Hanging Matter

by David Donachie

  Three times he’d gone to sea, and three times he’d returned to find her happy to welcome him. She was like some safe, untroubled haven, never shrewish as long as Harry treated her as an equal. Naomi understood that an invitation to Cheyne Court, barring the Harvest Festival, was unlikely, and never pressed for one. Nor did she ask to accompany him to Canterbury or Deal for balls and visits to the theatre. The couple shared the odd outing, to eat or allow Naomi to pick the wild flowers she was so fond of. But other than that their relationship was kept within the walls of the Griffin’s Head, a liaison discreet without being secret. This was a state that suited all parties, including their neighbours, admirably.

  The thin strip of moon was hidden, and the light from the stars was less apparent now, down the valley, with the tall trees that surrounded the hamlet of Chillenden creating a dark tunnel. But there was light and sound at the end of it, with the lanterns in the windows of the Griffin throwing out a welcoming glow. A black plume of smoke poured out of the tall chimney into the night sky. The thatched roof and the dun-coloured Elizabethan walls, criss-crossed with oak beams, picked up the light from the crescent moon, and the heavy frost caused every branch to sparkle, creating a magical island in the midst of the freezing landscape.

  He could hear the sounds of singing, faint on the night air, which made him wonder. It was late to still be carousing. But the raised voices also caused him to hurry his step, eagerly seeking the warmth of the old coaching inn. Harry noticed the odd shapes as he came close to the building, grotesque faces, cut out and hung over lanterns, some swinging from the trees, others stuck on poles jammed in the hard earth. There were more in the windows. His mind, concentrating on other things, barely registered the fact that he’d last seen those figures when Arthur had celebrated his Halloween festival, some five years before, at Cheyne Court.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  THE NOISE diminished a little as Harry opened the door and entered, coughing slightly as he left the cold evening air, sharp and fresh, and inhaled the near impenetrable smoke of the busy tap-room. Once inside the doorway he stopped, looking with amazement at the way the place was decorated. Oak leaves and branches covered the walls and ceiling. But the made-up faces and the costumes, worn by customers and staff alike, were even more surprising.

  The girls serving the tables wore tall hats and black cloaks. They’d used soot to blacken part of their faces and grey ash on the rest, giving them the appearance of the living dead. Most of the male customers had entered into the spirit of the occasion. They too wore costumes, with devils’ horns and goats’ heads the most numerous embellishments.

  Naomi was in the middle of the room, standing by a water butt in which some of her customers were ducking for apples. Dressed as a witch, she was wearing the largest-pointed hat in the room, no doubt to compensate for her own lack of height. She turned as he entered, partly because of the blast of cold air, but more because the singing had broken off at the arrival of this new face.

  Harry could see that underneath the cloak, which swung open as she turned, her figure was as firm as ever, that the grace of her movements was the same. And for all the soot and ash on her face, Harry observed her expression very clearly. It was quite a mixture, starting with delight, then turning to consternation, then welcoming, though the smile that accompanied that look was marred because she’d blacked out some of her teeth.

  But she didn’t move, and neither did Harry Ludlow. They stood, merely staring at each other, as the noise died away. Harry’s confused thoughts covered the last five years in as many seconds, accompanied by an odd feeling in the pit of his stomach. Naomi, with her direct gaze and warm nature, attracted innumerable offers. Many a buck, having stopped to slake his thirst and fill his belly, had calculated the turnover of the Griffin’s Head and convinced himself that someone like Naomi needed masculine protection. They were soon disabused. She was apt to fly off the handle at any travelling man who took the least liberty with her.

  Men in drink often find the word “no” a hard answer to accept from a woman they desire. But accept they did, with ill grace or humour. Stories abounded of Naomi’s skill in deterrence, both verbal and physical. There was a tale, oft repeated in the tap-room, of one stranger who’d disappeared, never to be heard of again.

  Harry knew it was false. But the story served its purpose. Her regular customers delighted in relating this tale to any passer-by who enquired about her. Her kindness took care of the rest, for she was not one to turn a hungry soul away from her door or deny a strapped customer a tankard of ale. The small tap-room was always full of men who’d do anything for her. Those same people knew that Harry Ludlow, when he was home, enjoyed liberties denied to other men. It wasn’t seen as mysterious. There was his wealth, plus his status as her landlord. Most concluded that Naomi was being practical. She, like her husband before her, paid little in the way of rent. No doubt, out of earshot, it was a cause for ribald humour, but the subject was never broached, either in her presence or his. Given Harry’s position locally, not even the coarsest, dim-witted labourer would dare to joke with him about his luck.

  Harry broke away from her gaze and his eyes roamed around the room, taking in, yet again, the decorations and the costumes. The look that Naomi had given him was plain. She’d been anticipating someone else, had been disappointed as her expectations were dashed, then tried to cover her confusion with a smile. But for all the display of stained teeth, there was no welcome in her eyes. Harry looked at her again, seeing now the sadness in her expression. It did not take any kind of deep penetrating thought to guess who she was expecting. Obviously practicality was her abiding trait. Nor was it possible that such a thing could remain a secret. In fact the Halloween decorations, such a rarity south of the Tweed, acted like a public statement of Arthur’s usurpation. This, no doubt, was the engagement he’d been forced to cancel.

  He had no hold, no rights, which justified a rebuke, either to his brother-in-law or Naomi. No wonder Arthur had been on edge, for he could not be sure how Harry would react. Suddenly those cold expressions in the library, which he’d interpreted as reluctance to speak, seemed like sneers, the same kind of looks that the customers were giving him. It was that, the knowledge that all present knew who’d displaced him, which made Harry turn angrily on his heel and barge out of the door.

  He stopped by one of the masks on a pole, looking at the features that had been cut out to make a face. The tallow flickered through the holes, dancing about in the faint draught as much as his own thoughts. Harry was not humbug enough to miss the irony of the situation. If, in his absences, there had been others, they had been strangers to him, or at the very least unknown. The fact that it was his brother-in-law wounded him, and not for his sister’s sake, either. Arthur, though discreet with Anne, barely sought to hide the fact from Harry, or even James, that he made regular visit to a bawdy house in Canterbury. He’d left Arthur to manage his affairs at Cheyne, and his brother-in-law had taken matters a stage further than diligence required. No wonder he’d been reserved, for Harry had spoiled his Halloween celebration, as well as what was to follow.

  Like most men who cared how they were perceived, Harry Ludlow scoffed publicly at the very thought of standing on his dignity. If anyone had been around to allude to his being wounded he would have laughed in their face. But he was aware that he’d made a fool of himself, especially in the abrupt manner of his exit, and that made him livid. It was imperative for him, for his own self-esteem, that he somehow redress matters. His hand shot out. He grabbed the pole and wrenched it out of the frozen ground, raising the whole above his head like some pagan talisman.

  He could say nothing to his sister’s husband, either directly or by allusion, for to do so would only make his own position worse. No gentleman worth his salt would debase himself in such a way. But he had to find a method to tell Arthur that he knew, that he cared, without demeaning himself. This mask-covered lantern would do just that. He might have to renew the tallow. But when
Lord Drumdryan woke in the morning, and found this totem outside the door of his bedchamber, he would know where it had come from and who had put it there.

  The moon was high now, as he made his way in silence along the rock-hard paths that would bring him back to the house. The pole was across his shoulder and he could feel the slight heat from the lantern on the back of his neck. On another occasion he would have needed one to see, but not on a night like this. Lost in thought, the sound of a musket discharge made him jump, and at the crack of a passing ball he adopted a swift crouch. He pushed the lantern down, whipping off his hat to block out the glim. The voice, slurring and shouting, came clearly through the cold night air.

  “Take that, you thievin’ bastards!”

  Tite, said Harry to himself. Still chasing poachers, at his age? He heard the thud and the strangled cry just as clearly as he’d heard the passing ball. Then a voice, high and girlish, just on the other side of the thick hedgerow, which made him crouch down much lower than before.

  “Belay. There’s no need to belt him again!”

  “A tap like that won’t kill ’im,” said another voice, gruff but deferential.

  The laugh was even higher than the voice, more like a childish giggle. “But the cold will. He’ll freeze to death on this night, that is, unless he’s too close to the house.”

  Several men laughed, but not out loud. But there was one of the party who was too preoccupied for humour.

  “What about dogs or geese?”

  The voice which replied was just as cold as it had been on Tobias Bertles’s deck, for all its feminine quality. “Never known an animal yet that could face fire. We’ll light our torches before we go in. Remember, straight through the windows with the turpentine, then the lamps to follow. Skewer whoever comes out, man, woman, and child. I don’t want this lesson to go unheeded.”

  Harry should not have been shocked that no one questioned this command. He’d seen what this crew was capable of in the middle of the Channel. They were between him and the house, obviously numerous and armed, and definitely determined. He racked his brain for a way to distract them. If he could get past them and rouse out the servants, then he and Arthur could organise some form of defence.

  The smell from the lantern, the odour of tallow choking on its own wax, gave him the idea. He raised it slowly as he stood himself, keeping his hat in front of the mask to cut out the light. He tried to remember exactly where he was, so that he could make for the next break in the dense undergrowth. But he’d been wool-gathering. It was going to be pot luck whichever way he went, so he turned left.

  It was only the fact that they were organizing themselves that allowed him to get ahead of them. And he wasn’t in front by much when he saw the break in the hedgerow, signalled by the thinning silhouette of the branches against the starry sky. His opponents were stumbling along on the slippery path, making only a limited effort at silence. Harry took a deep breath and muttered a quick prayer that these men were sailors, a breed notorious for their superstition, and that they did not number any Scotchmen.

  His screams rent the air and he jabbed the uncovered lantern up into the thin hedgerow. Then as he started to mix loud, semi-Celtic curses his screams were completely overborne by those of the attacking party. They saw a huge monster, ten feet tall and just as wide, towering above them, with every feature, eyes, nose, and mouth, a fiery horror. They heard the voice, now screaming, now cursing, telling them that their fate was sealed. If they were rooted to the spot with terror, it was only for a split second.

  Harry knew he couldn’t have scared all of them. But his vision of hellish demons had acted on enough of the party to initiate a general rout. Half the curses coming to his ears were from men being bundled over as their terrified mates panicked. The high-pitched voice of their leader, well to the rear by the sound of it, was calling out for them to stand. But his commands were issued in vain. The thud of feet on hard earth faded as the attackers fled.

  There was no time to waste in self-congratulation. Harry jammed the pole into the hedgerow so that the totem stood like some kind of ethereal guardian and ran uphill. He was through the kitchen garden in seconds, heartened by the sound of his own feet as they pounded across the gravel, setting the dogs off in a frenzy of barking, which made his shouts of alarm superfluous. The whole house would be roused. But would it serve? People suddenly stirred from slumber rarely acted swiftly. And that was what was needed now, as the men, recovered, came on. They’d discover, very quickly, that the fearful terror was nothing more than a ritual mask. If they’d been a deadly crew before, they’d be made doubly so by the way he’d humiliated them.

  The moon flashed on Tite’s brass cannon, standing on each side of the doorway like silent sentinels. Harry cursed the latchkey as he fumbled with it. Then, throwing open the door, he saw the brass-bound chest in the hallway that the old servant used to store powder and shot. He used his best yell to call for Pender, since he knew of no one else in the house who could handle the guns, all the while wishing that he had the time to go and fetch him.

  Harry threw off his greatcoat, relieved to see that the chest wasn’t locked. He flung it open. Tite had several charges made up, sewn in cloth. He grabbed two bags, the powderhorn, and a couple of wads, fetched the rammer from behind the front door, and ran back out on to the front step. Loading a gun was second nature to Harry. He’d been doing it all his life. But he nevertheless cautioned himself, determined to take things at the right pace, for if he made a mistake by being hasty he might not get the time to correct it.

  “Captain,” said Pender, who reached the doorway just ahead of Arthur.

  “Find some slowmatch,” snapped Harry, barely looking up. “Get it lit and send someone for water.”

  “Harry,” said Arthur, holding up a candelabra.

  “Water,” yelled Harry, who had no time for explanations. “Load every gun in the house and search that chest for grapeshot.”

  “Grapeshot?”

  Pender pushed past Lord Drumdryan, who had recollected himself enough to issue orders that weapons and water be fetched. He rooted round in the chest till he found the impregnated thread, pulled it out, and lit it from one of Arthur’s candles. It fizzed slowly, filling the doorway with smoke. James was present, and Harry barked at him to move out of the way, which his brother ignored, adding to the confusion in the confined space. Harry had removed the tampions and had the charge rammed down the gun. He stood back and looked expectantly at his servant.

  “Nothing, your honour,” said Pender. “Though there’s a rate of roundshot.”

  “That’s no good. They’ll just spread out. We’ll be lucky to hit even one of them.”

  James grabbed his shoulder and pulled him round. “No good against what, Harry?”

  The first torch flared at the bottom of the driveway. It was soon followed by others. The dogs, who attacked in that direction as soon as they heard the sound of movement, backed off quickly.

  “If you care to turn round, James, you will see for yourself.”

  James did so, stumbling down the step in his haste. His jaw dropped at the sight of some twenty men, lined up in a row across the main entrance. Half had torches, the rest carried muskets. All had swords.

  “Do you recognize the fellow in the middle?”

  “I do,” said Pender. “It’s that bastard from last night.”

  James spun round to face his brother, pale and shocked. As he did so his feet scrunched on the gravel. The question he addressed to Harry fell on deaf ears, for it was addressed to the top of his brother’s head. He had jumped down off the step and was on his hands and knees shovelling the small sharp stones into the muzzle of the brass cannon. Pender handed the slowmatch to James and grabbed the rammer and a thick cloth wad. When Harry turned his attention to the second gun, Pender pushed the wad into the mouth of the first, using the rammer to push everything as far down the barrel as it would go.

  James decided that he was safer behind the guns, but
he was hustled out of the way again as soon as Harry and Pender had finished loading, for they immediately set to elevating and aiming. Finally Harry tipped the powderhorn over the touch holes, pouring a slow stream of powder into the bore. James glanced at his brother-in-law, standing in the doorway in his nightclothes, looking incongruous with the long musket in his hands. For once in their lives they exchanged eye contact without malice, for their minds were too full of curiosity.

  The men at the bottom of the drive had started to advance, their feet crunching on the gravel as they marched up towards the house in a line. Harry watched as their leader, his face still obscured by that heavy beard, lowered a musket and took aim.

  “Inside, James. You too, Arthur,” snapped Harry, for the crowded doorway presented a tempting target. Even an indifferent shot would find a victim. James might have protested, but Harry gave him such a shove that he was propelled into the hall just as the gun went off. A chip of brick flew off the wall where he’d been standing.

  “The slowmatch, Pender.”

  His servant reached into the door and took the sizzling cord from James. Another musket went off, taking a lump of wood out of the door. Arthur, who was closest, didn’t flinch. He lowered his own weapon, took careful aim, and fired. It didn’t hit anyone, but the crack of a ball going past them stopped the men dead. The high-pitched voice rose up in the night air, with a screamed command to attack. The hesitation was minimal. A shout went up from twenty throats and the attackers rushed forward.

  Harry stood at his gun, calling to his servant to do likewise. Then he lowered his match. There was a puff of smoke and a hiss. The powder in the borehole burnt through to the bag in the gun, setting it off. There were no breeches on the cannon, as there would be on board ship, with pulleys and rope to contain the recoil—these guns were only fired ceremonially—but they had a wad in them now, which contained and increased the effect of the exploding powder. A great shaft of flame shot out of the muzzle and the cannon recoiled dangerously, missing him by a fraction. Only the doorstep stopped it from going all the way down the hall to the foot of the staircase. The screams were already loud when Pender set off the second gun, and Harry, who’d been wondering how he’d find the time to reload, was delighted to observe that it wasn’t necessary. The stones might take an eye, or embed themselves in very soft flesh: they wouldn’t kill. It made no difference, for they were so numerous that every attacker suffered a wound. They dropped their torches, threw away their cans of turpentine, and fled, with their leader, who had lost his hat to either gravel or panic, well to the fore.