The House of Lanyon

by Valerie Anand

  “Who told you that? They have it wrong, anyway,” said Liza. “That was Peter, before he and I were betrothed. The girl you almost married was called Marion, wasn’t she, Peter?”

  “Yes. Marion Locke. That’s right. But…” Richard had turned dusky crimson and Peter was looking at him curiously. “What’s the matter, Father? It’s just a bit of garbled gossip. I can’t think how Nicky got hold of it.”

  “It was something I heard in a tavern. I believe this Marion Locke lived in Lynmouth,” said Nicky, keeping it vague and remembering that Herbert Dyer did not want his name mentioned.

  Richard, however, was already thinking about Herbert, and with loathing. I let it out to that man Dyer and he talked, God curse him. He does business in Lynmouth at times. I might have known! She still haunts me. I think she gets into my soul and takes over my tongue. I still dream of her at times. She’s using Nicky. I feel hot and my heart is pounding. Why did this…this little human accident have to come here and…?

  “I’m angry, that’s all!” he barked. “Don’t stare at me like that, boy! I don’t like being gossiped about, and garbled gossip’s worst of all!”

  “But there was more than that,” said Nicky, wrinkling his brow in a thoughtful frown. “The girl had cloudy yellow hair, hadn’t she?”

  “Yes, but what of it?” Richard snapped. “I saw her once, when I called on her parents to put a stop to the business of her and Peter. That’s how I know.”

  “But at the time, you had a very odd-looking horse, called Splash. I saw him myself, when I was a tiny boy and he was a very old horse, out at grass,” Nicky said. “I was talking to a man in a Lynmouth tavern…”

  “About me?” demanded Richard.

  “Why not? I talk to whoever I like about whatever I like,” said Nicky. “I’m not your grandson now, remember? I spoke of this girl Marion and I spoke of Splash and what he looked like and a fellow sitting nearby overheard me. He said that once, when he was a boy herding goats in the Valley of the Rocks, he saw a horseman come into the valley on a horse just like Splash, with odd-looking splodgy dapples, running into each other. He’d never seen a horse with a coat like that before and never saw another after. The man had a girl behind him, and she had hair like a pale gold cloud.

  “He was almost poetic,” said Nicky, enjoying his erstwhile grandfather’s suffused face and glassy eyes. “They got down and left the horse—and a black-and-white dog—at the valley mouth and walked on to Castle Rock. I know the valley, so I know where he meant. They were quarrelling.”

  There was a silence. Then Richard said, “What’s this rigmarole?” in a quiet voice which was somehow more alarming than when he was shouting.

  Peter, however, was frowning. “I remember Splash and I never saw another horse like that, either. And Marion’s hair…did you ever meet her in the Valley of the Rocks, Father? God’s elbow, you surely didn’t….” Richard’s face now was purple, and Peter’s eyes were widening. “It can’t be true. You didn’t have ideas of courting her for yourself! Did you?”

  “Of course not! This is all a tarradiddle. I can’t think…”

  “Nicky,” said Liza, distressed, “did you make this up because you are still angry at being disowned?”

  “No, Mother. What I’ve said is what I heard. Truly.”

  “He’s lying!” shouted Richard. “He’s…!” There were beads of perspiration on his forehead. He stopped, gasping for breath, and half came to his feet, clutching at the edge of the table. Then he let go with one hand and jammed his palm against his chest. “I…”

  He couldn’t get any more words out. He staggered and fell, and might have pulled the table over except that Alfred and Nicky grabbed hold of it in time, and Richard’s fingers lost their grip. Just as Liza sprang up and rushed around the table to help him, he crashed to the floor.

  “Father-in-law!” Liza dropped to her knees beside him. “What’s the matter? Oh, someone help me sit him up! What’s wrong?”

  Nicky was on his feet, too, appalled. It was as though he had kicked a pebble, and sent a landslide roaring down a hillside. Ellen and Peter had joined his mother at Richard’s side and were lifting him into a sitting position, resting his back against the nearest wall.

  “Can you not stand, Master Lanyon?” Ellen asked in concern. Richard, still pressing his hand to his chest, only shook his head. Sweat poured down his engorged face and his eyes were terrified. They sought Peter’s and he struggled to speak but could only make gobbling sounds. Blobs of spittle appeared on his mouth.

  “I’m here, Father. Take it slowly.”

  Somehow, Richard dragged a breath into his body and used it to force words out. “Not…slowly. No…time. Going to die. Priest.”

  “You’re not going to die. People don’t just die, like that, over dinner,” said Liza in resolutely cheerful tones. “Take deep breaths.”

  “Going to die. Got to…get shriven. Can’t die…with such a sin on me. Can’t…”

  “Father Matthew do say anyone can hear a confession if there b’ain’t no priest handy,” said Alfred. “Heard him tell us that, one Sunday. Master Lanyon, you ease your mind now, and then you’ll likely feel better. Just to me, if you like, not bein’ family. Might be easier.”

  “Doesn’t matter…shan’t be here to worry…aaah!” It was a moan of pain and he hunched forward, holding his chest as though he thought it might break apart. “Got to say…she wants me to say…she won’t go away till I do…be waiting for me…”

  “Who?” asked Alfred. “Who, Master Lanyon? Who is she?”

  “Marion.”

  “Marion?” Peter burst out. “What are you saying, Father?”

  “Wanted her…for me. Wanted…make her your stepmother.” An awful rictus on Richard’s face appeared to be a kind of grin. “Met her…in the valley. Walked her up Castle Rock. Asked her to…marry me…she wouldn’t. Quarrel. Mist blowing in. Didn’t mean it.” His voice was fainter, as though his strength was going. “Caught hold of her. She broke away. Couldn’t see…cliff edge. She…”

  “She went off Castle Rock?” said Peter in a low voice. “Is that what you’re saying? You…you killed her?”

  “Accident. Didn’t mean…” His voice gave out and his head fell back. He slid down the wall and let go of his chest, to strike feebly at the air with two clenched fists, before he slumped into unconsciousness. They shook him, shouted at him. Then Liza snatched a little silver spice tray out of the Crowham salt and held it in front of his lips. No mist appeared on it. He was no longer breathing.

  Alfred, shaking his head, tested for a pulse in Richard’s neck and sat back on his heels. “He’s gone.” He looked up at Peter. “I’m that sorry, sir.”

  “Sorry?” said Peter. “You may well be. I’m not. I can’t believe…oh, no, I can’t believe…!” He sprang to his feet and stood there, staring down at his father’s body. “Oh, carry him to his room. Put him on his bed! Alfred, Nicky, just do it! I won’t touch him! I’d sooner touch pitch…or eat muck from the midden!”

  “Peter…” Liza went to him and put a timid hand on his arm, but he shook her off.

  “All my life,” he said, addressing not Liza but the hall in general, the table, the roof beams, the red-and-white Tudor roses on the panelling, the leaded windows, the rushes on the floor, “all my life I’ve given in to him. All my life he’s been the one who says. I’m fifty years old and he still called me boy! He wanted a big house—I had to see our substance wasted on it. To get the substance to begin with, I was to marry for money while he indulged himself with the girl I wanted!”

  “Peter!” wailed Liza.

  “And when she wouldn’t play his game,” he shouted, “he killed her! He bloody well killed her and let me think she’d run off with another man! Let everyone think it!”

  He flung away from them all in a frenzy of released rage, hammering a Tudor rose with a fist, kicking another on a window chest and shouting, shouting in repetitive fury.

  “All my life he�
��s had his way, never mine, never mine! He’s despoiled our property for this house, like an old stag lying in a cornfield, crushing what he’s lying on and eating everything within reach. Like the Sweetwaters riding across crops when they chase the same old stag! I was the one rewarded on a battlefield, but he took my reward from me and used it to suit himself. We’ll do this with it, we’ll do that. As though it were his! Always saying he’s right, he knows best, he’s the only one who should have a say! Calling me boy when I was a grown man and never a word of thanks when I looked after Allerbrook while he was away fighting—never a single word of praise! And all the time, all the time, he killed Marion Locke!”

  “Peter!” Liza protested. “Peter! It was all long long ago and—”

  “She’ll never be long long ago for me. I loved her. I loved her!”

  “And I loved Christopher Clerk!” Liza shrieked. “And now I see why! He wasn’t a Lanyon!”

  If anything could seize his attention, that would, but he didn’t even seem to hear. “I hate this house! It’s built on her bones! I’d like to burn it down! I will burn it down!” Peter bellowed, and would have made straight for the kitchen, where there was a fire, except that Liza got to the kitchen door first and stood with her arms spread wide, and Nicky and Alfred returned at that moment from laying Richard on his bed.

  “I see,” said Peter, glaring at his wife. “I’m still not to have my own way. Not ever, even at my age. No say in my own daughter’s marriage, no say when money was cast away to build this house, or when land was cast away to the Sweetwaters! I thought I had a son once, but then I found I didn’t even have that!”

  “Peter, stop this, stop it!”

  “Master Lanyon…Father…I still think of you as that…please don’t. I never thought…I never expected…” Nicky was pale with horror.

  “If he weren’t dead, I’d like to kill him. I’d like to kill myself! I want to tear this place to pieces!” And once again he was hurling himself around the room, kicking and punching at the panels and the window seats.

  “Nicky,” said Liza frantically, “there’s only one person I know of who can quieten Peter down when he’s angry, and that’s Quentin. He cares more for her than for anyone else in the world. She’s at Sweetwater House….”

  “I know. Shall I fetch her?”

  “If you can. Get your horse and ride down the combe as fast as you can manage. Be careful bringing her back—she’s expecting again and not far off her time. But don’t lose time either. Go, Nicky, go!”

  CHAPTER FORTY-ONE

  A DUTY TO LIVE

  Nicky’s hireling resented being dragged away from the manger Alfred had filled for him, and he tried to bite, but Nicky saddled him, mounted and drove him ruthlessly down the track through the combe, reaching Sweetwater House in a matter of minutes. Once there, his demands to see his sister were so peremptory and loud that Quentin herself, slow-moving now with the bulk of her second baby, heard him shouting in the courtyard, looked out of the solar window and came down to meet him.

  “There’s no time to lose.” Nicky had not even dismounted. “Your grandfather’s collapsed and your father’s running mad and your mother thinks only you can calm him. It’s serious! It’s urgent. Quick, get up on this horse. Use the mounting block. Sit sideways behind me and I’ll get us back to Allerbrook as fast as is safe. Come on! I’ll explain as we go!”

  “What’s all this? Who are you? Where are you taking Quentin?” John ran from the house, with Walter, who these days was getting very rheumaticky, hurrying after him as best he could.

  “He’s my brother, there’s trouble at Allerbrook, they need me to help,” said Quentin rapidly. She hadn’t seen Nicky for years and couldn’t think where he had sprung from, but his frantic voice and the appeal in his eyes were enough. She was already perching sideways on the hireling’s back, and was still finishing her explanation over her shoulder as Nicky urged the horse back to the archway.

  “But you can’t—” John was running alongside. “You mustn’t…”

  “I can. I must. Follow me if you like! We might be glad of you!” said Quentin, a new, decisive Quentin, one whom John had never seen before, and with that she was gone. The horse, his nose once more pointing to the manger from which he had been so summarily dragged, began for once to pull, and Nicky actually had to check him, so as not to jolt Quentin too much.

  “What’s wrong at Allerbrook?” Quentin demanded as they made for the combe. “How did you come to be there? I’m glad to see you, but…”

  “Listen and I’ll tell you.”

  By the time he had enlightened her and answered her astounded questions, they were at the top of the combe and turning toward the house. Hearing cries and thumpings, he risked a trot to get them quickly into the yard, where he pulled up sharply, while the horse, with good reason, whinnied and sidled.

  Everyone except Peter was out in the yard. Ellen and the other two maids were clinging together, terrified. The dogs, all three of them, were running about, barking and yelping. Alfred was at the top of the porch steps, pounding on the door of the hall, while Liza, banging on a window and trying to see through it although it was so high that even on tiptoe she could only just peer over the sill, was screaming for Peter to let them in. And ominously, frighteningly, there was a seeping of smoke from the edges of the door, and the smell of it was in the air.

  “He’s in there!” Liza cried as Nicky jumped down and turned to help Quentin off. “He’s setting fire to the hall and he’s shut himself inside! He kicked Alfred from behind and threw him, threw him out of the door, and then he picked Ellen up and tossed her after Alfred like a…a piece of rubbish, and then pushed me and the other girls out, too, and Richard’s dead and he’s upstairs on his bed…!”

  “The inner doors! From the kitchen, the workroom! The upstairs door to the spare bedrooms! What about those?” Nicky demanded.

  “No use! He’s bolted them all. I saw him! I could just about see! Even the upstairs door! I saw him run upstairs and do it. We can’t get in!”

  “Then find me something to break the front door down! Alfred! Hurry! Hurry! Anything!”

  “Ah!” said Alfred, and abandoning his efforts with his fists, ran for the shed where the tools were kept, reappearing a second later with a gigantic hammer in one hand and an axe in the other, which he thrust at Nicky. “This any good?”

  “Yes. Go for the hinges!” yelled Nicky. “Ellen, Quentin, get that horse away before it hurts itself or someone else!”

  Ellen had pulled herself together and gone to help Quentin with the frightened horse. The two of them led it away toward the pony field, while Nicky and Alfred struggled with the door. It was not intended to withstand such treatment and yielded quite quickly, breaking away from its hinges and falling inward. Smoke billowed out, and behind it there was fire, which flared up at the inrush of air, licking up the panelling and dancing along the floor where the rushes had been kindled, bursting into a blaze where Peter had piled wooden furniture to help it along. Peter himself, soot stained and livid, tried to attack them, but Liza, shrieking for the maids to help as well, joined in and between them all, they were a match for him.

  “And no man kicks me from behind and gets away with it, not even you, Master,” said Alfred grimly, grasping one of Peter’s arms and helping to drag him out to safety.

  “But the house, the house!” Liza screamed as flame ran across the rushes, pursuing them.

  “It won’t burn that easy, not all that good stone,” Alfred said. “Get buckets, quick, Mistress, while we lock this madman up! And get these here dogs out from under my feet!” The lurcher, Pewter, seemed to think that Alfred was attacking Peter and had planted himself in front of them, barking furiously.

  “Oh, Father, whatever is the matter with you?” Quentin and Ellen reappeared and at the sight of Peter struggling against his captors, Quentin cried out in distress. She also made haste to get hold of Pewter’s collar, which brought her in front of her father. Seeing
her seemed to bring Peter partly to his senses.

  “Why are you here, Quentin? You’re almost at your time! Nicky, if you did this…!”

  “I sent him, you fool, because there’s a faint chance you might listen to her!” Liza shouted. “You won’t listen to anyone else! Ellen, take that dog from Quentin and shut it in somewhere! And the others!”

  Ellen came running to deal with the dogs. Liza was already hauling a bucket from the well. Peter tried to break free from his captors, but they wrestled him to the shed where, long ago, Liza had seen her first pig carcase stripped of its bristles, thrust him inside and bolted the door. “Here!” said Liza, pushing the bucket at them as they ran back to her, and clattering a second one into the well.

  Hoofbeats announced the arrival of reinforcements. After no more than a few minutes of distracted argument, John and Walter Sweetwater had saddled up and followed. They came headlong into the yard and pulled up, the horses sliding on their haunches. John leaped and Walter slithered to the ground, both exclaiming, “What the devil’s happening here?”

  “Where’s my wife?” John shouted. “Quentin, put that bucket down! Have you gone clean out of your head?”

  “God’s teeth, John, the house is on fire!”

  Hard behind them, attracted in from the fields by the sound of shouting, came Hodge, on foot, grasping a billhook. John and Walter, whose horses were edging nervously from the smell of smoke, promptly threw their reins at him, and with a shrug and a bewildered shake of the head, he led them away to add to those in the pony field.

  Ellen, having shut the dogs into the tool store and sped back to join the firefighters, was too distracted to see the two new arrivals as anything but merely two new pairs of hands. She thrust a full bucket straight at Walter.

  “What’s this? What’s this? What are you giving me this for?”

  “She thought you might be thirsty! Oh, go and throw it on the fire!” shouted Liza. Walter’s mouth opened in astonishment, but he suddenly grasped the need and bore the bucket to the hall as fast as he could limp. John seized Quentin, pulled her into the gateway, sat her down with her back against the gatepost, ordered her curtly to stay there and not move, and then joined in.