by Deryn Lake
‘And you believe this, who have had so many women, some of them most casually?’
‘Yes. Even the experience of lust is not wasted.’
Melior Mary had sat and thought. ‘But my childish grasp on Matthew Banister spoiled that part of his life.’
The Young Pretender had said, ‘Melior Mary, people allow their lives to be ruined. What others do to us is, in the end, in our hands. Come love, come hate, come passion, come revenge — there is always a moment when we can tell them to stop.’
She thought about that conversation again now, peeping round the trunk of the oak tree, imitating the cry of a cuckoo. Had Brother Hyacinth allowed himself to be ruined — or was it what fate had intended?
The Prince had spied her out of the corner of his eye and came running forward, bunch upon bunch of wild flowers held in his arms, thrown at her feet with a flourish. Then he dropped upon his knees and kissed the hem of her skirt — an extravagant gesture.
‘Highness, it is I who should be kneeling to you. Please rise, sir,’ she protested.
‘No, no — for you are my Princess, my Queen. Don’t you understand that I love you, Melior Mary?’
She laughed with happiness and was horrified to see him go pale and start to shake.
‘What is the matter?’
‘Somebody has walked past. I felt a skirt swish against me.’
‘But there’s nobody!’
‘Yet her fragrance is still in the air. Can you smell it?’
‘No, what do you mean?’
‘Perfume. A scented lady has gone by.’
Melior Mary laughed.
‘Then we have a ghost.’
‘To add to your others?’
The tone of his voice was grim. Physically brave though he might be, the hero of the ’45 had a dread of things unknown.
‘We have Giles the Fool,’ she answered lightly, ‘and he is harmless, enough, Heaven knows.’
‘I think there is more than he,’ he answered, rising to his feet and staring her in the eye. ‘A dark woman, heavily veiled, came out of one of the bedrooms and made me a curtsey before she vanished.’
Melior Mary gasped. The legend of Anne Boleyn’s ghost — she who would appear only to royalty — came crowding back into her brain. It had been seen only once before — when Charles I had visited Sutton Place during the Civil War — but undeniably it was a bird of ill-omen. The King to whom it appeared would never gain, or regain, his throne.
‘Her black eyes followed me everywhere, full of foreboding.’
As the Prince said this the day grew progressively more chill, and Melior Mary took the Pretender’s arm, saying, ‘Come, sir. I am tired of this sylvan game. Shall we go into the house and take a dish of tea?’
But Charles Edward was not in a mood to be cajoled for he pulled away and said, ‘There is another thing of which I must ask you. A thing that disquieted me when I heard it. It is that the Lord of the Manor of Sutton is accursed. That he and his heirs are doomed to death and despair. Is it true?’
Melior Mary had turned her head so that the brim of her hat masked her face as she answered.
‘Oh yes! Throughout our history one can see the evil thread of it.’
‘Even to you?’
She laughed bitterly.
‘I in especial. I gave my heart — then lost it and swore that I would never marry. And now I am to die childless — the last of the direct line.’
‘So how will the estate be settled?’
‘My uncle William and his son — also William — were the heirs but they died. So now my cousin John Wolffe — William’s eldest boy — is due to inherit, yet I often doubt he will.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘He is bloodless — a sickly creature — and his brothers are not strong. Something eats away at all three of them.’
‘And are there no girls to succeed?’
‘They all became nuns — even my silly cousin Arabelle. We are a doomed family.’
Charles Edward turned to look into her face and she saw that his eyes held, just then, the sad doomed look of the Stuarts.
‘Then we share an unkind fate,’ he answered, ‘for there is a curse on the Kings of Scotland also! James I murdered; James II killed; James III doomed to fight his own sons and be assassinated; James IV to fall at Flodden; James V to go mad; the Queen to die beneath the blade at Fotheringay — not one of them to end peacefully in their beds, do you realize?’
All the warmth had gone out of his face. ‘I want to triumph,’ he said. ‘I want to be King of England but there is a bane upon me. My great grandfather, Charles I executed; James II, my grandfather, deposed: there’s no hope for me! I am the child of a fated house.’
She did not know how to answer and he went on, ‘Just as you are. Wicked thoughts, old hates, lay in wait for us at the moment of our births. Who can save Charles Edward Stuart and Melior Mary Weston for God’s pity?’
They stared at each other in bleakness.
*
Garnet had not felt well since he left London. In fact though he had considered taking the public stage for his journey to Bristol, the thought of bumping over villainous roads, squeezed close to stale-smelling squires and frowsty farmer’s wives had made God’s air seem preferable. He had finally set off on horse-back.
He had said goodbye to Joseph some days before, for, though the recent disappearance of Charles Edward had puzzled them, it had been nonetheless decided that Garnet’s visit to Bristol should proceed: Captain Segrave, a one-armed Irish officer and an old associate of the Pretender, had arrived in the city and was engaged upon rallying the Jacobites.
‘And what do I say if they enquire for the Prince’s whereabouts?’ Garnet had asked as Joseph had minced, in scarlet beribboned shoes, up the gangplank of the ship headed for Spain.
‘Say that you cannot tell — that you are sworn to silence.’
‘But where is he in truth?’
‘Garnet, you know him better than I! He is having an affaire-de-coeur, obviously. He’s bored to distraction with Miss Walkinshaw, and is practising his charm on some beauty. He will contact you through Lady Primrose when he begins to tire, never fear!’ And with that Joseph had kissed Garnet affectionately and they had parted company.
But almost within a day of Joseph’s leaving the first symptoms of some kind of sweating sickness had seized his adopted son and now, rising after his first night’s stop in the town of Reading, Garnet found himself unable to face the mighty breakfast of ham, beef and onion pie, jugged hare and the mess of mussels that was set before him. He contented himself instead with a pint of ale. But this sat uneasily upon his stomach and, by the time he had reached the village of Theale, he was taken ill and was forced to dismount, where he vomited behind a tree.
After that his horse led him. He leaned forward over its neck, his body drenched with sweat, his eyes closed in a face white and drawn. He could not remember ever having felt so ill and wondered if he was host to some tropical sickness, contracted in Spain.
If it had not been that his fingers were woven into the horse’s mane he would probably have fallen off, landing in the River Kennett along whose banks his mount was placidly plodding in the lazy afternoon. His last hope before he plunged into oblivion was that the creature might take him into a village before nightfall — and after that the earth and the sky merged into one and he fell a million flights into darkness.
Waking again was strange because, though he was aware that he lay in crisp lavendered sheets, he was unable to say a word nor see clearly where he was. Garnet knew that he was awfully near death and could hear the murmur of prayers from the little hobgoblin figure that piled him in a mound of blankets and held his wrists when he tried to throw them off.
‘Oh God!’ he groaned.
And a funny little face — the only feature discernible a pair of thick pebble glasses — put its mouth close to his ear and whispered, ‘Drink this, my son. If you will cooperate with God, He will co-operate
with you.’
And then some liquid with the after-flow of wine but the sweet smell of herbs was poured down his throat, and he slept again more comfortably.
When he finally woke up it was midsummer, the sun high in the heavens, the air droning with bees, the smell of June roses wafting through the tiny mullioned window: the light from which showed him that he lay in a small stone chamber, the little hobgoblin sitting on a rough wooden chair at the end of his bed and peering at him anxiously through a mane of white curls.
‘Oh, my son, are you restored?’ it said.
‘Yes, with God’s help — and yours,’ answered Garnet. ‘Tell me where I am.’
‘At Inglewood Priory.’
‘And where is that?’
‘Not far from the River Kennett. Between Kintbury and Hungerford.’
‘And how did I get here?’
‘You fell at my feet, my son. I was fishing and your horse stopped beside me to drink — and there you were! That was over two weeks ago.’
‘Two weeks! I was due in Bristol on June 6.’
The Little Monk smiled, resembling a merry barn owl.
‘Well, that’s an appointment you’ve missed. Today is Midsummer Night — when the fairies play tricks.’ He looked sad for a moment and added, ‘It can be a cruel time of year.’
‘And who are you?’ said Garnet.
‘Oh, nobody important. Just a member of the Brotherhood whose job it is to tend the animals and catch the fish. I am not the Abbot if that is what you thought.’
Observing his homespun habit and worn-out sandals, Garnet had not for a moment suspected that the little fellow could be anyone of standing in the monastic hierarchy but he said with kindness, ‘You are obviously highly regarded that you are in charge of the hospice.’
The Little Monk looked rueful.
‘I think that is because, in truth, I am good with horses and their complaints. I had a way of making up little brews and ointments to soothe them and then I went on to experiment with medicaments for the human species. They have proved successful over the years.’
‘And what may I call you?’
‘Little Monk. Everybody does. The old Abbott gave me a name when he received me into the Brotherhood but nobody uses it.’
‘And what is your real name?’
The little man shuffled his well-worn feet.
‘I don’t know. Like you I came in here through the charity of the Brothers. They found me raving and starving on the highway and they nursed me back to life. But when I regained my senses I had no memory of what had gone before.’
He suddenly looked vulnerable and pathetic and Garnet had a ridiculous urge to comfort him. Very vaguely the little man reminded him of someone.
‘And how long ago was that?’
‘Over thirty years. It seems to me I’ve been here forever. And what of you, sir? Do you hail from London?’
‘No, no. I live in Spain — in Castile. I am in England on — business.’
The pebble glasses turned towards him anxiously.
‘Oh dear! Should we send word to your family? Will they be worried that ill has befallen you?’
Garnet shook his head.
‘No, I am often away for long periods without communication. They will have no cause for alarm.’
The Little Monk’s face brightened.
‘Then you will be able to stay here for your recuperation! Nothing would do you more good than to rest in the sunshine. I could take you to the river and show you how to cast a line.’
Garnet smiled at him. What a curio the man was! Slightly mad, with a knack for healing — and yet with such an endearing way about him. Like a crazy archangel with that great halo of white hair.
‘Would you enjoy that?’ he said. ‘Teaching me how to fish?’
The Little Monk looked down at his toes.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘If I hadn’t been a monk I would like to have had a son. It would have been so jolly to have walked with him and shown him all the wonderful things of the countryside.’
Garnet could have wept.
‘Well, Little Monk,’ he said, ‘as soon as I am fit to move about you must introduce me to the splendours of the English landscape. For though I was born in England my father took me to Spain when I was a mere babe-in-arms. It would be a rare experience to see my homeland through your eyes.’
The little man’s smile was a beam.
‘It would be as rare for me, Mr...?’
‘Gage. Garnet Gage.’
*
In Melior Mary’s beautiful gold-appointed bedchamber, within her softly curtained four-poster, she and Charles Edward lay clasped together in sleep. An hour after midnight he had loved her body with his and now he lay, one arm around her, the other resting on the pillow, whilst woven round one of his fingers was a lock of her silver hair. They were perfect as they slept. He, so slim and delicate featured; she like a piece of sculpture in the moonlight.
Yet his rest had not been quiet. He had dreamed that the sweet, haunting fragrance of a scented lady was in the room; that he had opened his eyes and seen her watching from the end of the bed. He had dreamed too that the curse of the House of Stuart was catching him up. That he was doomed to failure, to idleness, to drink. He had woken shivering in the greyness of dawn and come to a decision. He must end his idyll at Sutton Place. He must return to the outside world and make one more final and desperate bid for the throne. He must rally Scotland, he must march south and this time not turn back.
But yet could he do it without the woman who lay, sleeping still, beside him? If Helen of Troy had launched a thousand ships could not this face, combined with his strength, raise again the clansmen who had once been prepared to die for him? And, moreover, he loved her. He cared nothing at all for Clementina Walkinshaw who had followed him from Scotland to France and who — though his mind veered away from the stark fact — had borne him a child ten months ago. He would pension Clementina off and establish Melior Mary Weston as his official mistress. Even his father could not object. And then if he was forced to marry some dull European Princess he would have his beautiful love set up in her own house — for by now in his imagination he had conquered England and was the Prince of Wales — to comfort him and relieve his brow of the cares of monarchy.
The Young Pretender drifted back to sleep with his mind at peace. His days of foolishness were at an end.
He would show the world what he could do with a beautiful Englishwoman as his consort. The crown of England was there for the grasping and nothing would stand in his way.
*
‘Well?’ said the Little Monk.
A gurgling trout with the iridescent scales of a rainbow lay at his feet. Garnet clapped his hands.
‘Well done. It must weigh ten pounds.’
‘Easily. There’s a good supper for you and the Father Abbot.’
‘Not you?’
The Little Monk smiled. He had a very beautiful nose and mouth but, rather at odds with them, a tough jaw line that suggested that, in his youth, he might have been quite a formidable fighter. He was not, thought Garnet looking at him closely, as small as his nickname suggested. In fact he was really of average height though rather stooped about the shoulders. Nor was he that old. Probably not a great deal more than in his middle fifties. But the quaint spectacles and the mass of white hair gave him the appearance of someone much older.
‘No.’ He sighed a little. ‘I don’t think I would enjoy eating that particular trout somehow. You see, he and I are old friends. I’ve chased him round this river many a long day and now I’ve caught him just to show you. I would feel that I was munching a companion. I’m the same over the geese. It is very foolish.’
His battered straw hat had been pushed back in the excitement of the catch and now it fell off and into the fast flowing Kennett.
‘Oh dear,’ said the Little Monk. ‘I was rather fond of that.’
The trout gave a frantic wriggle lying, as it was, in the warm sunshine.
‘Throw him back in,’ said Garnet.
‘What?’
‘Throw him in. He’s a friend of yours. The Father Abbot will never know. Come on, quickly — let the poor devil live.’
‘Oh my son, my son — you think very much as I do.’
And with that the Little Monk freed the fish from the hook and cast it back into the bubbling stream, where it floated — hopeless and flat — for a minute or two, before giving a great bursting leap that told them that it still had life.
‘I fish a little in Spain,’ said Garnet, ‘though I have none of your skills. My father sometimes comes with me — and really is quite good, though he would never admit so to anybody for fear of ruining his impression in the eyes of others.’
The pebble glasses turned towards him uncomprehendingly.
‘What do you mean?’
Garnet laughed.
‘Well, in his time — when he still lived in London — he was the great rake of his day; a beau and a dandy-prancer. But this masked a man of true courage; a man prepared to fight for the causes in which he believed. However, he would never show this to anyone except those closest to him, and is always at great pains not to spoil what he calls his prinkum-prankum.’
‘He is still alive?’
‘Very much so! Over seventy but actively involved in everything to this day.’
‘And your mother?’
‘No, she died at my birth.’
The Little Monk stared out to where the fish cavorted with the joy of living.
‘How sad for you — never to know her touch.’
‘She was a beauty. Look — there’s a likeness of her in this locket.’
Garnet flicked the clasp open and bent down to the level of the monk’s face. The funny pebble glasses moved themselves to within an inch of the delicate miniature and stared for a long moment. Then in the heat of the afternoon, the Little Monk staggered.
‘What is it, Brother?’
‘Nothing, my son. I felt a touch of faintness, that is all. The sun is probably too much for me without my hat. Tell me, what was your mother’s name?’
‘Sibella.’
‘What a pretty word,’ said the Little Monk, and with that his face turned towards Heaven and he fainted like a sack at Garnet’s feet.