The Man On a Donkey

by H. F. M. Prescott

  After that it took July long to fill her basket, because at first, when Meg had gone, she stood still in a sort of daze, and even when she went to work again she kept forgetting what it was that she was doing, and would come to herself and realize that she was letting the raspberries drop on the ground instead of into the basket.

  At first she could hardly take it in. Then she could not imagine that for her such a thing should ever be. Then just because it would be a thing so absolute, so like the perfection and certitude of a completed circle, so contrary to anything which she had ever thought of, like a voice speaking from heaven, she began to contemplate it as a thing which, by its very incredibility, might come true.

  She was glad when it was time to go to bed, where she could be private, and lie awake, playing delicately with little imaginings of how it would be if she were Master Aske’s wife. She would have a puppy dog. She would make for Master Aske rishaws such as they used to make at the Priory. He and she would take a boat out on the Thames in summer evenings, with green and flowering branches to deck it, and a fiddler and a singing boy to make music. She would walk beside him through London, while he talked and looked down upon her with his bright, laughing eye.

  It was late when she went to sleep, and then she dreamed that she and some others, Meg and Dame Nan and Sir Rafe Bulmer among them, sat together in the Prioress’s Chamber down in the Dale, looking out at Calva. One of them asked, where was Gray’s Inn? And then Robert Aske was standing close behind her. He laid his arm on her shoulder and pointed out through the window saying, ‘That way it lies.’

  That was all. She woke, and lay in a sureness and peace far more profound and potent than any bliss, because among that company she and he had belonged one to the other, and the circle was indeed closed, complete, and of a perfection infinite.

  September 7

  Rain had washed the sky as clean as if it were made new, and the sun was warm on the wall where the flies basked. Master Aske stood on the terrace below the window of the summer parlour, dressed for riding, with a hood on his head and a cap over that, and the stirrup cup in his hand, for he was leaving this morning. Now as he waited for Will Wall to bring out the horses he talked to Dame Nan and Sir Rafe inside the room.

  Dame Nan was teasing him. She was very cheerful with him always, and far more easy than with most others, as if his cheerfulness and ease gave her confidence. It had even, for the moment at least, given her back confidence towards Sir Rafe, and she looked at her husband laughing, as she called Aske ‘good-for-nothing knave’, and then she stretched out her hand and flipped Aske’s ear with her finger.

  He was just raising the pot of ale to his mouth, and, in trying to dodge, he jogged his elbow on the wall and the ale slopped out. He clapped the pot down on the sill and began to shake the drops from his cuff.

  ‘Now I shall smell like an ale-house. And what a waste of good ale too,’ he said.

  She told him it served him right, and went away laughing, but Sir Rafe said there was no lack of ale at least, and called to July, who was going round among the other guests filling their cups from a pitcher. But the pitcher was just now empty, so, ‘Go and draw some more for Master Aske,’ he told her.

  She had drawn the ale and was crossing the passage on the way back to the parlour when she saw, through the open door at the end, that Master Aske had left the terrace and was standing under one of the apple-trees. Doll was with him and he was reaching down an apple for her, for those on that tree were the earliest of all to ripen. July went out of the door and across the grass to him. He glanced towards her and smiled, but with some constraint, and he affected to be watching Doll, who had run off with her apple, so that he was half turned from July as she filled his can again, and only murmured thanks when it was done, without again looking at her.

  July stepped back, and then stood still. He was going away. Certainly he must have refused Sir John’s offer of her marriage, of which indeed no one had spoken to her from first to last. She did not hope anything now, yet to let him go away without a word was to drown and not cry out for a line to be thrown.

  She jerked out, ‘Sir,’ and as he turned, stretched a hand towards him, because she wanted so much to have it taken and held, and besides she was unable now to think of anything that she could say.

  He looked at her, but did not, or would not, see her hand. Only he smiled again and said, ‘Good-bye, little July – and thanks for the ale.’

  She knew that he was trying to put her off, and had never seen him so ill at ease. It gave her courage. ‘Sir,’ she said, though in a very small voice, ‘Sir, they – they – offered you me – to marry?’

  He nodded.

  ‘But you will not?’

  He said, ‘No, July,’ and grew red and went on hurriedly, ‘I have no thought just now to marry. These are evil times.’

  That was so far from the reason which she had guessed that she began almost to hope. ‘Sir,’ she urged, coming closer, ‘could you not? I would cost you very little. There’s not as much stuff in my gowns by two ells as Alice needs’ (that was Dame Nan’s elder gentlewoman). ‘And I can sew and spin; Dame Anne says I spin well when I try. I would try.’

  To that he could only shake his head.

  ‘I – I can make rishaws. I would make them for you.’

  At such a child’s plea he almost smiled, but, to her, rishaws had brought back the brief hours of that happy night when her castle in Spain had been a house in London with a kitchen in which she herself would make rishaws for him. She cried, ‘Oh, why will you not? If you would tell me why not. Is it me – me myself?’ If he had looked at her – but he would not look – he would have seen on her face more than a child’s misery.

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘No.’ And his voice was so angry and troubled that she whispered, ‘It does not matter, never mind.’

  He took no notice of the words, if indeed he heard them. ‘See here, July,’ he said. ‘Let’s have a token between us that we are friends and shall be always.’ He clapped his hand on his pouch as if to find a token there, then looked round, and with a sort of laugh reached up and plucked an apple. ‘And you shall eat one half and I the other,’ he said, taking out his knife and splitting the apple. ‘And we’ll plant two seeds, and when next I come to Marrick you shall show me where our two little apple-trees grow.’ He thought he was talking to a child, and smiled down at her, and was glad when she smiled.

  They ate the apple standing there under the tree, and when only the core was left he asked, ‘Where’ll we plant the seeds?’ She said, ‘By the bee-hives,’ and took him there, and knelt to plant them, because she said he must not soil his hands.

  So he stood looking down at her while she dug with her fingers into the wet, warm earth, planted the seeds, and patted the place smooth again. When she had done that she still knelt, her hand cupped above where they were buried, while her eyes were on his feet as he stood by her; he had on riding boots of brownish red leather, and there was a patch on one of them; she knew, as she looked, that she loved all of him, from his head to his feet; not that Meg would have recognized it for love, though Will Wall might have. And he was going away; the apple wasn’t a token of anything more than that, and the seeds that she had buried in a grave would never live; that was only a foolishness. She crouched there in the sunshine, with a light soft wind touching her face, and with the pleasant murmur of the hives in her ears, but it was on the edges of the world that she knelt, looking over into the naked, lifeless, sunless places.

  ‘July,’ said Aske suddenly, ‘there’s nothing amiss here, is there? Nan – my kinswoman – your mistress – she’s kind?’

  She had never before armoured herself against him, but now, in her extremity, she looked up at him with a little smile that cost a huge effort.

  ‘Nothing much amiss. My lady’s often out of temper, but what’s that? At least she is easy to take in.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘She believes whatever we tell her.’

  J
uly found that what had seemed as bad as it could be was now worse, much worse. A moment ago she had not cared that she should displease him, but now she did care, yet it could not be undone.

  He said, ‘July, you must not tell lies. Never. To no one. Promise me!’

  She cried out, ‘You don’t know what you are talking about.’ Then they heard Dame Nan calling ‘Robin!’ and Sir Rafe also, ‘Robin! Robin!’ and he went away from her quickly with no more than a muttered word that might have been farewell or anything.

  September 8

  It was just dark when Aske and Will Wall got home to Aughton. Supper was long over, and the tables taken down in the Hall, but Will went off to the kitchen for his supper, and Mistress Nell had the servants bring cold beef and salad, beer and a dish of apples to the summer parlour for his master.

  So Robert Aske sat eating by candlelight, while Dame Nell sewed, Hob, Jack’s eldest boy, read and yawned over a book of law, and Julian, his youngest girl, between spurts of sewing, watched her uncle; Julian, fourteen years old now, so unlike her father or mother, being stocky and solid, with a square, dark-browed face, might easily have passed as her uncle’s daughter.

  Jack Aske sat at the table facing Robert, and told him of all that had happened at Aughton – small beer it would have been for anyone but an Aske, but not for Jack, and not for Robert, though his life had taken him out from Aughton; when he came home again he felt that he and Aughton were no stranger to each other than buckle is to thong. So he munched lettuce and listened, and nodded, putting in a word here and there, or stopped eating and gave his advice at length, whether asked for or not, or teased Jack with the old crusted jokes that went back through many years, and were always the better for keeping. He was very happy to be at home.

  But when Julian had been sent off to bed with Mistress Nell’s gentlewoman, Jack fell silent, and began to fidget. It was clear that his attention was not on what Robert was saying, though it was in answer to a question he had asked about Rafe Bulmer’s sheep.

  Then he turned his face to his wife.

  ‘I shall shew him the letter,’ he said.

  ‘I do not see need,’ said she.

  ‘I am not of your mind in the matter,’ said Jack, and got up. While he went to the little old coffer in the corner and unlocked it Nell bent her head over her sewing, tightening her lips, and Robert fiddled with the core of an apple on his plate, spinning it about by the stalk, and wishing that Jack would either keep his wife out of his affairs, or not try to bring his brothers in.

  Jack came back to the table, and threw down a letter in front of his brother. He leaned over him as he read, a hand on his shoulder.

  When he had finished reading Robert laid the letter down on the table, and then flipped it from him with one finger. ‘Well?’ said he.

  ‘Uncle,’ Hob broke in suddenly, and Robert turned to him. Hob had been christened Robert after old Sir Robert and himself, though, to distinguish, he was never called by his proper name. He was eighteen now and in October the two of them would go up to London together, as the young man was to read law.

  ‘Uncle!’ said the lad again, and then, red and stammering a little, ‘Oh! isn’t it shameful this fellow Cromwell should be able to write to whom he will to let him have this or the other for his servants.’

  ‘Well,’ said Robert Aske pleasantly, ‘he may write—’

  ‘You think I should refuse?’ Jack cried, and Mistress Nell in the same breath, ‘No! No! I told you he would say so. But do not listen.’

  Jack bade her hush, and repeated, ‘You think I should refuse, Robin?’

  ‘I did not say so.’

  ‘No, but you mean it,’ cried Hob triumphantly, and his father bade him also be silent.

  ‘Come, Robin,’ he said, ‘what’s your counsel?’

  ‘You will have it?’

  Jack said ‘Yea,’ and Dame Nell got up suddenly and went out. Jack picked up the sewing she had dropped, and flung it on her chair. He looked troubled and sorry, but he said: ‘Well now—?’

  So Robert gave his counsel, at length, and with many good reasons, and when he had finished they were all silent. This request of my Lord Privy Seal – that a servant of his should have the farm of the 300 acres of the Askes’ saltmarsh, near Pevensey – was a small thing, but as a straw which is a small thing, it showed which way the wind blew.

  ‘I said it was a shame,’ Hob muttered, with his eyes moving between his father and his uncle.

  ‘I shall say nay.’ Jack stood up. He went close to Robert again, and again laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re right, and Hob’s right, saying it’s a shame this man should rule over us, changing and breaking, and doing as he will. And,’ said he, ‘I see now clearly for the first time, since you have showed us, how greatly and grievously our freedoms have been minished by all these Acts lately passed. Whoever heard before that a man’s word should be counted treason?’ He looked about the candle-lit room frowning, as though something was in it to disturb and threaten its quiet. Then he said, ‘Who knows but that the time may come when we must take dreadful measures to amend what has been done amiss.’

  ‘God forbid!’ Robert Aske muttered.

  Hob asked him what he meant, but he only shook his head, and Jack Aske took no notice of what he had said, but repeated, ‘I shall say him nay.’

  He got out pen and paper and wrote and sealed it while they sat watching him. Then he put it in his pouch. ‘Now to bed,’ said he, ‘and that’s a thing well done.’

  September 9

  Marrick Manor was almost empty of guests now, but not quite. Two remained – if you did not count as guests Sir John Bulmer and his lady – the elderly man who had walked with Rafe on the terrace when Aske and John Bulmer were playing chess, and his wife. Old Sir Christopher might have stayed for ever without putting anyone out, but his lady was a different matter; she talked. All Yorkshire knew how she talked, and Dame Nan, teasing Aske one day, had proposed the question whether Cousin Robin or the lady had the longest tongue. ‘By the Rood!’ said Aske at that, ‘if there’s a doubt I see I must tie knots in mine.’

  Now, with all the other guests gone, she was more difficult to avoid, while the penalty for being caught was more prolonged, since it was likely that only the horn blown for the next mealtime would bring release. It was for this reason that Sir Rafe had dodged into the shed where the gardener kept his tools and baskets and twine, to lurk there in the brown twilight that smelt of dust and potting soil and dung, and it was for this same reason that Dame Nan, lifting the latch with caution, slid quietly in and as quietly shut the door. They saw each other then, and they laughed.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ he asked. ‘And what are you?’ said she. They laughed again, and standing close, listened for footsteps. Sir Rafe put his hand to his wife’s waist, and she laid hers on it, moving slightly so that she almost leaned on him, though not quite. She turned her head and they smiled at each other.

  ‘Hark!’ he whispered.

  ‘What’ll we say if—’ she murmured, and then came closer yet. In that moment, with all of it unsaid, she was able to renounce the unanswerable, unforgivable words that had burned and swelled in her for months about the woman that he kept at Richmond; nor would she think on the creature again, but things should be as they had once been. And Sir Rafe, also without a word spoken, swore to himself that he’d go no more to that trull. He had, in fact, been tired of her for some time, but it was pleasant to be able to make a virtue of it. He and his wife stood close as boy and girl shyly approaching love, like them wishing to dare more, yet exquisitely content.

  When it was safe for them to come out of hiding they went together to look at the new cow-shippon that Sir Rafe was building. Dame Nan had not seen it before, but they must ignore that, because now everything was to be as it used to be. At first she praised all, then was silent, remembering that she had been used to no such insincerities, and at last, forgetting that anything had ever been different, said roundly that t
his or the other seemed to her to be wrong. And once more, as he had used to listen, Sir Rafe listened to her advice.

  So they were at a very sweet accord when they came again into the sunshine, and lingered, willing to prolong their companionship. It was then that she said, ‘Rafe, I shall tell your brother’s – I shall tell Dame Meg to take her sister from here.’

  ‘Well,’ said he, ‘I never liked her much.’

  Dame Nan seemed to think more explanation was needed. She was sorry for the girl, she said, a bastard, and with such a sister, and she glanced a little apprehensively at Sir Rafe, whose brother had married that sister.

  ‘Speak not to me of her,’ said he, in a tone that told his wife she could say what she liked.

  ‘It is my fault. I should not have brought the girl here. She cannot help herself that she is come of such blood. Yet though she is young I doubt she is not as a young maid should be.’

  ‘Oh!’ Sir Rafe narrowly avoided the mistake of reminding his wife how positively she had proclaimed July’s virtue.

  ‘I saw her go up to Robin just before he left. She would not leave him. She stood by him and stretched out a hand to him.’

  Sir Rafe would have liked to inquire if Aske had taken it, but had sense to see that the question would be untimely. He tried to look shocked, but, disabled by a sudden recollection of his dealings with the trull at Richmond, succeeded only in looking sheepish.

  ‘The way she stood,’ Dame Nan said disgustedly. ‘It was pure invitation. Thus—’ She showed him how July had stood. Sir Rafe shook his head. It was no use reminding Nan that the girl was too plain to be likely to attract a man, unless one with a very strange taste.