Alice tended to shun society. It was therefore a rarity to see her at the abbey, but not all was what it seemed, for like the magistrate, she was in attendance for a specific purpose.
Her neighbour, Thomas Metcalf, a self-made man full of his own importance, had recently conducted a survey of his property, and claimed that a common boundary, indicated by stones rather than a hedge or fence, had been ‘interfered with’. He had accused Alice of theft, a claim she strenuously denied.
To avoid a protracted and potentially nasty dispute, Sir Howarth had negotiated with both parties to have Roger Knowles, independent of his office, oversee the matter. Knowles had agreed but only on the condition that an expert on the subject be included. He had then sent for a conveyancing solicitor of his acquaintance, Horace Twissleton, who had arrived from London the previous day, putting-up at the White Swan tavern.
***
“A beautiful day for a fair,” said Nicholas, as he and Richard entered the throng. “Ah, Mr. Fisher,” he went on, greeting a tenant farmer, “how are you? What is it this year, chicken or pig?”
“A pig, and I reckon I stand a good chance of winning the five pounds.”
“Well if I hear some drunken fellow singing lustily on the green at midnight, I’ll know who it is.” Nicholas clapped him on the shoulder and moved on, greeting many of the locals with cheeky jibes and eyeing their pretty daughters.
“Everyone seems to be enjoying themselves,” said Richard. “I heard there is to be horse racing later.”
“Amateur stuff. Now, if you want a real contest, tomorrow when we go out to settle this tiresome land dispute, we’ll find a suitable spot for a race.”
“And the prize?”
“A hearty repast at Bess Whittaker’s. Tis a while since I visited her tavern, and nobody brews ale or cider like Bess does. Once tasted, never forgotten.”
“Does it?” responded Richard absently, for his eyes were now focused on someone in the crowd. Thomas Metcalf had a hand on a young girl’s shoulder, and it was clear from her frightened eyes that his familiarity was not welcome.
Nicholas followed his cousin’s gaze. “Leave the coxswain to me,” he whispered, and feigning drunkenness, pulled the girl into his arms. He kissed her cheeks, slapped her backside, and then with a wink, pushed a coin into her hand.
The girl understood and with a smile of gratitude, promptly melted into the crowd. Nicholas was about to walk away when Metcalf grabbed his arm. “Are you so drunk that you forget your manners?” he demanded, more indignant at the lack of apology than the loss of a potential bedmate.
“Drunk or sober, I know how to behave like a gentleman… unlike you.”
“If you wish to pick a quarrel with me, Master Faulkner, I will not disappoint you. Nothing would give me greater pleasure than to bring you down.”
Nicholas bowed. “I accept your challenge. I will even let you choose the time and place, even though it is my prerogative.”
Metcalf made to move forward but Horace Twissleton, sensing a quarrel that might prove prejudicial to the splendid fee he was being paid, stepped between them. “Gentlemen, please, a street brawl is not the way to settle the matter. Now, please desist or I shall apply to my good friend, Roger Knowles, to bind you over.”
“Good friend?” queried Nicholas, a note of suspicion in his voice. “I wasn’t aware you were so well acquainted. Perhaps your independence is not as unbiased as we were led to believe.”
Twissleton began to sweat as he expounded, “Well… perhaps not ‘good friend’, but we’re certainly of the same noble profession.”
Nicholas took in the solicitor’s short fat features and curiously flat nose, and decided that here was a man he could never trust. “Then I hope you will not have cause to disgrace it,” he commented, and so saying, walked away.
Thomas Metcalf ground his teeth as he made to follow, but once again the solicitor intervened. This time however, his motive was not entirely to prevent a public brawl.
He came from a long line of solicitors, and his knowledge of the law was beyond question. Unfortunately, his character was as such that a good legal brain was not enough. His ambition was to specialise in the prosecution of high profile cases, and to this end, would associate himself, no matter how brief the acquaintance, with any person of prominence.
But not everyone appreciated his ambition or approved his methods. Behind closed doors in Chancery Lane where he rented a small office, many regarded him as a sycophantic toady who would kiss any backside of title or rank.
Always on the alert for an opportunity to raise his reputation, whilst eating his supper at the White Swan Tavern the previous evening, he had overheard a conversation concerning strange events in the area, and where the word ‘witchcraft’ had been uttered several times.
This had been music to his ears, for knowing that King James was determined to exterminate witchcraft, Twissleton had gone to bed and dreamed of being presented at Court as a renowned witch-finder. But first, there was a mundane land dispute to settle.
“Let him go,” he said, clutching Metcalf’s arm. “Once the matter is settled you can do what you like.” He lowered his voice. “But if you’ll take my advice, you should not act precipitously. When you win… ahem, that is to say, should your claim be proven, you can crow about it for years.”
“And if I lose, what then?” asked Metcalf sharply. “No, if he accepts my challenge, I will cut his throat.”
“Trust me, my friend. I know Master Nicholas’s type of character well, and humiliation and not revenge is his particular brand of poison. Have faith in me and all will be well.”
***
Nicholas and Richard had walked towards the maypole. They arrived just as the flowered barge containing Lavinia Ashmore was being presented to the crowd. Sir Howarth and Lady Eleanor were also amidst the throng.
“My Lord and noble Lady,” said the character of Robin Hood, “I have the honour to present the Queen of the May.” He helped Lavinia disembark, and though flustered and rather nervous, she curtseyed with grace enough to satisfy a King.
“As Queen of the May,” she began, reciting the traditional speech, “I invite you to attend the festival where every respect will be afforded you.”
Lady Eleanor held out a hand and delivered the expected response. “You must not kneel to us. On this occasion, it is incumbent upon us to respect your sovereignty for the day. We humbly accept your invitation, and in return, invite you and those of your choosing to attend the fancy dress Ball at the abbey this evening.”
“Tradition also dictates that she must choose a partner for the first dance,” said Sir Howarth. He chuckled as he glanced at the watching crowd. “And to judge from all the eager faces, she’s spoilt for choice.”
Nicholas came forward and fell on one knee. There was a ripple of laughter as he said with exaggerated supplication, “Fair Queen, though I be of humble origin and therefore unworthy of your favour, let it be me.”
“Perhaps she would prefer someone who doesn’t smell of horse flesh,” said Richard, making a jest of his cousin’s well-known sporting prowess. Lavinia, upon hearing Richard’s voice, turned around and flushed scarlet, a circumstance not lost on Lady Eleanor.
“Shame on you, Richard,” she said playfully. “You have made the Queen blush. She has every right to banish you from the Ball.”
“No!” Lavinia bit her lip. She had not meant to shout. Nevertheless, she could not suppress a smile as she said, “I choose Richard Faulkner.”
Still on one knee, Nicholas grinned roguishly. “Next to me, you could not have chosen better.” He stood up and slapped Richard’s shoulder. “Congratulations cousin. You must now acknowledge the honour.”
Richard stepped forward and kissed Lavinia’s hand. “I am truly flattered. I hope I will not disgrace you.” Her heart already racing, Lavinia thought it would burst through her chest when he plucked a pink flower from her hair. “I will wear this as a reminder of you until this evening,” and so s
aying, pushed the flower into a buttonhole.
There were cheers and applause as Nicholas shouted, “Let the dancing begin!”
The pipes and drums struck up again, the Fool and the Minstrel recommenced their gambols, the morris-dancers rang their bells, and Lavinia could not believe her luck. Richard was wearing her flower! Moreover, she could still feel his lips on her hand.
Lost in dreamy thought, it was several moments before she realised that someone was calling her name. She looked around and saw Davy and Catherine.
“Oh, I'm so glad you came.”
Catherine nudged her playfully. “What did I say this morning about Master Richard? He couldn’t take his eyes off you.”
Lavinia giggled. “Hush, not a word more.”
She was still smiling when her ‘throne’ was carried to a platform where she could watch the dancing unimpeded. Richard was standing on the far side of the pole and directly in her line of sight. Lavinia’s heart skipped a beat when he looked into her eyes and tenderly touched the flower. A moment later, joy turned to consternation when the bloom was snatched by Thomas Metcalf.
“A fair flower from a fair maiden,” he said, holding it to his nose.
Richard rounded on him. “Restore it at once or I’ll…”
“Or you’ll what?” interrupted Metcalf tauntingly. “I have a mind to know the wench better. No doubt she’ll plead her virtue at first, but…”
Richard threw a punch, and Metcalf would have fallen to the ground had he not been caught by some bystanders. Recovering his equilibrium and snorting like a bull, he drew his sword and advanced. The crowd around them, excited by the prospect of a real sword fight, immediately retreated. But Richard had the advantage of youth over age, and after what amounted to little more than a skirmish, sent Metcalf’s sword spinning through the air.
“Well done, Dick,” said Nicholas, laughing at the defeated foe.
“I haven’t finished with him yet! Give him his sword and I’ll teach him a lesson he’ll never forget!”
Richard was standing with his sword poised and his chin set in fierce determination. Nicholas restrained his cousin. “Forget it, Dick. The mangy dog’s not worth it.” Nevertheless, he gave Metcalf a look that clearly said, ‘try it again and you’ll have two to fight’.
Metcalf seemed to get the message, for he scooped up his sword and stalked away, ignoring the fact that the object of the quarrel, Lavinia, had fainted.
Chapter Three
Mid-Morning
News of the earlier disagreement between Nicholas and Metcalf had been hastily conveyed to Sir Howarth by the ever-grovelling Horace Twissleton. However, having been distracted in the interim by well-wishers and acquaintances, by the time the Knight reached his son, he was unaware that a second quarrel had taken place.
“What means you, Nicholas? Brawling in public is a disgrace. You forget what is due to the name you bear.”
“On the contrary, sir, I am extraordinarily aware of it. But, I think you proceed from a false assumption.” Nicholas recounted the details of both incidents. “So you see,” he concluded, “Richard, as befits a nobleman, was defending Lavinia’s honour. Thomas Metcalf received the reward he deserved, nothing more.”
Sir Howarth sighed. “Metcalf is overbearing,” he began, but got no further. Nicholas had suddenly half-turned and tugged on his father’s sleeve. Someone was taking a keen interest in their conversation.
“Have a care, sir,” he whispered quickly, “Twissleton is not far away.” Nicholas then spoke in a normal voice. “Metcalf is acting irrationally because he knows Aunt Alice’s claim will be proven.”
If the solicitor was embarrassed that he’d been caught eavesdropping, he gave no sign as he approached and wagged a finger reproachfully. “Ah, Master Nicholas, I would not be too sure about that. I speak from experience when I say that disputes should always be settled in a court of law. That is the only arena where a sensible man should ever fight. It is the sword, shield, and armour of the wise.”
“Ordinarily I would agree with you, but what happens when the law can’t see past the end of its nose? Under such circumstance, I would rather trust the defence of my property to my own hand.”
Twissleton bounced on his feet as he pronounced, “The laws of England are the better guardians and adversaries of any one man.”
“To judge from his actions,” said Sir Howarth, “Thomas Metcalf does not share your opinion. Instead of leaving the matter to arbitration, as we were content to do, he seems hell-bent on intimidation. I presume you’ve spoken to him since you arrived?”
“I have indeed, and he too embraced arbitration. However, after the unprovoked attacks by your relatives, he may now change his mind.”
“Unprovoked?” repeated Nicholas indignantly. “The insolent cur got what he deserved.”
Before Twissleton could respond, the crowd began to stir and separate. Half-walking, half-stumbling, Lavinia was being helped by the figure of Robin Hood, an anxious looking Lady Eleanor by her side.
“I’m taking her to the abbey,” she announced. “The poor girl is ill.”
Sir Howarth was concerned. “What be the cause?” he asked his wife, but it was Robin Hood who answered.
“She saw Master Richard and Master Thomas fighting and collapsed. She would have fallen off the viewing platform if I hadn’t caught her in time.”
“Most commendable,” said the Knight as Lavinia's senses began to stir. She saw Richard standing but a pace away and hoped he wasn’t an apparition.
“Oh, thank god you’re alive,” she said feebly. “I was afraid you…” She suddenly swayed as her head began to spin, and Robin gripped her arm even tighter. And yet in spite of the wave of nausea, Lavinia was grateful for the interruption. She had almost revealed too much.
Lady Eleanor cast an appraising look at Richard and Lavinia, and with the mysterious sense known as ‘women’s’ intuition’, discerned an attraction. She did not like it. Whilst she conceded that Lavinia was pretty and charming, she was also related to the notorious troublemaker Margaret Dymock, which by default, rendered Lavinia’s character questionable. Besides, thought the Lady snobbishly, the girl is not of our class.
“Fresh air will soon aid her recovery.”
“She should still be taken to the abbey,” said Sir Howarth. “Richard, please escort the young lady and see she is made comfortable.”
Though Sir Howarth's word was law, Lady Eleanor sought to intervene. “Men know nothing of these things. The poor girl might faint again. I shall accompany Lavinia myself,” and with the assistance of Robin Hood and escorted by Richard, they departed for the abbey.
Alice Nash, who had been watching the proceedings with a frown upon her face, turned to Nicholas and asked, “Isn’t that Elizabeth Ashmore’s daughter?”
“Yes. Davy is an extremely coarse fellow, and the little girl, Catherine, incorrigible. Lavinia is the only decent one in the bunch.”
“I know the Ashmores of old. Davy was about five or six when Lavinia was born, though there is little family resemblance. Their father, John Ashmore, was fair-haired and rather handsome, but what a brute of a man. He used to be stable-master at the manor. He broke his neck whilst exercising a horse. Edward offered to retain Elizabeth afterwards, but she refused and moved away. I’ve scarcely spoken to her since. I sent her a gift when Catherine was born but the gesture was never acknowledged.”
“Lavinia is uncommonly pretty. Tis a pity she’s related to Margaret Dymock. You know, living so close to the manor, it wouldn’t surprise me if the old witch was involved in your husband’s death. She is certainly malicious enough.”
Alice smiled as she responded, “Edward died, not from witchcraft, but laxity of character. His death is attributable to hard living and hard drinking, neither of which is conducive to good health.”
As Nicholas often indulged in both, he did not argue the point. “Speaking of witches,” he said, changing the subject, “I haven’t seen Mistress Dymock’s bosom
companion today.”
“Bosom companion? If you are referring to Mistress Craddock then you are badly informed. Never have two women hated each other more.”
“One is as bad as the other, and if they are witches, then they should be burned.”
“I do not believe in witches. It’s nothing but ignorant and superstitious folklore.”
“There’s plenty of anecdotal evidence against them. The only reason they’ve escaped justice so far, is because those who know the truth are afraid to speak out. Personally, I’d blow Wolfdene to kingdom come.” Nicholas shivered. “I don’t often go near the old place, but when I do, it gives me the creeps. I don’t know how you can endure to live near it.”
Alice laughed. “It’s just the remains of an old Norman fortress, though I agree it’s somewhat sinister. Fanny and Margaret are simply two spiteful old women who should know better, and so long as they adhere to their part of the forest, I shall not lose any sleep over them.”
Horace Twissleton, who had been listening unperceived, now stepped forward. “So, there are two witches in Thornley Forest? Hmm, I must make enquiries when we visit the place tomorrow. It is incumbent on all good and honest citizens to report such matters. The King holds witches in especial abhorrence, and his book, ‘Dæmonologie’, is most instructive in exposing and proving these offenders. I would entreat you, Master Nicholas, to assist me in exposing these dreadful creatures.”
“The king's known hatred of witches is precisely why men seek them out,” said Alice with feeling. “It is nothing but a cynical attempt to win his favour. A woman experienced in the art of herbal preparations, rather than being lauded for her skill, is branded a witch. It is astonishing how the number of so-called witches has substantially increased since the publication of the King’s book.”
“Not so,” replied Twissleton. “The King would protect his subjects from these vixens and the statute leaves no room for ambiguity.” He closed his eyes and recited, “'All persons invoking any evil spirit, or consulting, covenanting with, entertaining, employing, feeding, or rewarding any evil spirit, or taking up dead bodies from their graves to be used in any witchcraft, sorcery, charm, or enchantment, or killing or otherwise hurting any person by infernal arts, shall be guilty of witchcraft and suffer death’.” He opened his eyes. “The statute has proved most efficacious in exposing the number of witches, hence why there seems more than before.”
The Sisterhood:: Curse of Abbot Hewitt Page 4