By noon the town was full with bustle and activity. Singing could be heard and would continue all afternoon. All three churches boasted choirs that practiced months for this day. The children from the school came together to alternate their own choral numbers with the adult choirs from the three churches. Fiddlers and accordionists and dancers filled in at every opportunity. There was not a minute throughout the day when some music was not drifting through the air over the numerous activities. Aromas from fires and kettles tempted the hungry to part with a few coins for their lunch. A variety of games and amusements kept children scurrying about excitedly from one to another to another.
Nor would any market day be complete without a suitable offering of animal flesh for sale or trade. At one end of the field was tied an assortment of pigs, sheep, horses, and several bulls to see what offers might be made. By noon, Chandos and Kyvwlch Gwarthegydd, Padrig Gwlwlwyd, Holin Radnor from the manor, and a handful of men were clustered about examining teeth and legs, hooves and flanks, and talking of all things equine, bovine, and porcine.
It was not the sort of gathering that Colville Burrenchobay would normally have given a tuppence for now that he was a sophisticated young man of twenty-four. But his sixteen-year-old brother Ainsworth had arrived at that age where young ladies and mischief in general exercised great fascination. When their sister Davina and her fiancé, William Rasmussen, son of Baronet Rasmussen of Blaenau Ffestiniog, decided to join him, Colville was hardly inclined to stay home alone.
The brothers Burrenchobay led the way into Llanfryniog about one o’clock. Colville was not expecting much from the afternoon. Ainsworth, however, recently returned from a first year at Cambridge as undistinguished as that of his brother several years before, was hungry for amusement and sport. He was also eager to survey what pretty new faces the new summer might have turned up. Behind them, though she was engaged to the handsome young man at her side, Davina glanced about with as lively an eye as her younger brother. She was still a month shy of her nineteenth birthday and not quite yet cured of the flirtatious demon that had so successfully enchanted young Rasmussen.
Heads turned as the young people rode slowly up the road on their horses from the harbor to the chapel then made their way toward the town and site of the day’s festivities. The three Burrenchobays were used to commanding attention wherever they went. Their father being the parliamentary representative for coastal Gwynedd was enough in itself to draw looks from men and women alike. They were not aristocrats by birth, though their father had been knighted and was now known as Sir Armond. With Lord Snowdon dead and Courtenay, his presumptive heir, out of the country, the MP’s two sons and daughter were as close to aristocracy as anyone living along the coast was likely to claim on this day. That rumors had followed the two Burrenchobay sons for years added curiosity and a hint of terrified excitement on the part of the young ladies whenever the two were present. Colville’s amorous escapades had been a subject of local gossip for years. Ainsworth was anxious to follow in his brother’s tradition. Both were known to be good with their fists and even better with their guns. They were handsome, hot tempered, and enjoyed being in the limelight—an irresistible, if dangerous, combination.
As for young Willy Rasmussen, some might have questioned whether a mere baronet’s son from the inland regions of Snowdonia would qualify as an aristocrat at all. It was universally accepted that Willy, never known for his intellectual prowess, had made the best of the match. The moment Davina’s engagement was announced, there had been great disappointment in Llanfryniog. Though Davina was five years younger than Courtenay Westbrooke, many had hoped to see the important families of the region joined by two marriages. Colville’s with Florilyn had been accepted for years as a fait accompli. Now, with Lady Florilyn involved with her Scots cousin—though no one quite knew where the thing stood—neither of the Westbrooke-Burrenchobay marriages seemed likely to materialize.
By the time the foursome split apart, the sheep-shearing contest was about ready to get under way. Ainsworth quickly disappeared with three or four girls in tow hanging on his every exaggerated tale of life at the great English university. Willy Rasmussen followed Davina about like a well-trained puppy as she visited with the village girls too old to wilt from Ainsworth’s smiles. The envious glances went curiously in both directions. With the foolishness of youth that judged by looks rather than character, every girl in the place hoped someday to be so lucky as Davina in landing a squire as handsome as young Willy Rasmussen. On her part, however, pangs of envy also stole unbidden into Davina’s heart to realize that for her the game of fascination and conquest was done. In her quieter moments, she wondered if she had perhaps acted too hastily in accepting Willy’s proposal. The result was an occasional wistful glance about the crowd to see what young men were in attendance. If Willy noticed her roving eyes, he remained oblivious to its cause.
Colville, meanwhile, seeing no eligible young women near his own age—by their midtwenties, the young women of rural North Wales were either married or such as to be of no interest to him—had wandered toward the gathering of men looking over several horses that Padrig Gwlwlwyd, one of those who did hope to profit from the day’s sales, had brought in for the occasion.
“Looking for a new addition to your father’s stable, young Burrenchobay?” said Gwlwlwyd as Colville approached the gathering. “I have two or three that would do him proud.”
“My father does not buy his horseflesh from village fairs,” rejoined Colville with obvious condescension.
“For yourself, then?”
“Horses are not my game, Gwlwlwyd,” said Colville. He glanced about with humorous disdain. “Neither are cows or pigs. I will leave the animals to you.”
At the far end of the field, shouts and cheers rose from the first shearing contestant—a burly young fifteen-year-old cousin of Chandos Gwarthegydd who displayed every indication of being a future champion. He was followed by Eardley White, Chandos’s best friend of childhood who had filled out in direct opposite proportion to the blacksmith’s son. Chandos could now claim to top sixteen stone, every pebble of it muscle and mostly concentrated in his chest, arms, and shoulders. One look at Eardley, on the other hand, at barely ten stone and over six feet tall, would have greatly interested the mathematician Euclid when devising his theory of what comprised a straight line.
But deft, coordination, and an innate skill in keeping a sheep relaxed under the knife were more necessary to shearing speed than brawn, and Eardley trimmed eleven seconds from Kethtrwm Gwarthegydd’s time. After several more local shepherds had their go, the crowd became frenzied as it cheered on its favorites. That a good deal of modest betting had taken place on the outcome always added to the keen interest in the competition.
Six more contestants came and went. Still Eardley’s time of forty-seven seconds held, though now the margin to second place had dropped to a mere three seconds.
Finally a late entrant who had just arrived stepped forward. A cheer rose, for he was a great favorite with everyone for miles. He had shown great promise as a youth in being the likely heir apparent to his father’s unmatched skill with the razor-sharp shearing scissors. However, he had not entered the contest for two years. His current occupation was one that had not kept him in practice. Yet discussion and new bets were feverish as he readied himself for the contest. The predictions of his chances were mixed.
The new contestant’s dress, indeed his entire bearing, might have led a newcomer to the village to conclude that he was of aristocratic blood, for he carried himself with a stature and authority that belied his humble roots in the foothills of the Snowdonian mountains. But the moment Steven Muir pulled off his shirt, for the day was hot, and turned toward the throng with a grin, they all knew the manor’s young factor to whom they now paid their rent was still their own beloved Stevie.
Few noticed the young woman who had gradually worked her way closer to the front of the noisy commotion. Slowly she squeezed through until she
was standing near the front, staring at the sight of his bare chest and rippling shoulders.
“We’ll see what the work of a dandy’s made of you now, Stevie!” shouted a man from amid the crowd.
“I can outshear you with my eyes closed, Dirmyg!” laughed Steven.
“But can you best young White?” said another above the din.
“There’s only one way to find out, Fflergant,” rejoined Steven. “I’m ready,” he added, turning toward the judges. “Bring me the wiggliest one of the batch!”
The crowd quieted as Steven took hold of the sheep between his knees, gripped a fistful of thick wool with his left hand and held the scissors at the ready in his right, and awaited the command from Ehangwen Pugh who held the watch.
“Ready yourself, Stevie!” he shouted. “Five seconds … four … three … two … one … go!”
With lightning agility, Steven’s hand tore into the mass of wool with the scissors with such speed that it seemed impossible to prevent its two sharp points from puncturing the animal’s skin. Instantly the yelling and shouts resumed at a frantic pitch. Within seconds the back was bare. Steven flopped the sheep onto its back, keeping tight hold of the writhing legs.
Amid the din, a young woman’s voice rose above the rest. It was not just who she was that suddenly turned all eyes toward her. She was also the only one in the crowd cheering Stevie on with his formal name. Most of the gathering had never heard it used of Glythvyr Muir’s son in his life. “Go, Steven!” cried Florilyn. “Faster … you can do it—come on, Steven … Steven. Go … go!”
Caught up in the excitement of the moment, Florilyn did not notice that everyone’s eyes were resting on her. That the viscount’s daughter would take such interest in sheepshearing was unusual in itself. That she was so excitedly cheering on her mother’s young factor was enough to spark more than idle curiosity.
With a last great effort, Steven flung the coat of wool in a single piece away from the tiny white body that emerged from beneath. Not a scratch of blood was showing. He turned expectantly toward Ehangwen Pugh.
“Forty-seven seconds!” called out the timekeeper. “It’s a tie with Eardley.”
Another rousing cheer rose, Florilyn’s voice as loud as the rest. As she glanced about with a great smile on her face, Florilyn suddenly realized that everyone was staring at her. Her mouth hung open a moment longer. Her face reddened as she realized what she had done. Unaccountably embarrassed, quickly she turned and ran through the crowd and away from the scene.
Steven, who had heard her cheering voice, saw her go. He had no time to think about it further.
Lanky Eardley White now stepped forward and shook Steven’s hand vigorously. “Well done, Stevie!” he said. “The factoring seems to agree with you. You’ve lost nothing of your touch.”
The two turned together toward the crowd, which applauded them as the apparent victors. After five more contestants, the tie between the two young men still held.
Meanwhile, Florilyn hurried away, doing her best to avoid the stares that followed her. She ran between booths and tables and children and dogs and merrymakers to where she had tied her mount. Unaware from where he had been milling about the horse selling that Colville Burrenchobay had heard the commotion at the sheepshearing and had observed her strange flight, Florilyn mounted Red Rhud and made for the road.
The crowd thinned as she approached the harbor. The tide was low. Reaching the wide expanse of hard-packed wet sand, she encouraged her mount to a brief gallop. Once she was well alone, she reined back and continued on more slowly to the end of the beach.
She was thinking about many new and unexpected things.
43
Aspirations Personal and Political
Colville Burrenchobay had been tempted to accompany Courtenay to the continent six weeks earlier. But what was to be gained by forever acting the part of a rich ne’er-do-well son? He was a university graduate with nothing else to show for his life. He had little interest in gallivanting about Europe with Courtenay Westbrooke, pretending they were still eighteen-year-olds.
As much as friendship, the relationship between the two best friends had always been one of competition and rivalry. Either would go to any length to best the other. That rivalry now took an unexpected turn in the brain of the MP’s son.
In the year since the tragic accident, the viscount’s death had exercised a strange and subtle effect on Colville Burrenchobay. The knowledge that his friend, younger by a year, was soon to become Viscount Lord Snowdon, occupant of a seat in the House of Lords, and overnight regarded as the most important man in the region, turned Colville’s thoughts toward his own future. He did not like the idea of being suddenly forced to walk in the shadow of one to whom he had always felt superior.
If his reflections did not actually begin to revolve around the thought of “settling down,” as was the custom for young men in their twenties, something akin to such motions of his brain became more active than before. He had rarely given much thought to his future. He assumed that his inheritance would be more than adequate for whatever life he chose for himself. A better entrée into the world of politics, however, could hardly be imagined than his father’s reputation as a member of the House of Commons of long standing. It was like handing him an engraved invitation to Westminster on a plate with watercress around it. And in this modern age, Commons trumped the Lords in prestige by a mile. A viscount was nothing alongside a member of Commons.
The idea of a stand for parliament himself, whenever his father decided to step aside, thus began to take root in his thoughts. And with these slow-building reflections and shifting priorities, thoughts of marriage also began to intrude into the gray cells of his mind. As they did, the face of the most beautiful and eligible young lady in Snowdonia rose out of the mists of the past. That she would one day be rich besides, for her mother was known to be of independent wealth, was also a fact that did not escape Colville Burrenchobay’s notice. Sight of her in the village during market day a week or two earlier had not left him. He had to admit … the little vixen was more beautiful than he remembered her. She would make heads turn in Westminster. He would be noticed instantly with a woman like that on his arm!
Thus it was, one warm day in mid-July, that Colville Burrenchobay presented himself at the door of Westbrooke Manor. He had come, he said to Broakes, to pay his respects to Lady Florilyn.
Florilyn’s first thought was to turn around and retreat to the safety of her room. But it was a grand day, and Colville’s smile and invitation for a ride seemed genuine enough. She accepted.
By day’s end, she was delightfully surprised at the change that had come over him. He had behaved as a perfect gentleman.
“I must say, Colville,” said Florilyn as they parted, “you have changed since we last rode together.”
“I am a reformed young man,” he said. “My foolish ways are behind me. I may even resume my studies and secure an advanced degree.”
“My, oh my!” exclaimed Florilyn laughing. “Colville Burrenchobay, the scholar and academic.”
“I doubt I would go that far.”
“In any case—I enjoyed myself today. Thank you.”
“The summer appears a fine one. Perhaps we could see one another again.”
Florilyn nodded with a smile, and Colville left her.
Elsewhere on the grounds of Westbrooke Manor, Steven Muir continued his supervision of the construction of Katherine’s new home on the promontory. Stone masons and carpenters had all been employed, some from Chester, others from Shrewsbury, still others from as far away as Cardiff. Their presence was straining the limits of Mistress Chattan’s inn, though some of the workers were also put up in the servants’ quarters at the manor. Huge wagons of stone and mortar and other supplies rumbled past Llanfryniog almost daily from all over England and Wales. The outer walls of granite had begun not merely to rise but to significantly alter the landscape. Slowly but surely the formidable outline of the house moved from d
rawings to reality.
Steven was at the site every day and reported progress to Katherine. Mistress and factor consulted together almost daily about whatever situations happened to arise. Katherine rode or walked down to the site, sometimes several times a day, as her enthusiasm mounted daily to see her house taking shape before her eyes. Her enthusiasm, however, was bittersweet. She loved the manor, and thoughts of the new house could not fail to be accompanied by reminders of the reason for its necessity.
Thinking little more about the ride with Colville than that two childhood friends had renewed their acquaintance for a day, and certainly anticipating nothing more coming of it, Florilyn was altogether unprepared for the invitation to Burrenchobay Hall for dinner that arrived several days later. Her own reaction surprised her almost as much as the invitation itself.
She showed her mother the letter that had come in the post. “It sounds like fun,” said Florilyn.
“I have never cared for Colville Burrenchobay,” rejoined Katherine. “I don’t like your seeing him, Florilyn, especially after a young man as nice as Percy.”
“Percy’s not here, Mother,” rejoined Florilyn a little testily. “What do you expect me to do, sit around and become a spinster?”
“I thought you and Percy—”
“It’s over between Percy and me, Mother,” said Florilyn. The frustration that had been fermenting in her subconscious that even she was unaware of at last bubbled to the surface. “He stayed all of three days and didn’t even tell me where he was going,” she went on. “That ought to show well enough what he thinks of me.”
“His leaving had nothing to do with you.”
The Treasure of the Celtic Triangle- Wales Page 21