Knight's Acre

by Norah Lofts

  Once or twice he had a demented thought—We could live like this for ever. A thought to be dismissed instantly.

  Insulated as they were, by language and by their way of life, they had received no warnings of the perils of the road. All roads, everywhere, were infested with robbers but those of Spain were worse than most because. although in some remote, backward places, like Santisteban, the Hermandad might be active and respected still, in more central regions it had become completely ineffectual. In many towns the chief magistrates were either in league with the bandits or intimidated by them and so reluctant to pass sentence.

  Outwardly Sir Godfrey and Tana did not appear to be likely prey for thieves; the clothes they had been given were plain and simple, they wore no jewels, carried no goods. But they had horses and every evening before settling upon a suitable place to camp, Sir Godfrey made a sharp reconnoitre. He then unsaddled and tethered the horses and fed them—grass was wilted and yellow at this season—and Tana cooked.

  One evening, with a fine leg of lamb suspended, hissing, over the flames, they were surprised to find that they had company. They were camped on open heathland and Sir Godfrey had made sure that there were no other nomads in the vicinity, no likely hiding places; but there the two men were, looking up silently, grunting out greeting in Spanish and eyeing the meat hungrily. Both carried bludgeons, both wore knives, far larger than Sir Godfrey’s ground-down pruning knife. Tana said, ‘Be amiable!’ She returned the greeting in Arabic and indicated, by gesture, that the intruders were welcome to share the meat. As a token of goodwill she broke the long crusty loaf into four and gave them each a portion, instantly devoured.

  Sir Godfrey watched uneasily, cursing himself for not having provided himself with a sword. They might be simply two hungry men, attracted by the scent of cooking meat; they might, having eaten, go away; but there was something about their manner, both furtive and arrogant, which made him suspicious. One of them pointed to the joint and then to his mouth—an order to Tana to serve. She looked very amiable indeed and acted sensibly. She tested the meat by running a sliver of wood into it and the blood ran red. She shook her head and held up her ten fingers; wait ten minutes. The men laughed and then spoke together. That in itself was not sinister, not necessarily secretive, Spanish was their tongue, but it made him uneasy. They were both a good deal younger than he was. He was acutely aware not only of the wealth Tana had concealed about her but of the fact that she was female. Even in England, sturdy beggars were dreaded; men divorced from home, from womenfolk, had been known to hunger for other things than food and to snatch when they could.

  Tana appeared as unperturbed as though she were cooking in her own kitchen. Smiling again she held up five fingers and, as earnest of this promise, fed the fire more sticks. That done, and the flames leaping wildly, she said, ‘Godfree. Leave this to me, please. Do not come near.’ There would be no trouble, he thought, until after they had eaten… She served the meat as she always did, pushing over the tripod that composed the makeshift spit so that it fell away from the flames and then lifting it complete, the meat being too hot to handle. With a gesture that was even pretty in its wholeheartedly hospitality, she laid the meat out before them and they took out their knives. Their bludgeons lay close to their sides; could he grab one while they concentrated upon the food? A bludgeon in his right hand, his knife in his left, he could hold them, long enough at least for Tana to loose a horse, mount and ride. Then it happened so swiftly that he, as well as they, were taken completely unawares. She turned back to the fire, snatched a blazing brand in either hand… Straight to the eyes… Through the howls of pain her voice carried. ‘Get the horses! These may have friends…’

  In the course of a lifetime not lacking in action he had never seen a movement so swift, so callous, so effectual.

  It was no distance to where the horses were tethered and as he threw over the saddles and tightened the girths he could see the men, blinded, screaming, eyebrows and beards aflame, and Tana backing away towards him, the still-blazing brands ready to strike again. At exactly the right moment—horses being terrified of fire—she flung them down and flames began to snake through the dry heather and the gorse. She got herself into the saddle in the way that she had sometimes displayed for amusement, a cat’s leap, ignoring the stirrup.

  He had been suspicious, on guard, working out a plan of defence; now he suffered a bout of the inborn English disease—sympathy for the defeated enemy. When, easing from a headlong gallop, Tana said with unimaginable viciousness, ‘I hope they enjoy their meat—if they can find it!’ he knew a pang. The men had been potential but not declared enemies… and now they were blind.

  And this infinitely crafty and resourceful, callous wild girl was somebody whom he must take back to England; introduce to a way of life where ladies played lutes and did embroidery, busied themselves in sweet-scented still-rooms.

  But—and it was a fact to be faced—she had again saved him, if not from death, from injury; for had he succeeded in snatching the bludgeon from one man, the other would have been alerted. And the result debatable.

  After that they slept in inns, sharing a bed, and they came to Seville, one of the busiest ports and, for all but people with parochial prejudices, the most beautiful city in Christendom. And in its harbour the most beautiful sight in the world—an English ship, loading oranges, not yet fully ripe, and hides and wine. Her name was The Mermaid, and Sir Godfrey remembered the ancient story of the Bywater man who had caught a mermaid in his fishing net and had taken her home and been unhappy ever after. He could hardly believe that this vessel was out of Bywater, that would be too good to be true, but so it was; here, amidst all this foreign shipping, in the meaningless chatter of foreign tongues, was a link not only with England but with Suffolk; and the name Tallboys meant something. The brother of the good old Bishop, given up for dead, years ago!

  In Santisteban his welcome had been warm, once Tana had explained, but it had been impersonal, he was a Christian, delivered from Moorish captivity; this was different, a great welcome but tinged with respect for his rank. And the news, when he could bring himself to ask the most vital question, was overwhelming.

  ‘Lady Tallboys, God love you, Sir Godfrey, alive and well, and at Intake. Or so it was when I last heard.’

  All the colour and noise of the harbour, the sunlight flaked and dancing on the river water, went into blackness. He, he, Godfrey Tallboys, proven knight, was about to faint like a green girl! From a great distance his voice, but not his voice, said, ‘When?’

  ‘Three months since. July. We made landfalls at Amsterdam and Lisbon.’ The captain of The Mermaid, himself a family man, obliged by his calling to absent himself from home for long periods but never, naturally, anything like six years, did not wait for the next question but volunteered the answer. ‘I know, sir, because my old grandmother sells fish. Intake is on her round. I’ve heard say more than once that Lady Tallboys was a good customer and pleasant with it… Sir, may I fill your cup?’

  NINETEEN

  A good customer—and pleasant with it—Sybilla went to the door, for Madge could not hear the loudest knock, and said to the old fishwife, ‘I am glad to see you.’ True enough. Tom Robinson did not sleep in the house because he was expected to go home and do his share in the work of keeping his bedridden grandfather comfortable and fairly clean but he ate his midday meal in the kitchen with Madge. Henry ate in the hall, often impatiently. They were both boys doing the work of full-grown men; John had the hearty appetite of a healthy growing boy, even old Madge enjoyed her food, so a visit from the fishwife was welcome.

  ‘I hope I see you in good health,’ Sybilla added. The old woman prided herself on being so active at the age of—she guessed—well over seventy. However, on this sultry September morning she did not respond as usual, saying that she was as hale and hearty as ever she was, due to a fish diet and life in the open; instead she said sadly, ‘I don’t know, my lady. I’m beginning to feel my years.’<
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  ‘It may be the weather—so hot for the time of year.’ She gave her order and Madge came forward with a dish while Sybilla went upstairs to fetch the money.

  All that year the weather had been so unseasonable that pessimistic people had talked about the world coming to an end; in early spring, when rain was needed, not a drop had fallen for two months; April and May had been very wet and in late June the hay had been cut and gathered between thunderstorms of great violence, some accompanied by hail. July and much of August had been cold and sunless, so that corn was still green when harvest should have begun. Then, halfway through August, intensely hot weather had set in and continued. Everywhere the harvesting, which should have been almost finished, was in full swing.

  ‘If you’ll pluck me some rosemary and a bit of thyme, my lady, I’ll stuff the fresh fish. And if the plums are ready I could make a bag pudding. That should stick to their ribs,’ Madge said.

  Sybilla went into the garden, accompanied by Margaret whom Henry, backed by John, refused absolutely to have in the corn-field; ‘She’s more trouble than help,’ he said. In the garden she was equally useless, didn’t know rosemary from lavender, a rose from a marigold, went into one of her rigid fits at the sight of a wasp. She did not even, poor child, offer company; to be with her was to be virtually alone.

  So many of the things which now flourished had come from Cressacre that it was impossible not to remember Lady Randall who had ceased all friendly overtures when Sybilla refused to allow John to be adopted. Walter haunted the garden, too—he planted the roses. And Godfrey had died without ever knowing that she had her own garden.

  Think quickly of other things! Attend to what you are doing!

  She cut the rosemary, gathered the thyme and the plums; assured Margaret for the hundredth time that wasps were not dangerous. Margaret had never been stung, so far as Sybilla knew, it was the sight of the insect that upset her. On the way back into the house she tested the lavender; it, like the corn, had ripened during these last sunny days and was ready to be gathered.

  In the kitchen Madge had gutted the fresh herrings and begun to get together what she needed for the bag pudding—so-called because it was boiled in a cloth.

  She was, she reflected, very fortunate in having Madge, so willing and co-operative. They exchanged smiles as Sybilla laid the herbs and the fruit on the table.

  Outside again, cutting the lavender and noting that the roses which, in June, had never produced a proper flower, the sodden buds rotted before they could open, were now coming into full flower, she thought again about pot-pourri, as she had thought every summer since she wrote to Lady Randall that next year she hoped to make her own. This year? It was a pity she thought that sweet lavender, scented roses, bright, aromatic marigolds should—by way of pot-pourri—lead to sordid thoughts about money. But there it was; in order to make proper, long-lasting pot-pourri one needed not only things one could grow but others which must be bought and were costly.

  Despite the fact that Henry and Tom had managed unbelievably well, Knight’s Acre was still, though self-supporting in most respects, very poor. Money, or so it seemed, lost value every day.

  Once, realising how her Intake rents had become ludicrous, she had mentioned to James the desirability of raising them a little. He had listened with apparent sympathy and promised to consult again the document to which he had referred when she had asked about deer-shooting. The answer was displeasing; the rents had been fixed, “in perpetuity”. No such clause governed what he had inherited; he had raised the rent of all his free tenants and inaugurated a vigorous campaign to encourage his serfs to buy themselves free. He said he was sorry but there it was, “in perpetuity” meant what it said. He did not offer financial aid to his brother’s widow who, had she had a grain of sense, would now have been comfortably installed at Cressacre. And the sight of Henry did nothing to endear the Knight’s Acre family to the father of a boy whose weakness of mind and body seemed to increase with his age. Irrevocable as the gout. Gout encroached; one day, Sir James knew, it would reach his heart and he would die and leave Moyidan in his son’s incapable hands.

  We all have our own troubles!

  On this unusually warm September day, having gathered the lavender, Sybilla went through to the kitchen where nothing had been done. The silvery herring lay there, gutted but unstuffed; the plums, the suet, the flour, the cloth for the bag pudding, unrelated entities on the table and the fire almost out. Madge sat, her arms on the table and her head on her arms.

  Dead? Everyone must die and, like the woman who sold the fish, Madge was old but unsure of her age. Sybilla approached tentatively and gently touched Madge on the shoulder. Perhaps asleep.

  Madge said, ‘I feel ill all over.’ She raised her head a little and then let it sag again.

  The terrible thing was that with a woman so deaf one could not expect an answer to a question—In what way do you feel ill? Nor apply a word of consolation—You will feel better soon. At Lamarsh bed rest was esteemed a palliative for most things but to get Madge upstairs, without help, without Madge’s co-operation, would be impossible. Sybilla touched her again and Madge responded by raising her head but a gesture towards the upper floor, the offer of a supporting arm brought nothing but a moan and a violent shudder.

  Fever? Yes. Oh, pray God, not the sweating sickness, so dangerously contagious, so often fatal.

  Margaret stood staring and Sybilla thought—Oh for a daughter who could help, could be trusted to fetch a blanket and a pillow! Margaret would go willingly enough but she would have forgotten the errand before it was completed. Sybilla herself brought a pillow and a blanket and lowered Madge to the floor.

  The midday dinner hour was close at hand and the boys would be coming in hungry. Give them the bread and bacon which they would have had had the fish woman not called? But in this weather the fish, called fresh to distinguish it from the smoked kind, would stink by evening; it was always at least three days old by the time it reached Intake. So mend the fire, stuff and cook the herrings and at the same time two bricks, one for Madge’s feet, one for the small of her back.

  When she heard them in the yard she called through the open door; ‘Stay outside. Madge is ailing…’ She handed the food out to them, as though to beggars. Eating out of doors in such weather was no hardship and not knowing about the bag pudding they did not miss it, they ate the plums raw and hurried back to the field. Now, given time, she could think about febrifuges, marigold buds, lime leaves, marjoram—all steeped in hot water.

  Madge, still hot to the touch but shivering still, was a good patient. She drank what she was given and, halfway through the hot afternoon, said that she felt better. ‘I’ll get to my bed,’ she said. ‘Johnny is waiting for me. He promised to wait.’ It was fever talk, Sybilla knew, but even delirium was a step forward from inertia and Madge, clutching at the stair rail, at the wall on the other side, heaved herself towards her own bed. And lay down with a sigh almost of contentment. ‘It’ll all come right in the end,’ she said.

  Since no word of cheer or comfort could penetrate, Sybilla touched the hot, dry hand which turned under hers and clutched with sudden strength. Apparently the lime infusion was working, for when Madge spoke after a long silence, what she said was sensible. ‘I’m being a sore bother to you, my lady.’ Sybilla gave the hands some reassuring pats and presently the old woman seemed to fall asleep. Standing back from the bed, Sybilla thought—Not the way sufferers from the sweating sickness behaved; they tossed and raved wildly, sweated profusely and were insatiable in their demands for water. Just a touch of summer fever.

  Downstairs, tidying the kitchen and making an onion and bacon dumpling for supper, Sybilla remembered that at Lamarsh the first thing patients were offered after any fever was chicken broth, the liquid in which a fowl had been boiled so gently that the pot hardly bubbled. She’d get Tom to kill a fowl for her before he went home. But this evening he did not, as he usually did, come into the yard, hopeful for a h
andful of something to munch as he made his way across the common to the village.

  ‘He went straight home,’ Henry said in answer to her question.

  ‘Oh dear, I wanted him to kill a chicken.’

  ‘I can kill a chicken,’ Henry said confidently. He then reflected for a moment and said, ‘There’s a knack to wringing a fowl’s neck. I never learned it… I think I’d better cut its head off. Which one, Mother?’

  ‘It can wait till morning, darling,’ she said and went up to administer another dose to Madge, should she be awake.

  In such a short time, a change for the worse: Madge was breathing as though through some thick, gluey substance, each breath a battle. ‘Please… the priest. Dying…’

  Supper must wait. Sybilla ran down, out by the front door and the long-shadowed evening.

  ‘He ain’t here, my lady,’ Father Ambrose’s housekeeper said, surliness thinly veneered by civility. The lady had been a great disappointment. While the big house was a-building the priest had confided to his housekeeper his hopes about the improvement which the arrival of a better kind of parishioner would bring. And a few flowers was all. Father Ambrose understood Sybilla’s position, his housekeeper did not and attributed all the lady’s failings to sheer bad management. She couldn’t even rule her own household. Look what had happened to Bessie Wade! And that Walter, for whom the lady had stuck up so stoutly, running off like a thief in the night.

  ‘Where is he?’

  ‘He was sent for. Down in the village. Ah, they know where to come when there’s trouble. Most time he ain’t welcome. And horses’ work to get them to church, ’cept Christmuss and Easter. Give they will not!’ (And that goes for you, too!) ‘And him so pious with the money the good lady left. Better a leak in my roof than in God’s, he says. And his very bed swamped every…’