“Got it all at thy tongue-tip, I see. Seems there’s a good bit of land,” said Harry. “Who does the accounts and sees to the taxes and whatnot?”
“Francis mostly. He liked doing things himself. He goes…no, he used to go…out with the reapers at harvest time.”
“Well, I can’t do any of that bar the reapin’,” said Harry. “And I don’t fancy livin’ in that big house up there, playing lord of the manor. It wouldn’t be fittin’. Gentry won’t call on the likes of me, and they’re right. Reckon I’d do better to sell the place, along with the home farm. Can’t let it,” he added ruminatively. “That’ud look daft, landlord living here at Rixons and tenants spreadin’ theirselves all over the big house. But sellin’—that’s different. Money’ll come in handy and we can keep the rest of the land. Plenty there. Plenty for Tobias one day.”
Jane coughed again. She had not been in the care of the businesslike Francis for nothing, and matters of inheritance had also been discussed at court at times. Everyone was interested in them and she knew something of the law. “Harry, you can’t sell my inheritance unless I give my consent. And I won’t. I don’t want my old home sold.”
“Don’t ’ee now?” Harry spoke quite easily. “And it can’t be put on the market except ’ee signs a bit of paper? I take it that’s what ’ee means.”
“Yes.”
“You’ll sign,” said Harry. “Wives have to obey husbands and if ’ee says no to me, I’ll beat the consent out of ’ee. No fun for either of us in that, but I’ll do it. Shouldn’t risk it if I were you, maid. You ought to see the state Tom Hayward’s in.”
Jane, still looking down at her hands, felt sick. He meant it; she knew he did and she would never be able to withstand him. Her home, which had been left to her, was going to be sold against her will. Fury again rose in her, fury that almost stopped her breath.
Careful.
“Harry, we’re both tired and upset. Should we even try to decide anything yet? We’ll have to hold the funeral from Allerbrook House, I suppose. That was Francis’s home, after all. Shouldn’t we leave deciding anything till all that’s over? I think,” said Jane, forcing the words out through her rage as though she were pushing a plough through heavy soil, “that we really ought to go to sleep.”
They hadn’t quarrelled, not exactly. But that night they slept back-to-back, and neither reached a hand toward the other.
In Allerbrook House, Dr. Amyas Spenlove was sitting up late. His bedchamber, which was in the east wing, had an austere bed without curtains and a shelf of books—theological works, some treatises on travel, history and politics and, very precious to him, a volume on the art of calligraphy and illumination.
His pigment-smeared table stood to one side, and on the wall he had a crucifix an uncle had given him when he qualified as a priest. The cross was two feet tall, and the figure was made of ivory. It was very well carved. Too well carved for comfort, Dr. Spenlove sometimes thought. The craftsman had understood the human body, understood pain.
The table held writing things, paper and parchment. Beside it was the cupboard for his pigment jars. The lockable drawer for his valuable supplies of gold and silver leaf was under the tabletop, like the drawer in Francis’s study. He had completed three of the Gospels commissioned by the Taunton gentleman, and was now working on the final one, St. John.
He liked to work at night when the house was quiet. It came hard on the eyesight, but he kept a supply of good-quality candles and a pair of eyeglasses that fitted firmly on the bridge of his nose. Armed with these, he could manage very well, even by candlelight.
At the moment he was preparing to work but not, this time, with pigments, only with black ink. Before he began, he folded his hands and addressed the poor contorted ivory figure.
“I ask forgiveness, Saviour, for what I am about to do. I will break the laws of men but not the laws of justice, not the laws—I think—of God. We are told to render unto Caesar that which is Caesar’s, but Harry Hudd isn’t Caesar and Mistress Jane did nothing more wrong than protect her own honesty. She shouldn’t be married to someone like Hudd. Perhaps I’m doing him an injustice and he will not throw Allerbrook away, but I fear that he will and I know how much Mistress Jane loves it. I’ve known since she told me on the way to London. I heard the tears in her voice today when she said she thought Francis must have changed his will. She will not want to lose it, but that man is capable of making her. I must act now! She will soon ask to see the will for herself, and whatever happens, she must not be a party to this. I don’t think I’m wrong. I know his type. Christian humility, he calls it, and knowing his place. I call it damned obstinacy and sheer bloody-mindedness, and that sweet, decent lady shan’t suffer for it.”
He had brought Francis’s will up from the study and it was on his table, loosely rolled. He opened it out flat, weighing down the corners with books and an inkstand. It was lucky that he hadn’t actually finished reading the document aloud. When he brought the will to everyone’s attention a second time, as he would now have to do, he could say with truth that the first reading had been incomplete. He really had stopped short of the final paragraph, which listed the details of the Allerbrook estate. But there was still a convenient space at the bottom, enough for two or three extra lines.
He took a sheet of paper. The first thing he had to do was practise the writing. It was Francis’s own, for sure; Spenlove recognized it. It was a sprawling hand, but not elaborate. It shouldn’t be hard to imitate. He would have to make sure that the colour of the ink matched precisely….
He studied the ink and the handwriting for some time and then began, thoughtfully, to trim a fresh quill before beginning to experiment.
He had no hearth in his room, but later, deep in the night, he took his candle and crept down to the kitchen. In some houses kitchenmaids slept beside their work, but at Allerbrook the girls shared a chamber in the west wing. No one was there to see him shift one of the turfs that kept the fire banked through the night, and push in some pieces of torn paper. The fire flared, consuming the new fuel, and sank once more to ember red. The evidence of his experiments was gone. Spenlove replaced the turf and stole away, well pleased with his night’s work.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Oath is Taken
1541
Dr. Spenlove made the funeral arrangements and when the day came, Jane and Harry were at Allerbrook House early. The Haywards, however, were absent.
“We all know whose fault this business was,” said Harry grimly to Ed on the eve of the ceremony. “If that daft son of yours knew how to keep himself to himself, there’d be no packhorse carryin’ a coffin up the combe from Clicket this day. You can all stop home and get on with whatever wants doing and Tom had better do his work right or I’ll skin his back for him. Again. The baby,” he added, “comes with us.”
At the house, Peggy and Dr. Spenlove greeted them soberly and showed them to the study. The coffin had been placed on top of the table and it was still open, so that any who wished could make their last farewells.
“We thought in here because Master Francis used to work here,” Peggy said. “It’s his room, like, and he were fond of it.”
The hall was ready for guests, with a white cloth on the table and a good deal of cold food, covered by napkins or lids, awaiting the return of the funeral party. “And there’s a couple of chickens to go on the spit,” said Peggy. “Beth’s stayin’ back, to see to ’un. She feels kind of awkward, like, seein’ how she were mixed up in how it all come about. She’ll take care of little Tobias for ’ee, too, while ’ee’s down at the churchyard.”
“Don’t know who’ll come,” Harry said. “Folk from Clicket, I daresay, but they won’t all want to climb a mile back up the combe from the church, once he’s buried. No need to overdo things, Peggy.”
Peggy, however, was right and Harry quite mistaken. Ralph Palmer and Dorothy had as it happened arrived lately to visit the ailing Thomas Stone in Clicket and were the first to ride
up the combe. Next, Father Anthony Drew jogged in on his mealy-nosed moor pony, black gown hoisted clear of his leggings, greying hair tidily trimmed, face serious. Tim took charge of the pony in deferential fashion, and Father Drew came into the hall, to clasp hands with Spenlove and Jane, and murmur his condolences in his deep Somerset voice.
“It’ll be a good, respectful service, though one has to be careful with the wording nowadays. Seems to me the king wasn’t wise, breakin’ away from Rome and closing the monasteries but wantin’ everything to stay the same otherwise. He still says these here Lutherans are heretics, but the fact is, cuttin’ loose from Rome, it’s opened the door to ’un. Folk are thinkin’ and talkin’ different.”
“My father’s been doing that for a long time,” said Ralph gloomily. “I worry about him. He thinks and talks too much.”
“Does he? He’d do better not to trouble his old head,” Drew said. “Why should he? I have to, bein’ a vicar, but I swear it’s aged me ten years. I just want to take care of my flock. Well, well, I mustn’t go on about my troubles. This is a sad day for you, Mistress Hudd, and for all of us. We’ll all miss your brother.”
Others were now crowding in: the Greys who had replaced the Shearers at the farm across the combe; Job Searle, the tall, gaunt Rixons shepherd with his wife, Jennet; Alfred the blacksmith, who was Violet Hayward’s cousin, and his strident wife, Annet, who was nearly as hefty as her husband.
Among the others who made their way up the mile-long combe were John Dyer, the carpenter who had made the coffin, Hal Jones, the elderly, widowed potter, whose earthenware was in use in nearly every house for miles, Simon the Miller from the water mill, Arthur and Marjorie Wright from the White Hart inn, and Will and Betty Hannacombe from Hannacombes farm on the other side of the ridge. Hard behind them came Owen and Katherine Lanyon on horseback.
“Dr. Spenlove let us know. Idwal and Frances couldn’t come—Frances is expecting and near her time. They’re staying at home and keeping an eye on young Stephen. That young limb,” said Owen, “gets his fingers into everything. Good day, Master Palmer. And Mistress Dorothy! Is Master Stone not with you?”
“Master Stone is very ill,” Ralph said. His dark eyes were full of their old beguiling smile as he kissed Jane and then Katherine Lanyon in greeting. “His steward fetched us several days ago. We’d ridden from Dover to stay with my father so we were at Bideford. Master Stone has trouble with his breathing and the physician can’t tell us what ails him. He began to fail after Dorothy’s mother died. Dorothy’s woman Lisa is taking care of him today.”
Jane, welcoming Dorothy with the courtesy that must be extended to guests who are attending the funeral of one’s brother, thought about fat, pallid Mary Stone and secretly marvelled that Stone had been so stricken by her death. Dorothy, too, was getting fat now and would probably end up looking just like her mother. Ralph was not likely to prove as devoted as Thomas had apparently been. Ralph’s kiss of greeting had been very enthusiastic. She suspected that he was still a philanderer.
Turning to the Lanyons, she asked if there was any news of Sybil.
“Not that we know of,” Katherine told her. “She’s still at Stonecrop as far as we’re aware. I take it that she will not be here today?”
“No,” said Jane rather blankly. In all the confusion and with so many things to do, she had not thought of sending word to Sybil. “No, Sybil won’t be here.”
“What happened to Andrew Shearer?” Owen asked. Jane shook her head, but Arthur Wright overheard and said, “I think he’s got one of the Luttrell farms, over toward Dunster. Someone mentioned it in the White Hart a year or two back.”
Jane was not interested in the fortunes of Andrew Shearer, who had so thoroughly shipwrecked Sybil’s life. Seeing a few more villagers arrive, she excused herself in order to greet them. She was then surprised to see a stranger, dressed in elegant black velvet, ride in on a good-looking bay gelding. She was about to go out and ask who he was when Ralph Palmer stepped past her and went out to meet the newcomer himself. A few minutes later he returned with the stranger at his side and said, “This is Master Russell, horsemaster, from the Carew estate at Mohuns Ottery. We are acquainted. I hoped he’d come. I let him know all about it. He has something to ask you, Mistress Hudd.”
“Later,” said the stranger, removing his hat. He was past his first youth, though still fit looking, and he was well-spoken. “All that can come later, after the ceremony. For the moment, we’re all at a funeral.”
“Quite,” said Jane, bewildered, and introduced Master Russell to her husband. It was almost time to set out.
It was over. The weather had held. Jane, looking—although she didn’t know it—both dignified and forlorn in her square-necked black stuff gown with its plain ashcoloured kirtle, was touched to see how many of the funeral party had after all chosen to return up the combe to partake of the repast at Allerbrook House.
“You’ve done very well. I’m so grateful,” Jane said, going into the kitchen to compliment Peggy and the other maids. “This is hardly a happy occasion, but it’s a success. Thank you.”
“Thing is, Mistress Hudd,” Peggy said, “what happens now? That’s what we’re all wondering—Beth and Letty and the Snowes and me.”
“I can’t tell you that,” said Jane, and felt the weight of depression settle in her stomach. “Not yet. We shall have to wait and see.”
She went back to the hall, where Francis’s wine and Peggy’s cider were in circulation and Master Russell was discussing horses with Harry. She heard the word Silvertail and went over to them. Harry looked around as she came up to them.
“This fellow wants to buy that horse that killed your brother. If it’s still an entire, that is. Is it?”
“Yes,” said Jane. “It’s very temperamental. If it hadn’t been…”
“Who’s to say? It’s all over and done with now,” said Harry. “Fact is, Master Russell here’s made an offer.”
Dr. Spenlove, tankard in hand, came to join them. “Master Russell is in charge of a small stud, it appears, and the king has sent out an edict requiring that taller horses with height and speed must be bred. Silvertail has both.”
“My master Peter Carew is abroad,” said Russell, “but provided funds and left me empowered to buy and sell as I thought fit, for the benefit of the stud. When my friend Ralph Palmer chanced to meet me and told me of this tragic business, he mentioned that Francis Sweetwater had owned a very striking horse that was nearly sixteen hands and was, he thought, a stallion. It sounds to me like the sort of animal I want. I also thought—very likely Mistress Hudd won’t have any use for him, anyhow.”
“I meant to put the brute down,” said Harry, assuming ownership without reference to Jane. “But if there’s a fair offer…well, if ’ee’d like to come and take a look at ’un now, sir, it’s out in the meadow.” He was more garrulous than usual, possibly because of Peggy’s cider. “Thing is,” said Harry in confiding but clearly audible tones, “I’ll be needin’ to sell up more than just that horse. Your master wouldn’t be interested in Allerbrook House and home farm hisself, would he?”
“That I couldn’t say, Master Hudd. As I explained, my employer is currently overseas and I have no means of contacting him.”
Spenlove drew a deep breath and put his tankard down on the table with enough of a bang to make them look at him in surprise. “It would be of no use if you did contact him,” he said. “There seems to have been a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” Jane was puzzled.
Harry frowned. “What’s ’ee on about? If it’s my wife’s consent ’ee’s worryin’ about, there’s no need. Jane’ll do as I ask, any time, won’t ’ee, maid?”
“Naturally,” said Jane bleakly.
I was right. Spenlove felt himself grow hot with rage. I knew it. I can hear the threat in his voice even if no one else can. He’ll make her do as he wants. Or would. Thank God I acted in time. Hoping that his flushed face would be put down to
embarrassment, he said in flustered tones, “But I’m sure I…didn’t I…?” and then appeared to brighten. “Oh yes, of course. Now I remember. I was still reading out the will the other day when you were so startled, Master Hudd, by some of the terms, when I explained them, that you burst out in astonishment. Why, I do believe I never read out the last two paragraphs at all!”
“This is private,” said Russell. “Perhaps one of your grooms would show me the horse?”
Harry nodded and Spenlove said, “Tim Snowe will show you—there he is, over in the corner. And there’s the Clicket vicar, Father Drew. Would you ask him to come here, please?”
Russell withdrew. Jane said, “Dr. Spenlove, what is all this? What’s in those last paragraphs?”
“You’ll see in a moment, but I want Father Drew to be with us. I feel there should be a witness. I was most remiss the other day. We were all upset, of course…ah, Father Drew. An awkward thing has occurred. I didn’t mean to deal with this matter today, at the funeral, but it seems necessary. Will you and Master and Mistress Hudd come with me for a few moments, please?”
In Francis’s study the table was empty now, its owner gone forever. Beside the table, looking nervous, Dr. Spenlove took his stand.
“I can’t apologize enough,” he said. “I was so shaken by events…but there it is. I never actually finished reading the will, and the final paragraph in particular is important. It makes a difference, Master Hudd, to what you can and can’t do. Let me see…oh, where have I put my eyeglasses?”
Father Drew, looking impatient, produced his own from a pouch sewn inside his black formal gown, and handed them over. “I daresay yours are in your room. But these here glasses magnify very well.”
“I don’t see how anything can make a difference,” said Harry loudly. “It’s for me to say what’s to be done with my wife’s property, b’ain’t it, given she consents to any sale, and she’ll do that, right enough. Didn’t ’ee hear her say so?”
The House of Allerbrook Page 14