Crossed Bones

by Jane Johnson

  Margaret Harris gave her a quick, nervous smile. ‘Of course you are right, Catherine. Be that as it may, we should not shame ourselves. My home may not be the richest in the district, but these men are influential and well travelled: even if they do not remark these details consciously, you may be sure an impression will be formed, and I firmly think they are more likely to hear Sir Arthur out and lend him their support if they see him to be a solid man with a well-run estate.’ She wrung her hands and stepped away to survey the results in the long Venetian glass. ‘Do I look well enough, Catherine?’

  Cat surveyed her mistress silently. There was no denying that Lady Harris looked most proper, but the style of her dress was dull and hideously outmoded to one who set great store by following the latest turns of fashion. The fabric of the mandeville was rich enough, and the bodice was trimmed with seed pearls; but the neck was too high and the skirt was too full. No one was wearing such a stiff, formal style nowadays, and certainly not an old cartwheel ruff, which was such a blessed nuisance to clean and starch: a task she was not looking forward to at all. But she kept these thoughts to herself and nodded approvingly. ‘You look very well indeed, my lady: Sir Arthur will be proud of you.’

  And that was undoubtedly the case. Despite the fact that his duties as Governor of St Michael’s Mount took Sir Arthur from home more often than not, he remained devoted to his family, and whenever in the presence of his wife regarded her out of his hooded blue eyes with far more warmth than such a staid and mousy woman might expect. It must be true, Cat conjectured, what Polly said of the marriage: that it had not lasted as long as it had, nor produced eight healthy children, nor six poor dead ones, out of chilly duty alone.

  Margaret Harris crossed to the window and gazed out across the grounds. Through the trees she had a clear view of St Michael’s Mount, rising like legendary Avalon out of the still sea, the close waters of the bay gleaming turquoise as the sun struck through to the pale sands beneath. She sighed. ‘I wish I had never laid eyes upon that place,’ she said with sudden venom.

  Cat stared at her, for a moment lost for words. She knew that it had been Margaret Harris’s decision to maintain her household here at Kenegie rather than moving into the castle on the Mount, a decision that Cat simply could not understand. Kenegie was well enough in its way: foursquare and granite grey, high on the Gulval hills in its sheltering nest of trees; but, had she been the wife of such a man as Sir Arthur, she would have demanded they leave the family estate at once and take up residence in the castle, holding court there in fine style in its spacious halls, hanging its walls with fabulous tapestries and lading its long table with linen and crystal and silver. Taking ship across Mount’s Bay to ascend to the castle in its majestic position atop the isle would surely impress any visitor, no matter how worldly-wise they might be.

  She had once been foolish enough as to say so much to her mistress and been sternly admonished. ‘My dear, in my eyes it is hard to make any castle a home; and the Mount is a particular case, being rocky, inaccessible and exceeding draughty. Moreover, the Mount is visible for miles around from land and sea, which renders it a natural target for foreign enemies; and, as my husband keeps complaining, it is most insufficiently garrisoned and armed.’ At this, she had shivered. ‘Believe me, Catherine, I would not trade my small comforts here for all the grandeur of such a castle.’

  Lady Harris now turned away from that view, her mouth set in a hard, straight line. ‘That place is slowly destroying my husband’s health,’ she declared. ‘It is a burden and a worry, when he should be taking his ease in the late afternoon of his life. He has been a most loyal and faithful servant to the Crown for thirty years, but it has repaid him not one whit. Fine words butter no parsnips, and pretty flags may proclaim a king; but they will never save his kingdom.’

  King James had sent his royal union flag to the Governor in reward for his ‘good and dutiful service’, instructing him to fly it always from the highest point of the Mount as a sign of his sovereign’s favour. Cat regarded her mistress in surprise: not just for the unwonted vehemence of her outburst but for its substance. The arrival of the flag had surely been a mark of honour; such words were surely close to treason. It was as well they were not overheard.

  ‘I could take Polly’s place serving at table,’ she said, filling the awkward silence that followed. ‘If it would ease your ladyship’s concerns. I am not as practised as she, but I am sure I would not disgrace you.’

  Lady Harris shook her head. ‘I would not ask it of you, Catherine. It will be long, dull work, and you might spoil your pretty dress.’ There was a glint in her eye. For all her apparent mousiness, Margaret Harris was no one’s fool, and she had quickly remarked the coincidence of her servant wearing her best red gown with the imminent arrival of wealthy visitors. ‘But you may help me set the dining room to rights.’

  Thus Cat, swathed in a most unbecoming linen apron, found herself running around at her mistress’s beck for the next two hours, sweeping the flagstones, beating the rugs, polishing the chairs, the glasses, the knives, changing the flowers, shaking the inevitable moths out of the linen despite the vile-smelling herbs interleaving the pieces, and then sitting in the brightest light she could find with a fine needle and white silk thread patching and darning the myriad little holes they had left in the best Dutch tablecloth. Matty ran in and out of the kitchen with cloths and brooms and a pressing iron full of hot coals. Margaret Harris took up residence in the parlour so that she could oversee Cook and Nell Chigwine in the roasting of the sheep slaughtered that morning, the making of pastries and fish soup, the preparation of fruits and cheeses. To a huge bread-and-butter pudding studded with candied berries she set her own hand. ‘Run to the dairy and ask Grace for a skim of cream,’ she called to Nell, who duly wiped her floury hands on her apron and took a short cut through the dining room to the courtyard, beyond which lay the farm buildings.

  Seeing Cat on her hands and knees putting the finishing touch to the hearth, Nell stopped on the threshold, smirking. There was no love lost between the two.

  Cat straightened from her task and looked Nell full in the eye.

  ‘Have you nothing better to be about than spying on my doings?’ she demanded crossly, getting to her feet and removing at last the grimy apron.

  Nell’s lip curled. She looked Cat up and down in visible disgust. ‘I have seen the extreme vanity of this world, Catherine Tregenna: the Lord has showed me the vanity of outward things, that they are the vanity of vanities, a blast, a bubble and things of no consequence. Ecclesiastes 1:14.’

  Cat burst out laughing. ‘It’s no good quoting scripture at me, Nell: it runs off me like rain off a duck and I can make neither nose nor tail of a word of it. Speak plainly or let me alone.’

  ‘Thou should seek the salvation of the Lord afore it is too late for thee; thou art little better than a pagan creature.’ Nell stood there, hands on hips, sure in her righteous knowledge. ‘I saw thee at church last Sunday casting sheep’s eyes at the young men and writing in thy little book rather than praying for the Lord’s forgiveness for all thy frivolous thoughts and impious deeds. And just yesterday I saw thee in the orchard reaching up to pick the apple blossom for thy poor innocent cousin so thou might show him thy ankle, like a very Eve.’

  Cat shrugged and moved towards the kitchen. ‘I was doing no such thing, and my conscience is quite clear,’ she said sharply.

  Nell drew back as if even to touch the red dress were likely to infect her with sin. ‘Thou art a temptress and a Jezebel and the Lord will damn thee for thy vanity.’

  Cat swept past, a ship in full sail. ‘At least I am not a canting old witch,’ she said, barely audible.

  Nell stared after her, suspicious but a trifle deaf.

  Having worked hard in readying the dining room, Cat was hopeful that she might have won Lady Harris’s favour. Instead, she found herself banished to the bedchamber to sew her mistress a new chemise. There was something about the nature and timing
of this task that made her hackles rise as high as those of the old foxhound Blind Jack when the farmyard cats sneaked past him to steal his food; but there had been nothing she could do save bob her head in assent and turn away quickly before anyone saw her distress. She flew up the stairs, unearthed the roll of fabric and her sewing basket, and settled herself in the high-backed chair, still seething. She cut the cloth, using an old shift as a pattern, and for a while did her best to immerse herself in the work, stitching and hemming with as much skill as she could bring to bear on the task. Even so, the injustice of the situation revisited her like a dog scratching at a door. It really was infuriating to think of fluff-headed Matty and sour Nell downstairs, scrubbed and spruced and making ready to serve at table instead of her. There would be little use asking Matty what was discussed among the visitors – she had the memory of a gnat – and the idea of having a voluntary conversation on such a subject with Nell Chigwine was simply unthinkable. She bit her lip with frustration, drawing blood that she did not notice until it dropped on to the fine white linen, where it spread like a wound.

  ‘God’s teeth!’ Cat fumed. She hurled the ruined thing to the floor. All that had been left of the task had been stitching the hem: it had been all but finished. Now she would have to start again, and hope that Lady Harris would not with her customary pecuniary care measure the roll of fabric and find the discrepancy; it was that, or own up to the error and pay the three pennies’ worth she had wasted. She sighed mightily, retrieved the spoiled item and took it to the window.

  Through the distorted squares of glass she saw five horsemen enter the grounds, rippling across the grass as if through a sea. The first rider was clearly Sir Arthur; she knew the big grey as Kerrier, from their own stables. Behind him came two bay hunters bearing men swathed in dark cloaks, an older gentleman on a stately chestnut mare whom she recognized as their neighbour Sir Francis Godolphin, a regular visitor at Kenegie, and a man all in black with an elaborately plumed hat. Sir Arthur came clattering into the yard and dismounted stiffly, throwing the reins to Jim the stable boy. Cat opened the window for a better view, and, as she did so, perhaps alerted by the sound of the latch, the last man looked up and caught her eye. He held her gaze curiously all the way across the courtyard, a strange half-smile on his face, then swung down from his horse with such a flourish that the hat flew off his head, revealing a tumble of auburn hair and a sharply trimmed red beard. He looked very unlike the type of man Cat would have expected Sir Arthur to consult with on any matter of importance.

  Moments later, the visitors had disappeared into the house, leaving Cat in a ferment of curiosity. It took great strength of will to resettle to the matter of the chemise.

  At last, all her stitching unpicked, the stain cut out and the seams resewn without losing too much volume, Cat put the garment aside, thanking the Lord that Margaret Harris was a meagrely built woman and unlikely to notice the difference between this shift and the others Cat had sewn for her. She put her needle and thread aside, and stood and stretched till her joints cracked. Outside, she spied her cousin Robert crossing the courtyard. Cat rapped on the window, then ran quietly down the stairs, and, instead of taking the corridor towards the privy that would provide her with a reasonable explanation for this break from her tasks, she crept past the kitchen towards the room in which the guests were gathered. The rumble of their voices filled the air, but the door from the dining room remained firmly closed. For the space of a few heartbeats she listened at the crack, but heard nothing of great import: interspersed with polite comments on the repast, the men appeared to be discussing the merits of different types of cannon. There was a sudden lull in the conversation, and Cat, fearing discovery, fled. Robert was likely to know more than she could glean from a few seconds of eavesdropping; he had a knack for learning of everything that went on at the manor and the Mount. People trusted Rob – with information, with difficult tasks, with their welfare. He was that sort of person: dependable, determined, capable. He would, she was quite sure, make some other girl a fine husband.

  ‘Robert!’ She slipped into the courtyard and beckoned him to follow her out of earshot of the main house.

  He did so, his face creased by puzzlement. ‘What is it, Cat – Catherine?’

  ‘Who are those men, the four who came riding in with Sir Arthur, who are taking dinner with him now?’

  Rob regarded her askance. ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Am I not allowed to have a little curiosity as to the nature of such important guests as to throw the house into turmoil all morning and have her ladyship running our feet off with a thousand chores?’

  He grinned. ‘Running your feet off, eh? And you in your best red dress?’

  ‘This is by no means my best,’ she lied. ‘Besides, what would you know about such things, Robert Bolitho?’

  ‘Not a great deal,’ he admitted, colouring somewhat.

  ‘So, who are they, and why are they here?’ she pressed. ‘I know Sir Richard Robartes has come from Lanhydrock,’ she added quickly, to show off her little knowledge. ‘And of course I recognized Sir Francis. But the other two I did not know.’

  ‘The older of the two is the politician and courtier Sir John Eliot, come all the way from Port Eliot,’ he said respectfully. ‘He is well known for speaking his mind, even to the King, and holds great sway in London.’

  Cat nodded, storing this information away. The touch of London at Kenegie: that was something fine indeed, and that Sir John had ridden the length of the county to see the Master meant that their discussion must be important. ‘And the other?’ she inquired. ‘The gentleman with the red hair and the fine hat?’

  ‘John Killigrew of Arwenack,’ Robert said, and did not elaborate.

  ‘The pirate?’ Cat cried excitedly.

  ‘The Governor of Pendennis Castle,’ Rob corrected her stiffly, though everyone knew that the Killigrews were pirates, thieves and rogues who had climbed high on the social ladder by means of starting halfway up it from a large pile of misappropriated gold. This of course made them heroic figures to many of the Cornish, especially those who still mourned the passing of Queen Bess and the years in which the Crown had so often turned a blind eye to a little nautical initiative.

  Cat’s mother had worked three years at Arwenack, close by on the Helford River, and had talked of little else, as if that short time had been for her a golden age, and the intervening twenty years had belonged to some other woman’s life. Far from displaying any shame at working for folk who sailed too close to the wind, Jane Tregenna revelled in the wild tales that surrounded the Killigrews. She had particularly enjoyed telling her daughter, over and again, each time with a little more embroidered detail, the story of Jane Killigrew, wife of the first Sir John, who had ended his days in the Fleet, London’s debtors’ prison. He left his widow with great debts and no way of paying them – until that resolute woman determined to make her fortune with her own hands. When two Dutch galleons, disabled by heavy weather and bearing Spanish gold, were brought into the shelter of Pendennis, Jane Killigrew led her retainers – armed with pikes and swords – and stormed the ships, overpowering the crew, killing the two Spanish factors aboard and making away with several hogsheads of gold. It was the killing of the Spanish grandees that had earned many of those involved a hanging at Launceston; but it was rumoured that Elizabeth herself had intervened on behalf of Lady Killigrew; certainly she had issued a royal pardon, and Jane Killigrew had escaped the gibbet. The current Sir John was her son.

  ‘Is he the man who has built the lighthouse on the Lizard Point?’ Cat inquired, knowing full well the answer.

  ‘The same,’ he replied, tight-lipped.

  Rob did not approve of Sir John Killigrew, and Cat was minded to twitch his reins. With a gleam in her eye, she said, ‘’Tis surely a most charitable Christian gesture to construct a lighthouse to warn the shipping about the wicked rocks on that black coast.’

  Rob snorted. ‘Oh, most charitable. Were it not for the fa
ct that he charges a toll upon each vessel that passes the point.’ Or indeed extinguishes the light when strong south-westerlies and a particularly rich prize look as if they might converge, he thought but did not add.

  ‘A man of admirable acumen,’ Cat offered, enjoying herself. ‘Perhaps Sir Arthur has thought of raising a lighthouse of his own upon the Mount and seeks his counsel.’

  ‘I hardly think our master is likely to take to licensed robbery of his neighbours and countrymen,’ Rob returned acidly. ‘He seeks, in quite the opposite manner, to protect us all. He has gathered his allies about him to aid him in making overtures to the Privy Council for funds to furnish the Mount with more guns, and somehow Killigrew has managed to gain royal favour sufficiently to acquire such for Pendennis, though he says it is never enough.’

  ‘Will the Spanish attack us again?’ Cat asked. ‘Or is it the French he wishes to protect us from?’

  ‘Or the Turks, or privateers, or the rogue Dutch – there are many enemies who might be attracted by the sight of an unprotected stretch of coast such as this.’

  ‘But there is nothing here to steal! What are they going to take – our pilchards?’ She leaned towards him, laughing. ‘Or perhaps Nell Chigwine and her mother? How I would love to see them carried off to some Catholic noblewoman’s house – can you imagine their horror at all the terrible papist trappings and Latin Mass?’

  ‘You should not make mock of others’ religious beliefs, Cat,’ Rob said severely, though a smile was lurking behind his words. ‘It is not very Christian of you.’

  ‘Truth be told, I often feel like the wicked little pagan she names me,’ Cat told him solemnly.

  Horrified, Rob put his hand over her mouth.

  ‘Unhand that lady, sirrah!’

  The cousins sprang apart guiltily. The red-haired man stood there, a long clay pipe in one hand, a leather pouch in the other. He tamped a quantity of the contents of the pouch into the bowl of the pipe and surveyed it with interest while Rob and Cat looked on in silence. Then Rob bowed. ‘I beg pardon, sir. This is my cousin Catherine.’