“Gently, my dear,” said Elena, looking at him worriedly. She turned to Liza. “We lost Laurie and Dickon to the wars and now Jem’s dead, too, though not through war. He got something wrong with his innards two years back.” Liza nodded sadly. Richard had brought that news to her, too. “We’ve still got Luke and Joss, for which we’re grateful, but we don’t forget,” Elena said.
“Yes, there’s death enough without battles creating more. I say it’s a bitter shame that folk can’t live their ordinary lives in peace,” said Laurence. “All we want to do is weave our cloth, bring up our families, look after our homes. But are we ever left alone to get on with it? No, we’re not, and more shame to those who call themselves our betters and take our sons away.”
“When little Joanna there was baptised,” said Susannah, pointing to her five-year-old daughter, “our priest was sick and the castle chaplain came to the church to do it—Father Christopher.” Susannah, clearly, had not been told about Liza’s past indiscretions and to judge from her casual tone, no one had stared at the priest and exclaimed that he was exactly like Nicky Lanyon. Liza herself gave no sign that Christopher’s name meant anything to her, though it had gone through her like a crossbow bolt.
Susannah was continuing. “He gave a little homily afterward, congratulating us, and he quoted a psalm. Like as the arrows in the hand of a giant, even so are the young children—that’s what he said. Well, that’s just how the great men have been treating ordinary folk like us. They just want our lads as arrows to be used and spent. It’s true!”
“No one took Peter and Nicky,” said Aunt Cecy. “Peter’s a free man and from what Liza here says, Nicky just ran off as silly boys do. Nicky is a silly boy. We’ve tried to teach him weaving when he’s been here, but he’s that mutton fisted he’d break threads even if he was making chain mail. But Peter’s no better, going off like that. Men have no sense. If they get spent like arrows, half the time it’s because they’ve spent themselves.”
Aunt Cecy had decidedly not mellowed with age. Before supper was over, Liza was beginning to think that she had better not stay too long. Not only was Dunster somehow unfamiliar, but also, she had come to be soothed by the company of her family, only to find that all the news seemed to be unhappy and Aunt Cecy’s contributions to the talk were anything but soothing, and no better for being oblique.
Aunt Cecy did not actually say outright that if Liza had had more authority over her son, he would not have defied orders and run off after his father; she merely said that nowadays young people lacked respect for their parents and that parents should insist on it more. Nor did she remark outright that Peter and possibly Nicky as well could be killed. Instead, she asked who would inherit Allerbrook after them, and then added that it was a great pity that Liza hadn’t had a good healthy family of boys.
The Weaver family as a whole was used to her and most of them seemed hardly aware of her comments, while those who were, such as Laurence and Elena, tried to change the subject or rephrase Aunt Cecy’s remarks for her, in a kinder form. This usually failed, as Aunt Cecy, more than once, said, “No, that’s not what I meant,” and then repeated her remark in the original wording. Long before the end of the meal Liza was wondering why Aunt Cecy had not been banished to retirement in the guest house of some convenient women’s abbey. She understood now why her mother couldn’t tolerate life with Cecy after her father’s death.
As they left the table, Susannah put a hand on her arm, and said, “Please don’t mind Aunt Cecy. She’s unhappy without her husband and he hasn’t been gone two weeks. She’s bitter but she doesn’t mean it. She’s old and doesn’t realise that she upsets people.”
Her brother had married a likeable woman, Liza thought, glad for him. She gave Susannah a smile. And wondered if her aching bones could endure riding back to Allerbrook the very next day.
Next morning, as the Weavers gathered just after daybreak to take their breakfast of bread and honey, cold meat and small ale, the talk turned to the state of Dunster harbour.
“If it goes on silting up at this rate, Dunster will end up two miles inland and someone will be planting wheat where the fishing boats are moored now,” Tommy grumbled.
“That’s right enough.” Joss, the younger of Laurence and Elena’s two surviving sons (though he was no longer young but was now a widower aged forty) was a weaver and had moved across the road, as he put it, to live with his loom. “No one’s even trying to do anything about it. The big ships can only get halfway in these days. Minehead’s not much better. Porlock, Lynmouth and Watchet’ll all end up more important.”
“Dunster’ll do well enough,” said Aunt Cecy. “Everyone comes here to buy cloth and yarn and fleeces, too, and there are good roads for the packhorses, in and out.”
“That’s not the same as having a good harbour,” Joss objected.
“From all I’ve heard, if this Lord Dunster as he calls himself—”
“Pembroke’s son,” said Tommy aside to Liza.
“If this Lord Dunster,” said Aunt Cecy, more loudly, “wants the harbour dug out, he’ll put up all our rents to pay for it and even then, from what I’ve heard, the sea’ll bring trouble in faster than any gang of men could dig it out.”
“Nonsense,” said Tommy robustly. “There’s a whole garrison up at the castle, doing nothing most of the time but swagger round the village eyeing up the wenches. That there harbour could be dug out for the cost of a few spades and an ox team.”
“You think so? They’re soldiers and they’d say digging and ploughing, whether it’s fields or a harbour, is beneath them. It’s only for common folk like farmers,” said Aunt Cecy, achieving further depths of tactlessness. “I’ve lived a long time,” she added. “There’s always changes, and never for the better as far as I can see.”
“Oh, be quiet, you croaking old raven!” snapped Tommy.
Tears appeared in Aunt Cecy’s weak blue eyes and Susannah said mildly, “My dear, Aunt Cecy is in mourning.”
“Well, I’m sorry,” said Tommy. “But…”
He left the sentence unfinished. However, when breakfast was over, Liza grew restless. The kitchen wrangle about the mislaid butter still seemed to be continuing and this time she found it not amusing, but tiresome. Neither Richard nor Peter would have tolerated such a haphazard atmosphere at Allerbrook and Liza now discovered that she, too, found it irritating. She didn’t think she could bear the journey back so soon, but she couldn’t stay within earshot of Aunt Cecy a moment longer.
“It’s a sunny day,” she said. “I want to walk round the village.”
“You were always one for walking,” said Aunt Cecy. “And no one ever knew who you met or talked to.”
“I just liked walking,” said Liza coldly.
She left the house and set off along North Street. As she went she took note of changes. She knew none of the people she saw. They were all younger than she was, a new generation, and their clothes were different. Hers had changed very little; on a farm in the midst of the moor, no one followed fashion. But now it seemed that women wishing to appear well dressed had adopted fuller gowns and shorter headdresses, and that the young village men were going in for the kind of elaborate caps which once had been the prerogative of folk like the Sweetwaters. They seemed to like a lot of pleating in their tunics, too. Liza began to feel dowdy.
But the sunshine was pleasant; even the castle towering up at the end of the street looked more hospitable than grim. She followed the lane around the foot of the castle hill, turned into West Street and presently took the lane to the packhorse bridge. The trees were in full and heavy leaf, meeting above the river and rustling softly in a light wind.
She stopped on the bridge to look down at the water, and gazed at her reflection in it, wondering if she had really become dowdy. Since the Lanyons now had a fine house, they ought to dress accordingly. Weaving for long hours was tiring these days. Perhaps she should buy some good cloth in Dunster and get some modern patterns for gowns.
The water rippled into rings as a trout came up. When the ripples settled, there were two reflections in the river. She swung around. “Christopher!”
Like her, he was older. The fire had died in his tonsure, although it was not grey but had faded from flame to sandy, though a few traces of the original flame colour remained. There were lines in his face. But the rest was the same—snub nose, freckled chin, amber eyes smiling and, resting on the parapet beside her own, shapely hands with sandy hairs on them. It was a little surprising that at Joanna’s baptism no one had noticed his resemblance to Nicky, but the church was often shadowy, and a man always looked different in full priestly vestments.
Astonished at seeing him, she gazed at him in wonder and he laughed. “There’s no magic. I never go to the dell now. It has…memories of something I value very much but know must never be repeated. I come here instead. I come nearly every morning and linger for a while. We argued here once, but it was only because we were so much in love and knew we had no hope of marrying. Do you remember?”
“Of course I remember.”
“If you came out walking, on any day when it’s not raining, at this time and came to this bridge, you’d be almost sure to find me here. Just as once you’d have been almost sure to find me in the dell. As I said, there’s no magic.”
“How are you? I heard you were still at the castle. You…you baptised a child in my family not long ago.”
“Ah. Yes, I did. I wondered if any of the Weavers would remember our—escapade. But if so, they didn’t mention it. You were mentioned, though. I heard you had a son.”
“Yes. Named Nicholas after my father. We call him Nicky.”
Does he know? Shall I tell him? Liza did not know what to say until Christopher said, “Is he with you? You are visiting your kinfolk, I suppose.”
“Yes. But Nicky isn’t here. He and my husband…they’ve both gone to the war, to fight for the king.”
“Your son as well? How old is he?”
“Thirteen.”
He might work it out from that, but he showed no sign of doing so, and Liza’s racing heart had quietened. She would not tell him. It would disturb his peace, and he did seem peaceful; reconciled, at least. She said again, “How are you? Are you well—happy?”
“You know, I think I am. I live at the castle and hold services for the servants and the men in the garrison. I have conducted weddings for some of them, given the last rites to others. Sometimes I run errands here and there.”
“If you’re really happy, then I’m glad.”
He leaned on the parapet, looking down at the water. “It’s a quiet life but not dull.” He paused and then said, “I ride out quite often on the errands I mentioned. As far as Withypool, sometimes. There’s a woman in the castle who sweeps and dusts and she has parents there. They’re old and not well and she sends them comforts by me, and money when she can spare some of her wage. I add a little to it. I like the old pair. He used to be the Sweetwaters’ harbourer, before he got too old. Faulkner, that’s their name. I do jobs about the cottage and garden for them because they’re both lame. Liza, you must be very anxious, with your husband and son away at the war, but apart from that, I hope your life is good.”
“Yes. I think it is.”
There was a silence. Then he said, “It’s over, isn’t it? The storm and the passion. No more lightning in the air between us. No more agony. I just feel I am standing on this bridge beside a very old friend.”
“So do I. As though we hadn’t really been parted all this time. As though we’d been together often, only I’ve forgotten it, as one forgets dreams. Oh!” A wave of guilt had poured over her. “I shouldn’t say such things! Not with Peter and Nicky both in danger. I don’t know if I shall ever see them again. Aunt Cecy—did you see Aunt Cecy at the baptism?”
“Was she the very elderly lady with the sharp tongue?”
“Yes! She was hinting last night that they might both be killed, and I hate her for that but it’s true and I should be thinking of nothing but them. Yet I’m standing here with you and saying…thinking…feeling…”
“You are talking to a friend. I am sorry for your fears and I wish I could reassure you. All I can do is pray for you and for them.”
“I’m going home again tomorrow, if I can bear the thought of the saddle. I can’t face staying near Aunt Cecy!”
There was another silence, until at last he said, “I pray for you anyway, every single night. I am happy. My life is certainly good. Yet there’s something missing and always will be. I shall always miss you, Liza. I always have. I can’t help it.”
“I know. I feel the same. Exactly the same.”
“There’s another dell,” said Christopher, “half a mile, perhaps, from the packhorse bridge the Sweetwaters built on their land, on the Allerbrook side. It’s lonely, well off the track. It doesn’t grow bluebells but there are foxgloves there. I found it one day when I was coming back from the Faulkners and tried to take a shortcut to Washford. I needed to call on the monks there with a message from the steward. He arranges to buy fleeces from the monks, to be turned into cloth by a Dunster weaver—not one of your family. It’s to provide livery for the garrison.”
“Yes?” Liza was puzzled.
“My shortcut wasn’t a shortcut at all. It was a sheep track and it wandered in all directions, but I found the dell on the way. The sheep path turns off the main track just by a standing stone, a small one, the only one in that part of the moor. Liza, I visit the Faulkners every second Tuesday and I’ll be there on Tuesday of next week. In the afternoon, if the weather is kind, I may go out of my way and take a rest in that dell. I’ll be there every Tuesday fortnight, given fair weather.”
“Should you be saying this to me?” said Liza.
“Perhaps not, but aren’t we old enough now to be—just friends? It would warm some part of me that has always been left chilled, if we could once in a while meet and talk, just talk. Would it be so wrong? Friendship is a happy thing.”
Liza did not know what to answer. The words some part of me that has always been left chilled had come home to her. Within her, too, was something that had longed for warmth, for comfort, and never had its wish granted, a secret poor relation longing to hold out its hands to a hearth fire but forbidden to draw near.
She said nothing and he did not ask for an answer. He kissed her before they parted, but just in kindly fashion on the forehead, and then walked away, but he glanced back, just once. He wanted to see her again and she wanted to see him. The old longing for each other’s company had not faded, although now it was no longer physical. They didn’t want to make love, only to be together and talk, but yes, they did want that. It hadn’t changed. And he hadn’t been able to stop himself from offering them a way.
She knew even before she had turned to go home that as long as the skies were dry, she would be in that other dell next Tuesday.
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
COMING HOME
Peter was too giddy to walk, but the owner of the Welsh voice took charge of him. He found himself being carried to a tent in the Tudor encampment. Someone gave him something to drink and he fell asleep. When he woke in the evening he felt easier, although his head still throbbed and when he gingerly fingered it, he found a tender lump.
It was another full day before he could stand up without the world swimming around him, but he told the Welshman who had helped him that he ought to get word to his leader, Sir Ned Crowham, who was one of Oxford’s captains, and this called forth some startling news.
“The Earl of Oxford’s gone to Leicester with King Henry. Leicester’s the nearest city and the king’s making a triumphal entry.” The Welshman gave Henry Tudor’s new title without a flicker of hesitation. He grinned. “Richard of Gloucester had a crown on over his helmet. King Henry has it now. He’ll ride into Leicester in style, indeed he will. But the earl set some sorting out in hand before he went. Well organised is John de Vere, and King Henry, too. He made lis
ts of names—all his lords and captains and most of their followers. If you’re Peter Lanyon…that’s what you said?”
“Yes, I am.”
“Did you have a man along with you, by the name of Jarvis Hannacombe?”
Peter sat up more sharply than was good for him, but he ignored the thud of pain in his skull. “Yes, I did! Is there news of him?”
“It is not good news,” said the Welshman sympathetically. “Nor is there good news of Crowham. They’re both dead.”
“Oh, dear God.”
“Crowham was found lying on his back with his breastplate smashed in, and a wound in his chest. Hannacombe was facedown on top of him, with his head half off and a bloodied dagger in his hand. Looks as if he threw himself on top of Crowham when he fell and tried to defend him, only Crowham’s wound was mortal already. Meant something to you, did they, Crowham and this Jarvis Hannacombe?”
“Yes,” said Peter, feeling his mouth shrivel as he said it, as though he had taken a gulp of verjuice. Ned Crowham was a friend who had turned into an enemy. What he had meant, in the end, was as bitter as any crab apple. But Jarvis was a country lad who hadn’t cared a straw for York or Lancaster. He’d come because Peter had told him to and, perhaps, for the sake of an adventure. And died for it.
“It was an honourable end,” said the Welshman, kindly enough, seeing Peter’s face. “For them both.”
“I’m sure it was.”
“And you had a pony in the horse lines. One of your comrades knew which one it is and he’s taking care of it. He was pleased you’d been found alive.”
Peter said, “I must get myself on my feet. Are we free to go home, or not?”
“If you want. We’re all small fry and you’re walking wounded. But a whole lot of men have gone to Leicester, following the king. You come from the southwest, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Not many of you in the fighting,” said the Welshman. “But there were two in Gloucester’s pack, that came across to try and kill King Henry. Father and son, they were. They’re prisoners. They’ll hang.”
The House of Lanyon Page 37