by Ann Swinfen
‘A traveller headed this way, it seems,’ he said. ‘A young man, and mighty footsore, I’m thinking, lady.’
She was not as tall as he, and so could not see so far over the rise in the land, but in a few moments she too saw the figure, limping a little, in clothes that looked, even at this distance, as strange and multi-coloured as a jester’s. It could not be John, it was someone younger and slighter, but perhaps it might be someone with news of John. She did not know why, suddenly, she thought this might be so, after months of silence, but she ran from the fields towards the house, aware that Brendan would be standing there, unmoving, watching her with that slightly sardonic smile.
For some reason, the ragged stranger was not heading for the servants’ quarters at the back of the house, like the usual beggars and travellers who passed this way. Instead he walked purposefully, despite his limp, towards the front door. Breathless and hot, she reached it almost as he did.
He was an odd figure, clad in a fool’s motley of garments: a tattered buff coat which had been patched in several places with scraps of vivid cloth, scarlet, emerald, and a chequered yellow; breeches which had been made for a bigger man, folded over at the waist and held in place with a length of old cord; blue stockings, much darned; and a pair of fine bucket boots, which looked as though they might have been stolen from a Royalist cavalier. So astonishing were these clothes that they held all her attention at first, as she wondered who this extraordinary lad might be, marching up boldly to her front door. Then her eyes lifted to his face, and she started violently.
‘Dick? Dick! Is it you? It cannot be!’
He was staring at her in equal bewilderment.
‘Mother?’ He frowned as he looked her up and down. ‘You are so . . . so brown.’
He said it flatly, with an edge of such manly disapproval in his tone that she laughed merrily. He addressed her as ‘Mother’ only when he was out of humour with her.
‘Aye, perhaps. You see, I’m turned farmer, and I’m much in the sun.’ She threw her arms around him and embraced him, while he stood patiently waiting. ‘But, Dick, my love, what are you doing here, and why are you dressed in those extraordinary clothes?’
‘I started to walk home from London, but then I fell in with some travellers, which took me somewhat out of the way. Here I am at the last, none the worse for it. The clothes are sound and fairly clean, if odd.’
The front of his coat heaved suddenly, and a cat’s head peeped out where the collar was left unbuttoned.
‘A cat?’ said Anne.
‘A fellow traveller.’ Dick grinned at her, looking more like himself. ‘We’re both ravenous. My companions left me just this side of Lichfield, while they headed for Tamworth. Ginger and I have had a hungry walk.’
She took him by the arm to lead him into the house, scarcely able to believe he was solid flesh, but the arm under her hand was firm and muscular. For a time there was a flurry of excitement and a good deal of rushing about by the servants and the younger children, but finally Anne sent them all off while Dick sat down in the parlour to a large meal of some pickled trout, bannocks and butter, and a tankard of ale.
‘Is there no meat?’ he asked, wolfing down the bannocks as though he had not eaten in days.
‘Meat is scarce. When I reached home after Christmas, I found most of our winter supplies gone, looted by soldiers. We’ve been living these three or four months past on vegetables and cheese and eggs, and sometimes a rabbit, when we can get one. We’ve been close to starvation more than once, though things are a little better now. Jack caught these trout in the lake.’
‘He’s turned fisherman, has he? I must find my rod and lend him a hand. But why didn’t you shoot a deer or two in the forest?’
‘Until spring ploughing time, I had no men about the place but Peter and Josiah, and they are both too old—neither can see well enough to shoot a deer.’
‘And now it’s out of season. But grandfather, doesn’t he shoot still? He used to be one of the best men with a gun in the whole county.’
‘Dick.’ She reached out and took his hand, ‘your grandfather has had an apoplexy which left him unable to move or speak. He’s a little better in health—Bridget nurses him, and I help when I can—but I fear he’ll never shoot another deer. And I’m afraid your grandmother is ill as well. Not in her body. Her wits have become confused.’
She kept silent about Joane’s violent fits. Only the day before Joane had thrown a cushion on to the fire and then rushed shrieking along the upper passage. Anne had had to call Christopher to help her wrestle the old woman back into her room, where they had put out the fire and dosed her with poppy syrup to calm her. Her mother-in-law’s moods frightened her and when she could, she gladly handed over her care to Bridget. Much of the time Joane did not recognise her daughter, but when she did it provoked furious attacks. Last week Joane had scratched Bridget’s cheek almost to the bone. Bridget bore these attacks with fortitude, but Anne knew that she too was afraid.
‘Father hasn’t come home, then?’ said Dick.
‘Nay.’ Her grip on his hand tightened. ‘I’ve had no news of him, save that when most of the prisoners were released, he was carried off in a cart, and no one knows where. Master Gott has tried hard to discover what has become of him, but with no success.’
‘You mustn’t worry, Mama. He was well enough when I saw him.’
‘You’ve seen him!’
‘Many weeks ago now, about the time of the king’s trial. I went to visit him at the King’s Head.’
‘You must tell me everything. But I don’t understand. Why aren’t you at Charterhouse? Did the Master relent, and give you permission to come home? He has sent me no word. I thought you had returned to school after Christmas.’
Dick looked slightly uncomfortable.
‘I didn’t ask his permission. And I expect he hasn’t missed me, because he would suppose you would fetch me away from my uncle’s house. Of course, I learned from Aunt Coleman that you were already gone from London. It may be, also, that the Master is driven from his place. He’s a known Royalist. They were saying when I was in London that any Royalists still left would lose their positions once Cromwell seized power.’
‘Come,’ she said. ‘You’ve eaten everything. Walk with me while I see to my hens and chicks, and you can tell me about your father and these travelling companions of yours and why you look like a ragamuffin.’
Once Dick had told his tale and changed into spare clothes belonging to his father, he walked about the rest of the farmland with Anne, while she pointed out what she had done: the fields sown, the ewes and their lambs on the small meadow near the woods, the cows and their new calves in the meadow of deep, lush grass down by the lake, the sows nursing their litters in an enclosed field behind the barns, her vegetable garden laid out with some crops already planted, others awaiting her attention. She had hoped, she supposed, for praise. It was foolish of her, perhaps, to feel the need of praise from one of her family. The children, apart from Jack and Nan, hardly seemed aware that she had taken on all the duties and responsibilities of a gentleman landowner. The servants, although reluctant at first, now accepted her as the head of the household and obeyed her orders as if she were a man. Even the farm labourers, who in normal times would have looked askance at her role, had come to respect her. Yet she felt a craving for recognition that what she was doing was right, that she was exercising a proper guardianship of the land.
Dick, however, was in a strange mood, restless and critical. She should have taken advice from his uncle Thomas Pott, or written for his uncle William Swynfen to come home and take charge of the manor until his father returned. Surely the peas should have been planted where she had sown the wheat, the wheat in the field where the peas were growing. Why had she taken on an unknown Irish shepherd? Everyone knew the Irish were thieving rogues, who would happily slit your throat while you slept.
‘Dick,’ she said at last, exasperated, ‘you tell
me you’ve been living with a band of roving gypsies for the last months, and you think to find fault with my shepherd? Brendan Donovan is an excellent man for the sheep, and very apt for other tasks about the place. As for the crops, Josiah and I have looked carefully at the manor records for the last few years, and he mostly remembers when each field was put down to each crop. The fields have been planted according to the order of rotation for this year. The field next to the meadow where you see the sheep grazing is left fallow. We’ll turn out the sows and their litters there next week. Swine are useful for digging and turning the soil, as well as manuring it for next year’s crop.’
He looked at her in astonishment.
‘Where did you learn such things? Has Uncle Pott come to advise you?’
‘Nay. I’ve been studying the art and practice of agriculture. It’s not such a very deep study, in its essentials. All that truly worries me is the risk of bad weather, for it’s been so terrible in recent years, with storms and floods. That, and the diseases of animals, which can destroy a farm. Of course, when we were at Thickbroome, I often undertook to dose the animals.’
Dick still looked glum.
‘It isn’t fit for a woman to manage an estate. I’m nearly a man. I should take charge.’
Anne smiled at him. So this was the root of the trouble.
‘My dear, you must return to your studies. You know your father wants you to matriculate at Oxford next spring. I’m sure you have more to learn before then. Your cousin Richard Pott is working with a tutor until he goes up to Oxford. I think we should ask your uncle if you may share his studies.’
Dick had tasted a little too deeply of independence to fall in readily with this scheme. Anne allowed him some time before she put the plan into action. In the meantime, she took him riding about the estate with her, to visit the tenant farmers and the cottagers with their small-holdings. As soon as the weather permitted, she had made this her practice every few days, for she had found many of the poorer folk in desperate need. Although they had not been as severely looted by the soldiers as the Hall had been during the struggles of the previous year, yet they less to spare. The loss of one laying hen and a flitch of bacon could mean starvation to the family of a cottager. She found some of them living off thin broth, which they made by stewing again and again the same bones from long-gone legs of mutton or ham, with a handful of dried herbs and leaves to give it flavour.
She took Dick, on his third day at home, to visit the family of Matthew Webster, who lived in a cottage beyond the mill. They rode along the shore of the lake, then followed the stream where it ran out of the lake down to the mill.
‘There’s work to be done here,’ Anne said, pointing with her riding crop at the great wheel which turned slowly with the flow of the stream. ‘The grindstone needs to be balanced. I must fetch someone from Tamworth to do it, for it’s a skilled task.’
‘There will be no need until harvest.’
‘Nay, it can’t be left until then, for everyone will discover they need such repairs at the last minute.’
At the Websters’ cottage they dismounted and tied their horses to the fence. The door was low, forcing them to duck their heads on entering, and the one small window gave so little light it was difficult to make out anything until their eyes grew accustomed to the dimness. Matthew Webster got slowly to his feet to greet them, but his leg was wrapped in bandages and Anne pressed him down into his chair again. Five small children were huddled over the fire, their eyes large and sunken in their gaunt faces, but they were well clothed, for Anne had brought them clothing on a previous visit. Now she sent Dick out to chop firewood while she dressed Matthew’s leg.
‘This is much healed!’ she exclaimed, peeling back the bandage carefully. ‘I believe we can leave off the dressing now, Matthew. I’ll wash it and salve it, then I think you should go without your stocking for a few more days, and it will soon be whole again. Now, Frances, while I’m tending your father’s leg, I want you to unpack those saddlebags. There’s some new cheese and bread, and some of Agnes Lea’s honey she has sent for you. Be careful of that jug of ale, in case the stopper has worked loose.’
The eldest girl unpacked the food eagerly, and soon the children were tearing pieces off the loaves and stuffing them in their mouths.
‘Nay, nay,’ said Anne, brushing off her skirts and throwing the old dressing on the fire. ‘You’ll make yourselves ill. Come and sit at the table and eat slowly, however hungry you are. See, I’ve brought milk for you, and a pie, and there are eggs for tomorrow.’
When the children were eating a little less like savage beasts, and Dick had made up the fire, Anne turned to Matthew again.
‘And Margaret?’ she said. ‘How does she fare?’
‘Much better,’ said Matthew. ‘The fever’s nearly gone, and the lass seems much stronger. She took all of that good broth you left for her.’
‘I’ve brought more today. I’ll warm it at the fire and take it in to her.’
The cottage was partially divided by a length of old canvas nailed to a roof beam. Behind it, a wooden platform and a straw mattress provided the marriage bed, while the children slept beside the fire. Margaret Webster was sitting up, still very pale, but she smiled to see Anne. Two weeks earlier she had given birth to a son who had died within the hour. By the following day Margaret was seized with a fever and like to follow him.
‘God has been good to me this time,’ she said to Anne, between spoonfuls of the soup. ‘He has spared me for the sake of the other children. Though when the baby died I thought I would have been glad to die also.’
‘Hush,’ said Anne. ‘Don’t say such a thing. It’s an insult to God, who gave you life. You’ll be well soon. I’m going to send the boy Isaac to help Matthew with the planting. His leg is near healed after that accident with the axe, and it’s time he sowed his corn and vegetables. And I’ve set aside three good little pullets for you, so you may start a new flock.’
Tears started in the young woman’s eyes, and she pressed Anne’s hand against her cheek.
‘The Lord was kind to the people of Swinfen when you came home to us, Mistress Anne.’
Ever since Anne had made her peace with Mary, she had intended to ride over again to visit the Potts, but every day her hours were so filled that when night came she seemed to have been occupied every moment, with never the time to go to Weeford. Dick went with her now, and while she took cakes and ale with Mary and her husband, he went off with his cousin Richard to admire a new pair of pistols. By the time they returned, Thomas had agreed readily to Dick’s joining Richard at his lessons. The two boys had also been discussing the plan, for Dick now seemed much happier about it and Richard was eager for the company.
When they were mounted and ready to leave, Thomas stood with his hand on Brandy’s neck and smiled up at Anne. His thick hair was grey now, but his blue eyes were as sharp and humorous as ever.
‘I hear that you’re managing Swinfen as well as any gentleman,’ he said, ‘and I respect you for it, Anne. But if you need aught—help, or advice, or tools—you know that I’ll readily give them to you.’
She leaned down and laid her hand on his shoulder.
‘I thank you, Thomas. I know that you would. And truly, if I need help, I will come to you.’
As they made their way back along the road, which had already become a dusty tunnel under the trees with the arrival of warmer weather, Dick was whistling cheerfully.
‘So,’ said Anne, ‘you’re happy now to join your cousin?’
‘We plan to have some fine sport each day when our lessons are finished. I’ll ride over each morning, and home in time for supper . . .’
‘I’m sorry, Dick, but you must walk. It’s less than two miles, and the horses are all needed on the farm. We can’t have one of them languishing in the Potts’ paddock every day.’
Dick grumbled a little at this, but he saw the fairness of it.
‘If we could but hear some n
ews of Father, then all would be well.’
‘Aye,’ said Anne. ‘I pray every day that our hearing no news means that nothing terrible has happened. At least the rest of us are now all safely at Swinfen.’
She would never admit to her son the long hours she spent weeping, alone in her chamber at night.
During the visit to Weeford, Anne had come to an arrangement with Thomas Pott: he would send his shepherd over to Swinfen to assist with the sheep-shearing. With this additional help, the task could be completed in two days. In return, Brendan Donovan would spend two days helping to shear the Weeford Hall flock, walking home in the evening. Anne thought she had the better of the bargain, for her fleeces would be ready first, but she also knew that Thomas had suggested the plan so that he could inspect Brendan, for he had a natural distrust of Irishmen and (however much he might praise her husbandry) he wanted to assure himself that his brother-in-law’s flocks were in safe hands.
The appointed day dawned and Anne went out to the meadow as soon as she had completed her morning devotions. The night before, Brendan, Christopher and Roland had built two adjacent pens in the meadow out of willow hurdles, with a kind of passageway joining them together. The unshorn sheep would be gathered into the first of these; then, as they were shorn, they would be driven along the passage to the other pen. When she arrived, she could see the three men, together with Thomas’s shepherd, Zachary Fitch, already busy at herding the sheep into the first pen. Brendan’s dog Niall and Zachary’s dog were working the ewes up towards the temporary sheep-fold. She walked across the grass towards them, her feet marking out dark footprints in the dew. Before she was halfway there, her shoes were soaked through and her skirt was sodden a foot deep.
They greeted her abstractedly with a ‘Morning, mistress’. The sheep were their usual foolish selves, making sudden darts in different directions, while the lambs leapt vertically into the air, convinced at first that it was all a game, then flying into a panic and baaing frantically for their mothers, who had become lost in the confusion. Eventually, the sheep were all penned. They rushed to one side of the enclosure, butting up against the hurdles, so that Anne thought they would surely knock down the side and break loose again, but the hurdles were backed with heavy rocks to hold them steady. They wavered a little under the onslaught, but did not fall.