The House of Lanyon

by Valerie Anand

  The morning after the funeral, Nicky found himself in the hall, facing what amounted to a tribunal.

  Liza had dreaded this moment, though she knew it was coming. She knew that Nicky had been in the wrong, but her heart ached for him.

  “He’s still only eight,” she had said that morning when Peter and his father told her in detail what to expect. “I’ve made it clear to him that he’s behaved very badly, but it was just ordinary naughtiness, after all. It was bad luck that it led to something so awful.”

  “Nonsense!” Richard barked. “He ran off when you told him to stay with you in the hall, and he ran to look out of the dairy door instead of coming back to you when you called him. He ignored you when the very tone of your voice should have told him that it mattered. He knows that Eddie saved him and was killed in doing it. He knows what death means. He saw Eddie’s body. I made sure he did! He’s been spoiled, Liza. We’ve all spoiled him, myself included. We’ve all been so overjoyed to have a Lanyon son.”

  “I agree,” Peter said. “I’m sorry, Liza, but it’s true. No one’s ever raised a hand to him. He’s never been more than mildly scolded. But what sort of man will our son be if he doesn’t learn to behave while he’s still young enough to learn?”

  “I suppose you’re right,” said Liza unhappily.

  If only he didn’t look so like Christopher. Oh, my poor little Nicky. All this for just only a moment’s disobedience. Every boy has those. Father-in-law and Peter both did in their time—I’d take an oath on it!

  But Eddie is dead. I can’t deny that.

  The table had been pushed out of the way. Liza sat in a window seat, with Quentin and Betsy. Betsy sat grimly, with folded arms. Quentin, on the other hand, looked nearly as frightened as Nicky. Nicky himself stood in midfloor, confronted by a stern row of men: his father, his grandfather, Roger, Jarvis Hannacombe and Sim, father of both Eddie and Jarvis, who had come over for the occasion. There was an ominous air of formality.

  His father recited his misdeeds to him, much as Richard had recited them to Liza, and reminded him of the tragedy to which they had led. “What have you to say?” he asked at the end.

  Nicky looked from one face to another, finding no comfort anywhere. He looked toward his mother, but her gaze was on the floor. Betsy’s face was like flint. Quentin was watching him with huge, worried eyes but her obvious fear only made him feel worse. “I’m sorry. I only wanted to see what was happening. I just wanted to look. I didn’t mean…”

  “Because of you,” said Richard, “as we have just pointed out, Eddie had to snatch you from the path of that boulder and it caught him. You saw what it did to him. It could have been you. Eddie saved your life. And died for it.”

  “But I didn’t mean to hurt Eddie. I didn’t think…”

  “Nevertheless,” said Richard, “you were responsible for his death.”

  Just as the Sweetwaters were responsible for Deb Archer’s death; just as I was responsible for the death of Marion Locke. Never mind that they didn’t mean it, that I didn’t mean it. They killed Deb and I killed Marion and that’s the truth. And Nicky killed Eddie and he’s got to know it.

  None of that could be said aloud, not to Nicky and not to anyone else, but it put an implacable look on Richard’s face and made his voice as hard as rock.

  Nicky’s mouth was trembling. His knees had begun to shake. Something dreadful was going to happen to him, though he didn’t know what.

  “I didn’t mean…” he said again. His voice faltered. Then he saw his father glance toward the table and he saw the riding whip that lay there.

  Quentin had followed that glance as well and cried out, “Oh, Father, no, please. Nicky’s only little. He couldn’t have known—”

  “Liza,” said Richard, “take yourself and your good kind daughter away. There is no need for either of you to witness this.”

  “Oh, no, don’t, please!” Quentin jumped down from the window seat and ran to Nicky’s side, but Peter picked her up bodily and carried her back to Liza. She kicked and struggled and then, as he thrust her into Liza’s arms, burst into tears.

  “Take her away, Liza. Go on.”

  “Come, sweetheart.” Liza, herself trembling, set Quentin on her feet and with an arm about her, steered her toward the door. “Don’t cry so. We can’t change anything and we mustn’t stay here. We’ll wait upstairs.”

  “Eddie was as good as a son to me,” said Betsy grimly. “Cheered me up in the days when I was that miserable over Higg. I’d sooner stay here.”

  The two main bedchambers were now suspended perilously over space, but the ones at the back of the house were usable. When Quentin and Liza were in the one farthest from the hall, with door and windows closed, Quentin said, “Mother, did you and Father have some idea about…about me and Eddie one day?”

  “Yes, dear. We did.” Liza sat down on a stool. “How did you know?”

  “I liked Eddie. He often came to talk to me when I was spinning or weaving—and once or twice I saw you and Father notice it and smile. It made me wonder.”

  “You’re a sharp little thing! There was talk of it, but Eddie’s gone now, Quentin.” Had the child cared very much for him? Well, she was still little more than a child, after all. “He died very bravely,” said Liza, doing her best to say the right things. “There’ll be someone else, one day. You’re still very young and you’ll stop thinking about him in time. Try not to blame Nicky. He didn’t realise what might happen, and at this moment he is learning to do as he’s told, and learning the hard way.” Liza herself knew how hard a way it was.

  “I know.” Quentin nodded a serious brown head. “He’s so unhappy about Eddie. I’ve talked to him. I told him it wasn’t his fault. Only, Mother…I don’t like Jarvis so much.”

  “Oh!” This at least was easy to deal with. Liza drew Quentin to her and put an arm around her. “If that’s what’s worrying you, put it out of your mind. We don’t think Jarvis would be suitable either. You would never be asked to marry someone you didn’t like, anyway.”

  No, indeed you won’t. And if there’s someone you really want, one day, I’ll do all I can to help you. I know what it’s like.

  Despite the shut doors and windows, sounds were escaping from the hall. “Oh, no!” said Quentin miserably. Liza held her closer still and sat with bowed head until at last there was the sound of a slammed door, and then feet were running up the stairs, accompanied by a pitiful wailing. Nicky, tears streaming down his freckled face, burst in and rushed to clutch at Liza. “Father beat me! Why did you let him? Grandfather held me, held me down…Betsy and Jarvis and Master Hannacombe watched and they were…they were pleased. I’ll never forgive them, not any of them! It wasn’t fair!”

  “It was fair,” said Liza. She spoke gently, but as she did so, she detached his hands and held them while she looked into his reproachful golden-brown eyes. Christopher’s eyes. “Eddie died because of you. I am sorry for you but it was for your own good.”

  “No!” screamed Nicky, and sobbed more wildly than ever.

  “Yes, Nicky. I mean it.”

  Nicky, in answer, wrenched himself away from her. He would have run from the room, except that Quentin, slipping from her mother’s arm, caught hold of him and pulled him to her.

  “Oh, Mother, you said it yourself—he never meant anything dreadful to happen. He never meant Eddie to be hurt. I know he didn’t.” Her voice shook as she said Eddie’s name, but her arm around Nicky was gentle. “Hush, Nicky. Mother, can I use some of your salves to help him?”

  “Yes, of course you can. You’re a good girl.” Liza stood up. “I’ll leave him with you for a while. The salves are in my chest—the elderflower ointment’s in a little glass pot and the yarrow and woundwort one is in the earthenware box. Quentin will look after you, Nicky. I must go to your father.”

  She found her husband alone in the hall, sitting by the table with his head in his hands. “Peter?”

  “That was the hardest thing I’ve ev
er had to do,” he said. “My own son. It was as though I were hurting myself. Where is he now?”

  “I’ve left him with Quentin. She’s taking care of him. She’s very fond of him. She was fond of Eddie, but she has sense enough not to blame Nicky. We’re lucky in our daughter. Nicky will be all right soon. Don’t think about it anymore.”

  With a shaky smile Peter said, “Did you give him an apple or a honeycake?”

  “No. Not this time.”

  “Wise of you. Oh, dear God,” said Peter miserably, “I want to be proud of my boy. But why did I have to do that to him to make him into the son I want?”

  Liza, for a whole tumult of reasons, had no answers and simply, silently, held him fast.

  The day after that, while Nicky, lying on his stomach, stayed in bed and Quentin continued to minister to him, Liza joined her husband and father-in-law as they went around the property, discussing how best to repair it.

  “It looks,” said Richard, “as if I’ll have to go in for some new building whether I like it or not, so I’ve been looking in my coffers and talking to Peter here about the yield from that quarry. We’ve been saving the rents all these years, too.”

  “We’ll certainly have to build something,” Peter said, “but I think we can repair the old house. After all, this is a farm and we’re not lordlings.”

  “I don’t agree, boy,” said his father. “What do you think I’ve been saving for? Seems to me that fate’s telling me to get on and build the fine house I’ve dreamed of. I was putting it off, thinking of the expense, but I reckon we can do it if we want to.”

  “I don’t want to,” said Peter frankly.

  “Well, I do. We can demolish what’s left of the old house bit by bit, as we go along, and use the stone—the way we did with the stone from that old cottage when we had the hall built. We won’t put the new place where the old house is—a flood that can happen once can happen again—but behind the hall, where it’s higher. The ground there is flattish for quite a way before the hill rises again. I’ve plenty of ideas. I’ve been working them out for years. Come with me.”

  Peter caught Liza’s eye and rolled his eyes in annoyance but Richard, oblivious, marched them both into the hall and began to expound on his ideas.

  “You know my plan always was to have the hall as a part of the new house. We can lift the roof higher and put bedchambers over the top with windows looking out of gables, like the ones at Sweetwater House. It’ll look fine. And perhaps instead of leaving the outer door of the hall in a recess as it is now, we could have a little porch jutting out, with another small gable over the top, to match the ones over the hall. And see, come here and look through this window…there’s room enough between here and the hillside for a couple of wings, going off at right angles….”

  “Father, what is all this going to cost?” said Peter, aghast.

  Richard ignored him. “One wing can have the kitchen, dairy and cider press in it and we’ll make a spiral staircase going up to an apple store and servants’ rooms above. Liza will need more help in the house—I realise that. The other wing can lead from the other end of the hall—over here….”

  He led the way, gesticulating. “We can have a workroom in this one, on the ground floor—or two rooms, a study for doing accounts and a room for weaving, if you like, Liza—and some spare bedchambers above. We’ll have a straight, wide staircase here, in this corner of the hall, going up to the spare rooms and a door leading into the workrooms below. And I think—yes, come this way, back to the other end—I’ll have a chapel built onto the hall with a little tower above it….”

  “Father!”

  “We’ll put stained glass windows in the chapel,” said Richard, unheeding, “and Father Matthew will come and say Mass there once in a while and Liza, you can have a parlour or a solar, as the Sweetwaters would call it, above the chapel, looking out across the combe to the moor. The tower can have battlements at the top, just like the Sweetwaters have….”

  “Father, this is absurd!” Peter was really angry now. He moved in front of Richard and stood there, hands on hips, glowering. “We shan’t have a coin left to call our own at the end of it and what’s it all for? Just to show off, to score off the Sweetwaters! All we really need is a house to replace the one that’s been damaged.”

  “Don’t argue with me, boy. I’m master of Allerbrook and I know what I want and I mean to have it!”

  “No!” Peter, by now, was shouting. “No, we don’t need this and we shouldn’t waste money on it. I’ve hoped, all these years, that you’d just forget this idea! Well, I’ve decided to stand my ground, just for once. The money you’re proposing to use will come mostly from that quarry, and that’s my quarry, presented to me by Richard of Gloucester for my services on a battlefield. You’ve no right to be so free with it and for such a useless purpose. I am telling you—”

  “You’ll tell me nothing, boy. You’ll do as I say or leave Allerbrook.”

  “Oh…no!” whispered Liza, pulling at Peter’s sleeve.

  “If I leave Allerbrook,” said Peter dangerously, “I’ll take with me the deeds to that land with the quarry on it.”

  “I think not,” said Richard. “Sons should do as their fathers tell them and any property that comes into this family is for me to control. The deeds are locked up in my personal chest. I put them there long ago. It was after we sold that other farm to get the Allerbrook freehold. You left them out on the workroom table and I put them away. I told you I’d put them away safe. You never questioned it.”

  “They still belong to me!”

  “To us,” said Richard. “Now let be. You’re upsetting Liza here. She don’t want to be made to leave Allerbrook, do you, Liza?”

  “No, I don’t!” Liza stared at him, wide-eyed with alarm. For the first time, it struck her that in spite of everything, Allerbrook, once so alien, once nothing but a place of exile from Christopher, had somehow become home. “No, of course not! No!”

  “And nor does Peter here, not really, do you, boy?”

  Peter ground his teeth.

  “I need my fine house,” said Richard. “I’ve saved every penny I can, these nine years past. I’ve drawn plans and then torn them up and drawn new plans. I tell you, the whole thing’s been growing in my head. Peter will like it well enough once it’s built. Oh, yes, you will, boy. Before I’m done, I’ll put those damned Sweetwaters in the shade for good and all.”

  “I despair of you,” said Peter. “No, I don’t want to leave Allerbrook, and since you’re my father, I can’t fight you. But before God…!” He left the sentence unfinished and strode away. Presently Liza heard him chopping firewood, with all the vehemence and fury he could not direct against Richard.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  WHIRLIGIG

  “So there it is,” said Walter Sweetwater to his son and grandson, finding them in the stable yard when he came in from exercising his horse. He dismounted and handed his reins to a groom. “I’ve just been up Allerbrook combe to see for myself, and yes, Richard Lanyon’s finished his house and there it stands. Bah!”

  “Well, we knew what he was up to. I’ve taken the odd glance at it myself,” Baldwin said. “Though not lately. I hoped it would all come to a stop, that Lanyon would be standing below when a lump of badly placed masonry fell off the wall, or at least that he’d run out of money halfway.”

  “He managed it quicker than when he built the hall, by a good bit!” said Walter irritably. “Though no doubt he had his troubles. Last time I caught sight of him, I saw his hair had gone white. I’ve also heard he’s had a noisy quarrel or two with his son about the cost. Peter Lanyon seems to have more sense than his father. It must have taken every farthing they’ve got. But he’s done it. There’s smoke rising from the chimneys and I saw a couple of windows open.”

  “I wonder what the inside is like?” said his sixteen-year-old grandson.

  “My dear John, I doubt if we’ll be invited in!” Walter said. “They don’t chal
lenge us when we ride across Allerbrook land, but I’ve seen a few dirty looks from men in the fields. It still feels weird, knowing it isn’t my land anymore. I made sure today that I got a good view of the outside of the house, anyhow. It’s an imitation of ours—gables, crenellated tower and all.”

  “I’d heard that,” Baldwin said. “From Denis.”

  Denis Sawyer, the stocky, quiet-spoken former archer who had replaced Geoffrey Baker as steward after Towton, drank regularly in the White Hart. Unlike the talkative Maude, who had now gone away with her mistress to Agnes’s married home, he didn’t gossip about Sweetwater business. What he did do was listen to other people gossiping, and then report what he heard.

  “I sometimes think I’d like to sit in a corner of the White Hart and watch Denis collecting news,” Walter said. “I think he sits there, quiet as a cat at a mouse hole, paws folded and ears twitching. But—” he grinned suddenly “—I wonder if he picked up this titbit? Gables and battlements or not, the front rooms upstairs, under the gables, look straight onto the farmyard, complete with hens and a cattle byre and a very good view of the pigsty. Likely enough they’re the best bedchambers. I suppose you could say it has a comic side to it!” He glanced around him. “Where is Denis now, by the way? Not back from Dunster market yet? Your Catherine will be wanting her new cloth and her spices, Baldwin.”

  “They’re not urgent. No, he’s not back.” Baldwin, scowling, was not interested in Denis, cloth or the household supplies of pepper and ginger. “Whatever the Lanyons can see from the windows, that house is like a glove thrown in our faces. One day, one of us will pick up the gage.”