret, scarlet in the face and rubbing her arm where Richard had gripped it, let out a screech of fury and misery mingled, and then stopped rubbing in order to point a shaking finger at the horrified Liza, who had stumbled through the door after them, with Peter’s arm about her. “It’s her fault! Interfering, nose-poking, smug, righteous, nasty little bitch!”

  “Mother!” Liza was weeping now and holding her face, and to add to the chaos, Quentin, abandoned at the table, began to howl. Kat and Betsy, hurrying indoors on Liza’s heels, hastened to her, clucking.

  “What the devil are you talking about?” Richard thundered.

  “I was happy! I was happy bein’ Mistress Dyer and she’s gone and spoilt it all. I can’t stop there anymore. I can’t bear it!”

  “Can’t bear what?” demanded Richard.

  “It’s because of Herbert, you fool!” shrieked Margaret. “First of all, they came to see him, Liza and your Peter, and they pried and peered and asked questions and then you came and…and…all because that little…”

  “Don’t call my wife names!” shouted Peter.

  “Because Liza, dear, sweet, adorable little
Liza, my favourite daughter, with her saintliness and her base-metal halo, sniffed round the workshop and found that my husband was…was…”

  “Using cheap methods and materials while charging for expensive ones,” said Peter coldly.

  “And now I can’t stay there anymore! I can’t! Nicholas was always honest and I can’t live with a man who isn’t. I was always that proud that there wasn’t a word anyone could say against me or mine! But I’d have been happy if I’d never known about this and it’s broken my heart but I can’t stop with him, I can’t, I can’t, and it’s all her fault and…”

  “No, don’t, please!” begged Liza as Richard’s right hand came up.

  “She’s hysterical. Mistress Dyer! Be quiet or I’ll make you!” The threat was enough. Margaret subsided, hiccuping and glaring at Liza.

  “You would have known before long,” said Liza, sobbing. “He’d have got caught. We’ve saved him from that, and saved you, too. No one knows what he’s been doing except us.”

  “You ought to thank Liza,” said Richard. “Her keen nose and her knowledge of cloth making told us the truth and you ought to be grateful!”

  “Grateful? Grateful! My life’s ruined and I should be grateful?”

  “Yes, you should. If he’d been caught, half Somerset would have known,” said Richard. “You couldn’t have held your head up, ever again.”

  “He’ll be honest from now on,” Peter added. “He swore to that and we’ll keep him to it. It’s all right, Mistress Dyer. You can go back and live with him…he wants you to go back?”

  “Not now! I said such things to him, I was so angry with him. I never thought—there had been stories, but Nicholas always said he’d treated us fairly and I never dreamed…he said if I hated him so much, I’d better go. I wish I’d never found out! He’s been kind to me. I didn’t know. I never went into the workshop. But she used to ask her father questions and he told her more than he ever told me. I’d never have known but for her—it’s all her fault!” wailed Margaret, from whose mental processes any kind of logic had clearly taken wing.

  “Didn’t you hear what Peter said? You would have known before long. I’d take my oath on it,” Richard snapped.

  “But where are you going now?” said Peter icily. “Because I tell you frankly, Mother-in-law, you’re not welcome here, not after this. Are you going back to the Weavers in Dunster, or to your own kinfolk, or where?”

  “Stop here? With her? I’d sooner die!” Margaret bawled.

  “I did it for you!” shouted Liza, and was rewarded with a shriek of fury. Margaret, still virtually imprisoned in her seat by the looming Richard, actually drummed her feet on the floor in rage.

  “How can I go back to Dunster?” she screamed. “They’d ask why, and I can’t tell anyone—he’s my husband! Folk would point fingers, and anyhow, a woman can’t betray her husband, even if he sprouts horns and a tail and she can’t stand to live another day with him! As for my kinfolk, there’s none left that I mean anything to and if I had, I couldn’t tell them either! I can’t be like that Alison Webber was, sayin’ it’s nothing to do with me! She got wed again, we heard, in Dulverton. Well, I can’t do that either. I’m still wed and there’s no gettin’ away from it. I just wanted to come here to tell her what I think of her and her nosy ways! I’d like to kill you, Liza, I’d like to…!”

  “Where do you want to go?” demanded Richard. “Just tell us and we’ll see to it!”

  “There’s a women’s abbey in Devon. They’ve a guest house and Nicholas and I stayed there sometimes, when I travelled with him. They’ll take me in. Herbert gave me money. He said I’d better go but he’d make it easy for me. At the last minute he said he’d take me back if I liked, but I won’t like! I can’t!”

  “Very well,” said Richard. “You’ll take some food and a night’s rest, I trust?”

  “I’ll neither eat nor sleep under your roof. I brought food with me. We left at dawn and I ate in the saddle. Simon’s gone to the inn at Clicket and then he’ll go back to Washford. He hates me for his father’s sake and I don’t want to ride another yard with him and I told him as much. You’ll just have to lend me a man and I’ll start for Devon at once. Now!”

  “You won’t,” said Richard. “Your horse is tired. You’ll rest here till we say you can leave. Betsy, come here. Let Kat look after the child for a minute. Take Mistress Dyer upstairs….”

  “There’s one more thing,” said Margaret. Her voice now was quiet, but in an ominous fashion. “Something I think you should know.”

  “And what might that be?”

  “Dear Liza, that you think I ought to be grateful to, sweet Liza, that’s wrecked my life, my whole life…”

  “It was Herbert Dyer if it was anyone!” shouted Liza. “Stop blaming me!”

  “You all think she’s such a good girl,” said Margaret nastily to Peter and Richard. “But afore she was married, she tried to run off with a half-baked clerk from Dunster Castle. Oh, we got them back in time. There was no harm done, but she was seein’ him in secret, all that summer. And him in the priesthood! She’d have shamed us all if we hadn’t stopped her. She’s not quite the perfect angel you think. What have you to say about that?”

  Richard swung around. “Is this true, Liza?”

  “Yes.” Liza had gone very white. “I was a young girl. I fell in love. But we were never…never lovers. I just tried to do a silly thing but I was brought home and—”

  “God knows, I was sorry for her when her father beat her,” said Margaret. “Now I wish he’d knocked the smugness and the cleverness out of her, too. I wish…”

  “Mistress Dyer,” said Peter, “I too fell in love with someone else before I married Liza. I’ve told her about it. My girl wasn’t suitable, any more than I suppose this clerk was. What was his name, by the way?”

  “Christopher Clerk,” said Liza in a low voice. “But it was just a young girl’s fancy. I’ve tried to be a good wife to Peter and forget all about Christopher.”

  “I wish you’d told me,” said Peter. “I told you about Marion!”

  “I wanted to!” cried Liza. “But I was afraid to! Men get forgiven more easily than women, and later on, it didn’t seem to matter. Nothing happened between him and me! It doesn’t matter, not now!”

  “No, it doesn’t,” said Peter firmly. He looked his father in the eye. “She is telling the truth when she says that nothing happened. I can vouch for that.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Ah, well, it’s all over, years ago,” said Richard. He was aware that he ought to be angry, to complain that he and Peter had been deceived, but there was no bigger deceiver in this hall than Richard himself and he knew it. “Young folk will be young.”

  He turned back to Margaret, who was gaping, astounded to see the aggressive Richard Lanyon, who should have turned on Liza in a fury, behaving like a lamb instead of a dark-maned lion. “If you thought I’d throw Liza out of the house because when she was a dreamy lass, she let some young fellow make up to her for a while, you don’t know me. Now let Betsy take you to a bedchamber. You can stop there till tomorrow. I won’t have you sharing meals with us down here. Betsy’ll fetch food and hot water for you, all that, and tomorrow I’ll escort you to this abbey of yours. It’s a bloody nuisance this time of year, but I’ll see you get there safe. You ought to be grateful to Liza instead of abusing her, yes you ought. But I damn well don’t feel grateful to you!”

  “What sort of place is it?” Liza asked when Richard returned two days later. “Will Mother be safe there? Happy?”

  “I doubt if she’ll ever be happy again,” said Richard sombrely, “but that’s her fault, not ours. The place is well enough. It’s small—no more than a dozen nuns, but they look well fed, and they seem kind. They’ve given your mother a room in the guest house and a lay sister to wait on her. Your stepfather did give her some money and he’s willing to send a yearly payment for her support. He’s fond of her, I think. He’s not entirely wicked.”


  “I’ll have to visit her later. When she’s settled. Maybe…”

  “I wouldn’t,” said Richard. His nerves were still rasped from some of the bitter things Margaret had said about her daughter on the way to Devon. “I should leave her be. Your home’s here, my girl. You’re a Lanyon now. Come, don’t look so downhearted. There’s work to be done.”

  “Yes, of course,” said Liza, and went to do some hoeing, putting a good deal of energy into it because physical effort sometimes eased the discomfort of the monthly nuisance, which had come upon her that morning. Her downheartedness was only partly due to the estrangement with her mother. She and Peter had loved like mad things that night in Washford, but all in vain. There would be no child.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  REBELLION

  The year of 1469 wore uneasily on. Liza fretted a good deal. She had made up her mind that she must not think of Christopher, that he must indeed be consigned to the past, but instead she worried about her mother. Also, there was disturbing news from the outside world. From his pulpit one Sunday, Father Bernard announced that trouble had broken out in the north of England. In Yorkshire there was a rising against the king.

  “It’s a small affair,” said Father Bernard. “As yet,” he added ominously. “But things could worsen. Just in case, every man who can shoot at all must be at the butts every Sunday, unless he’s injured or ill. Those are the orders of Master Walter Sweetwater.”

  At first, matters rested there. June came, with sheep to be sheared and hay to be scythed, and Liza, her mind still on her mother’s troubles, made an attempt to mend the breach. Following Richard’s advice, she did not try to visit Margaret, but she sent Higg with gifts—a honeycake and a length of her own green homespun cloth, accompanied by a loving letter. Margaret could not read, but one of the nuns might read it to her. Higg came back with the gifts untouched.