“Shearer!”
“Aye. Him as led your sister into trouble, mistress. Nasty lot, they Shearers. Never did like that family. They’ve got a farm not that far from here. Pity that man Andrew don’t stay on it instead of making a nuisance of hisself, upsettin’ crowds and disturbin’ the peace.”
Before they reached the harbour they turned left and clattered up a winding cobbled lane toward the parish church, St. Michael’s. Madame La Plage and her serious, businesslike widower son Philip lived and worked almost opposite the church. At the house she found that Philip was out, but that his mother was there, busy but also harassed, urging a restless and uneasy workforce of sempstresses to concentrate on their tasks and stop whispering.
“Not that I don’t understand why they’re like this,” Madame La Plage said. She was close on sixty and though, as yet, she could sew well enough with the aid of eyeglasses, her back was growing humped and her throat, exposed by her fashionably square neckline, was wrinkled, like the wattle of a chicken.
“There’s been talk of attacking the church,” she said. “One of the girls says her own father’s all for it. He says it’s the orders of this young King Edward that popish images be taken out of churches and anyone who’s kept them is breaking the law. There are saints’ statues in niches in the wall on either side of the west door and she says her father won’t look at them when he goes to church of a Sunday. She’s upset. She likes the statues. Now, what can I do for you?”
Jane had made sketches of the new gown she required, and the doublets and hose she wanted for the boys, and had brought the necessary measurements. She and Madame La Plage were discussing details when they heard feet running up the cobbles, and Philip La Plage burst in, out of breath. Though only in his thirties, he was too plump for running uphill. Astonished, everyone turned to look at him, sempstresses with needles upraised, Madame La Plage holding the piece of charcoal with which she had been improving on Jane’s sketches.
“They’re on the march!” Philip gasped. “They’re going to march on St. Michael’s!” He caught sight of Jane. “Did you come on horseback?”
“Yes. On ponies. Tim’s round the back, tethering them.”
“Get him in through the back door. There’s real trouble coming. Listen!”
They were all still, ears alert. In the distance they heard it, the menacing mutter of an approaching mob. A few moments later the crowd appeared around the curve of the lane. Many were armed, mostly with staves but some with blades. Opposite, the vicar of St. Michael’s had appeared at the gate of the churchyard, looking frightened, as well he might, for every single face in that crowd seemed to be distorted with hate.
There was nothing that any of them could do. They called Tim inside, glad that the ponies were safely out of sight. It was a time for lying low.
“We’d best lock ourselves in,” Philip said. “And then go upstairs.”
“Quite right,” Tim agreed. “Especially with all these young wenches here. It’ll feel safer, like.”
From the window of the big front bedchamber upstairs they watched the mob arrive at the church. The vicar tried to bar their way, arms spread pleadingly wide, and was swiped out of the way by a ladder that one man was carrying instead of a weapon. The vicar fell back against the side of the gate and a hulking man with a billhook stepped in front of him and kept him there.
The crowd poured into the churchyard. It sloped steeply and they swarmed all over it, apparently seeking vantage points from which to survey their target. Then, amid shouting, the ladder was brought to the west door and put up to one of the niches and hammers were handed up. Stone chips flew. Some of the sempstresses, crowding close and peering over the shoulders of the La Plages, Jane and Tim, began to sob, with sorrow and alarm.
The noise sent frightened birds up from the trees at the top of the churchyard; a terrified cat appeared from somewhere, fleeing with ears flat back, leaped over the churchyard wall and vanished up the lane. Cheers broke out as the first image fell, and then its destroyer came down the ladder and shifted it to deal with the other. At the same time some of the crowd began to thrust their way into the church itself.
“Oh, now what are they doing?” said Philip La Plage, un-latching the casement window and leaning out to get a better view. Beside him, Jane, also urged on by a wish to know more, opened a second window. A new succession of crashes sounded from the church and people began to push their way out again, cheering and brandishing trophies: candlesticks, statuettes, a silver chalice and a big silver crucifix. The man with the crucifix bore his prize triumphantly down to the gate, and then, as he stepped into the lane, he looked up.
For a dreadful moment Jane found herself gazing straight down into the narrow face and flinty eyes of Andrew Shearer.
“Well, I’ll be damned!” said Andrew Shearer.
Unable to stop herself, Jane said, “That’s all too possible.”
“Mistress Hudd—Allerbrook you call yourself now, don’t you? Whose brother threw me and mine off our land!”
“You know why,” said Jane.
“Mistress, don’t! Be careful!” said Tim urgently from behind her.
“If a woman’s an easy lay, that’s her fault,” Shearer retorted. “Well, well. I hear your chaplain’s been good as gold and made your chapel plain, but the tale’s going round that dear old Anthony Drew in Clicket village b’ain’t obeyin’ orders. We’ll be seein’ him soon. See if he’s got any silver that might melt down for better uses!”
Someone behind him called out, “So he has! I told ’ee that! Seen every church on the moor, I have. But what about Dunster? That’s nearer!”
Jane, peering past Shearer, recognized the speaker and knew, grimly, that he was telling the truth. He was Danny Clay, who dug clay from the Minehead shore at low tide, when the sticky grey deposits were exposed, and travelled on a regular round through the district to supply local potters. He was a scruffy little man, with an equally scruffy wife called Eva, who helped him dig. She never wore a cap and had blobs of clay forever in her straggly hair. They had a horde of children who trailed along the shore with them, wielding small spades and shovels. Jane had seen Danny in the potter’s shop in Clicket, and on previous visits to Minehead she had also noted the family working on the shore at ebbtide. Everyone for miles could recognize the Clays, and Danny did indeed know every village on the moor and every church, too.
Shearer glared around at his followers, especially Danny. “There’s a garrison in Dunster Castle. Reckon we’ll leave Dunster alone. Clicket’s different. I’ve a score to settle there. Anthony Drew needn’t think just lockin’ his pretty things in cupboards’ll get him out of trouble! If we find a single candlestick, a single statue of Mary, even hung down his well in a bucket, he’ll be sorry! And after that,” Master Shearer added with ominous silkiness, “I’ve somewhere else in mind, as well. With a slender link to Clicket and a real hypocrite for a vicar. Claims to be Lutheran but don’t act like it. Clicket’s on the way to him.”
His tone changed, to become reassuring. Master Shearer had a flexible voice and knew how to use it. “Don’t ’ee fret now. I’ll lead ’ee right, never fear. We’ll clean the whole moor in the end.” He glanced around at Jane, who was still at the window, transfixed. “And don’t ’ee think of tryin’ to warn anyone, woman. Won’t stand for that, we won’t.”
“I wish I’d never looked out of that window,” said Jane desperately. “It’s given him ideas.”
“I rather think he had them already, mistress,” said Philip calmly. “But they won’t reach Clicket in five minutes. It’s fourteen miles off in a straight line, so my schoolmaster told us when he was showing us how to read a map, but the way the tracks wind, it adds up to twenty miles or more, and they’re on foot. You can get there ahead of them easily, and warn Father Drew. There’s time for you to snatch a bite of food and let the ponies have a manger before you go.”
“We’ve got cold pies for ourselves and nosebags for the ponies,” said Jan
e distractedly. “But you heard what Shearer said. If we let them go ahead of us, we’ll have to overtake them and they’ll stop us for sure!”
“No, mistress. They’ll take the main track,” said Tim. “Bound to. Back through Dunster and up the Avill valley. We’ll go over Grabbist. Master La Plage is right. We’ll do better and so will the ponies if we put somethin’ in our bellies first. There’s a way round the back of the town—leads up to the hill. We’ll take that.”
“Share our dinner,” said Philip. “And save your cold pies. And we’ve fodder enough for the ponies.”
It was like the escape from court. It could have gone horribly wrong but it did not. Tim Snowe, whom she had known for most of her life and had simply regarded as a quiet, reliable groom, now turned out to be a strategist.
Having eaten and drunk, they saddled up again and set off through the warm afternoon. The winding track up Grabbist was steep, which at first kept them to a walk, and it led through fly-ridden bracken. Jane, swatting the pests aside with a bracken frond, cursed them aloud as well as cursing the slow climb. “We’ll never get there at this pace, Tim!”
“Yes, we will,” said Tim imperturbably. “Wait till we’m on top.” At the summit, the path emerged onto short, sheep-nibbled grass and there was a breeze to disperse the flies. The ponies snorted and tossed their heads and cantering became possible. Presently they found themselves looking down into the valley of the Avill river. Jane drew rein. “Tim! Do you see what I see?”
“I see a crowd of ants on the track,” said Tim. “Scarcely out of Dunster and they’ve miles ahead of them. We’ll beat them easy! We’ll dodge Exford and Withypool—best not be seen by too many folk. We don’t want reprisals. These are bad times, mistress. Though I didn’t expect this sort of thing, or I’d have counselled ’ee against goin’ to Minehead at all.”
“I’m glad we did go. I want to help Father Drew.”
“Well, on our way, then.”
They shook the ponies up again and cantered on until they reached another steep track, perilous with loose pebbles, that led down into the valley between Grabbist and Dunkery. They descended at a speed they would not normally have attempted, though the ponies, strong and sure-footed, made light of the work. In half an hour they had climbed Dunkery’s heathery shoulder and were riding down the far side. Soon after that, they had bypassed the little village of Exford and taken a path toward the town of Dulverton. Clicket lay five miles to their right, on the other side of a river.
“We’ll have to go through Withypool to cross the Barle,” Jane said. “We can’t avoid it.”
“Yes, we can. We’ll cross the Barle at Tarr Steps. Water b’ain’t high,” Tim said.
“It’s a nasty ford.”
“Ponies’ll manage.”
Tarr Steps was a bridge of uneven granite slabs and was therefore unsuitable for horses. No one knew who had made it and local legend talked of bygone giants. The river on the upstream side, however, was not very deep and though its bed was a mass of pebbles, a sensible horse with a rider who was prepared to sit still could pick its way safely across. Jane, who was riding the stolid Ginger, had crossed it on his back before and Ginger had certainly managed, but had also made it clear that he hated the slithery shingle under his hooves. This time, turning awkward for once, he tried to balk, but was finally persuaded into the water when Tim went ahead on his pony Dusty.
“No need to fret,” Tim said when both ponies had reached the other side. “We’ve only lost a few minutes and I’d reckon we’re two hours ahead of Shearer’s mob.”
There was a funeral in progress when they reached the church. “That’ll be Marjorie Wright,” Jane said. The mourners were about to leave the churchyard and as they did so, Jane and Tim rode forward to intercept Father Drew, who stopped, looking up at them. “You are back so soon! Is there any news?”
“Yes,” said Jane tersely. “And it’s bad. There’s danger.” briefly she told him what had happened at St. Michael’s, and described the threat that was now making for Clicket, led by a man with a spite against the Allerbrooks and everyone on their land.
“They’re on their way now?” Drew was horrified.
“Yes. Father…” Jane dismounted so quickly that Tim Snowe was not in time to help her as he usually did. “Father, everything that they might want to destroy must be put out of sight and quickly, and not down your well, either. They’ve thought of that. What is there that ought to be hidden?”
“Come into the church.” The priest glanced around and saw Arthur Wright hovering. “Arthur, some important news has reached me. I can’t come to the funeral gathering. I am sorry.”
In words even briefer than Jane’s, he explained the situation. The landlord of the White Hart, a sturdy, flaxen-haired man whose nature was normally equable, flushed with outrage. “The Lady Chapel was all that gave my poor Marge any peace. No one’s goin’ to harm it!”
“I think they’ll try,” said Drew. “But I must deal with it. Go and be host to those who have come to help you grieve.”
Muttering angrily, Arthur turned away. “Do you think,” Tim murmured, “that he’s ever guessed about Ralph Palmer and Marjorie and that dark-haired little child of hers?”
“So you know about that? Well, forget it, Tim,” said Drew sharply. “He’s never guessed and never will if I have anything to do with it. He’s lost her one way. Don’t make him lose her twice over. Take the ponies to my stable, and then join us in the church. We’ve things to do.”
“It feels like sacrilege,” Jane said unhappily as she and Drew set about emptying the Lady Chapel of images, candles and altar cloth.
“I know. But it’s only to protect things,” Drew told her.
Tim joined them quickly and between the three of them, the Lady Chapel was rapidly cleared. They turned to the rest of the church, bearing silver candlesticks, altar cloths, statuettes and a heavy oak crucifix with a silver figure out to the porch.
“But that big statue of St. Anne on the left of the west door—we can’t move that. It’s too heavy,” Father Drew moaned. “And it’s fixed somehow to the wall behind. And I must save the silver communion cup. Oh, you’ve brought it out, Tim. What do they do with such things?”
“Melt ’un down,” said Tim grimly.
“Oh, dear God. And what are we to do with all this?” Drew looked despairingly at the heap of beautiful objects on the floor of the porch. “Where can we hide them? Buckets down the well should have done very well, but you say they’ll look there! Where else can they go?”
Jane said, “Marjorie’s grave isn’t filled in yet. Wrap everything well. Put the altar cloths inside a small chest or something. Put it all in the grave and shovel the earth on top. I don’t think even Shearer would go grave robbing!”
An hour later, with the earth heaped concealingly over Marjorie Wright and her unexpected mass of valuable grave goods, Tim, Jane and Father Drew, sweaty and earth-stained, retreated to the vicarage beside the church, where Biddy Mayes, the elderly widow who was the vicarage housekeeper, gave them elderflower wine and wondered what the world was coming to.
Only a short time later, the invasion from Minehead marched into the street, shouting Down with the Pope, waving banners and grasping their assorted weaponry in a menacing fashion. Whereupon, to the horror of Father Drew as he peered from his front windows, the mourners in the White Hart, evidently alerted by Arthur Wright, poured into the street to stand between them and the door of the church and meet them face-to-face.
“Please don’t, Father!” said Jane strongly as the uproar in the street outside reached a crescendo. “Stay here! You’ll only get hurt. Best keep out of sight and let the storm pass. We’ve saved the things that matter.”
“Quite right.” Biddy Mayes, who tended to cluck over Father Drew as though she were a hen and her employer a wayward chick, actually barred his way as he tried to reach the door. “No, Father, you go back into your parlour and if anyone calls I’ll say you’re not here. You just
keep away from all they barbarians out there—dear Lord preserve us, what’s going on now!”
“Whatever it is, I’ve got to join in!” burst out Tim, who had been growing more and more restless. “No, don’t ’ee try stoppin’ me. I’m fit enough to fight if it comes to it.”
“No!” Jane cried. “No, Tim, please! Think of Susie…”
“I must! I can’t see this and not go to help. Thought I could, but I can’t. Sorry, mistress, but there it be.” He pushed past Biddy and was gone. “Let ’un go,” Biddy said. “But not you, Father. No, not you!”
“No, I’m past it. But before God, I wish I were not,” said Drew miserably. “I suppose we can go upstairs and watch from the top floor without being seen. Come on.”
The vicarage was the biggest house in the village, after Clicket Hall, with an attic complete with dormer windows in the thatch. From there they could watch the ugly spectacle in the street. The two sides had joined battle and Marjorie’s mourners seemed to be as well armed as their attackers. Jane, cautiously opening a dormer window, saw that although only a few pikes and blades were being used, there was much savage fighting with fists and staves and much throwing of a weird variety of missiles. There were casualties lying on the cobbles, though most of them seemed to be alive and trying to crawl to safety. It looked as if the combatants were not for the most part trying to kill, but nevertheless, there were places where blood ran in scarlet veins between the cobblestones and the yells of fury were horrifying. Danny Clay was in the forefront of the attackers, flourishing a makeshift weapon in the form of a spade, and bawling No popery! as though it were a war cry.
“Oh, this is vile, foul!” Father Drew was almost in tears. “I knew Arthur Wright was collecting weapons! He told me he was, when the first rumours began. He’s turned the funeral party into an army! There are even women down there in the fighting. There’s Annet Smith—she’s got a sack of old horseshoes and she’s hurling them…hard…that woman’s built like an ox…. Oh, heaven help us, what are we to do?”
The House of Allerbrook Page 21