The House Of Lanyon
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“That’s him. And that’s what’s being said, yes,” said Will.
“The fellow I saw her talking to on Sunday were outside the church and he had his cap on. But he were all in black, like a clerk,” said Aunt Cecy.
“I wish we knew his name,” said Nicholas, “but I think we know enough. I’m going up to the castle. Now.”
“Why is it,” grumbled James Luttrell, standing in his castle hall, wishing he could sit down to a peaceful supper and irritably aware that any such thing was out of the question for the time being, “why is it that trouble is so catching? The whole world’s disturbed these days and it spreads like plague. There’s no good government in the land, with all this squabbling between the king and these upstart cousins of his, Richard of York and his sons. What’s it matter if the king is weak in his mind? He’s been crowned and anointed and that ought to be good enough for any man.”
“But the point is…” began Father Meadowes, normally a stern and self-confident priest but unable to stem James’s irrelevancies.
“No one has any proper sense of their duty anymore. Even priests aren’t staying on the right path, it seems!” Abruptly James abandoned his excursion into national affairs and returned to the real matter in hand. “Are you sure Christopher Clerk has vanished, Father? He hasn’t gone on an errand and forgotten to let you know? Something urgent, perhaps?”
“I regret to say this, but I don’t think so,” said Meadowes. “He went out to meditate in the open air as he often does, but I expected him to return later and there was a matter to do with his studies that I wished to discuss with him. He hasn’t come back, and personal things are missing from his room. There has been village gossip concerning a girl. I took him to task and he assured me there was nothing in it, that he had merely escorted her home when she was accidentally separated from her family at the May fair and exchanged the time of day with her after church once or twice out of courtesy. Villagers do have a talent for making something out of nothing and I believed him then. I warned him to be careful and left it at that. Now, frankly, I wonder. Earlier this year he asked me some odd questions.”
“What sort of questions?” Elizabeth Luttrell asked. She was seated, working at an intricate piece of embroidery while Wagtail snoozed at her feet. “He always seemed so earnest,” she remarked.
“Yes, he did,” Father Meadowes agreed. “But the questions he asked were about leaving the church if a man changed his mind about his vocation. I asked if he were having doubts about his own and he said no. Now I’m wondering!”
“He’s always seemed very quiet and conscientious,” said James. “Too much so, perhaps, for a young man.”
“Yes, I felt that, too, sometimes,” Elizabeth said. “He was—is—so very…very self-contained, yet I sometimes felt that there was a side to him that was hidden.”
The two men looked at her with interest. Elizabeth, usually a quiet woman, had a knack of occasionally making very acute remarks. Sharp as an embroidery needle, her husband sometimes said.
She smiled at them. “All the same,” she added, “need we be anxious so soon? There could have been a misunderstanding…or even an accident.”
She broke off as the gatekeeper’s boy arrived in the hall at a breathless run and barely sketched a bow before exclaiming, “There’s a Master Nicholas Weaver from the village, zurs and mistress! He’s axin’ to see Father Meadowes and he says it’s that urgent—can Father Meadowes see him now, at once. He looks that worried, zurs!”
“Nicholas Weaver?” said James. “I know him. Hardworking man and a hardworking family, that’s him and his. It’s you he wants to see, is it, Father Meadowes? Maybe he’s got something to say about this mystery.”
“Christopher was talking with a girl after the service on Sunday,” murmured Elizabeth. “It looked quite innocent, but…I wonder…”
“The gossip,” said Meadowes ominously, “concerned a daughter of the Weaver family.”
“Fetch Master Weaver along, boy,” said James.
Nicholas came in with a firm tread, which concealed a secret hesitation. He had never been inside the castle before, never hitherto walked up the steep track from Dunster to the gatehouse with the castle walls and their towers and battlements looming ahead of him, and although he was not a man with a poor opinion of himself, he felt intimidated. At the gatehouse the porter had greeted him politely, but with an air of surprise. Villagers, even well-to-do ones like Nicholas Weaver, didn’t often call at the castle and certainly not to insist that they must immediately see men who held such dignified positions as castle chaplain.
Despite his secret misgivings, Nicholas had been resolute and he had been admitted, but now that he was actually inside, he was awed by the scurrying of the numerous servants and by the great, beamed hall, with its huge hearth and the dais where the family dined. Thick rushes underfoot silenced his footfalls, the rosemary sprigs strewn among them gave off their scent wherever one stepped and the walls were hung with tapestries: a huge, dramatic one of Goliath being downed by a gallant little David, and a pretty one with a background of flowers and a lady in the foreground with a unicorn beside her.
The fact that he had been led into the presence not only of Father Meadowes but of the Luttrells as well added further embarrassment. However, he bowed politely, murmured a conventional greeting and looked at the chaplain.
James took control. “This is Father Meadowes,” he said. “At the moment something is making him anxious and we’re wondering if your visit is to do with the same matter. Is your business by any chance connected with one Christopher Clerk, Father Meadowes’s assistant?”
“It may be,” said Nicholas. “If Christopher Clerk has left the castle. Has he?”
“Yes. He’s vanished,” said Meadowes. “He went out after dinner as he often does. I had set him passages of Scripture on which to meditate, and in fine weather like today he likes to do that out of doors. He went off across the pasture that slopes down to the sea. I saw him go. But he hasn’t come back and we can’t find him anywhere.”
“Does he have red hair?”
“Very much so,” said James. “A tonsure like a sunset, as a matter of fact.”
“My girl Liza’s vanished, as well,” said Nicholas. “And so have two of my ponies! I thought to look before I came here. And there’s been talk, about her and a young fellow with a red tonsure, possibly Christopher Clerk. We didn’t want to make a to-do over a bit of flirtation, even with a clerk, especially as we weren’t sure there was anything in it but silly tattle. We always thought Liza had some sense. We told her we’d found her a marriage and she seemed agreeable. We reckoned if there’d been any nonsense, it was just sweet talk and that she’d put it behind her. Now we think otherwise. We’re afraid she’s run away from home and if so, she’d hardly go on her own. Now you say this red-haired clerk…”
“He’s a deacon,” said Meadowes.
“Is he, indeed? Well, you tell me he’s missing. Have they run off together?”
“It’s possible,” said Meadowes slowly.
“So what can be done? I want my girl back. The marriage we’ve arranged is a good one and by that I mean a happy one. I’m a careful father, I hope. I’ve got her welfare at heart and a runaway priest isn’t what’s best for her.”
“And you want to get her back before anything happens and before the young man she’s betrothed to finds out what she’s done,” said Elizabeth helpfully. “Father Meadowes, where might Christopher have taken her? Where does he come from? That might be a guide.”
“Bristol,” said Meadowes. “But his father’s a highly respectable merchant there. He won’t have gone near his father! He studied in Oxford, but—no, I doubt if he’s gone there either. It’s hardly the place for a runaway couple to go to for sanctuary. I’d guess they’d make for a city, but they’d be more likely to choose Exeter or London.”
“Three directions,” said James, thinking aloud. “London by way, to start with, of Taunton or Bridgwater, or south over the moor to Exeter by way of Tiverton. One of those.”
“Bridgwater’s likely,” said Meadowes. “Christopher knows that road well. I’ve several times called on friends there and taken him with me. I doubt he’s ever been to Taunton.”
“I could be quite wrong,” said Nicholas unhappily. “But Liza’s gone, and taken linen and toilet things. There’s been talk of her and a red-haired clerk, and we’d just told Liza about the marriage we’d planned for her. That could have been the spark in the straw. I hope I’m wrong. I want to be, but…”
He looked at James with a question in his face, and James answered it. “I’m sorry for you, Master Weaver, and I doubt very much that you’re wrong. We’ll go after them. Meadowes, are you joining us?”
“Of course. I can still sit a horse for a few hours, despite my grey tonsure,” said the chaplain. “And the boy is my student as well as my assistant. I feel responsible for him. I should have pressed him harder over the rumours about Master Weaver’s girl. I fear I’ve been remiss.”
“The more helpers we have, the better,” James Luttrell said. “Weaver, you and Meadowes can take one of my men and try the Bridgwater road. I’ll send two men by way of Taunton, and myself, I’ll take another two and ride for Exeter. Light’s going, but the sky’s clear and the moon’s nearly full. We’ll fetch them back, never fear. Young folk in love can be the very devil and their own worst enemies, but we’ll see if we can’t save these two from themselves. You can borrow one of my horses.”
He turned to the gatekeeper’s boy, who was still in the hall, listening openmouthed with excitement. “Get to the stable, my lad, and tell them to saddle eight horses. My Bay Arrow, Grey Dunster—he’s hardly been out today—and whatever else is fit and not tired. Then send the garrison sergeant to me and after that, get back to your post. Hurry!”
CHAPTER EIGHT
HUNTERS AND QUARRY
The daylight was going. Grooms held up lanterns while the horses were brought out and saddled. Picking up the smell of urgency from the humans, the horses fidgeted and tossed impatient heads while their girths were tightened. James Luttrell, who seemed to have the entire map of the west country in his head, was giving final instructions, complete with landmarks, to the men who were going by way of Taunton. Nicholas, Father Meadowes and Gareth, the Welsh man-at-arms who was to accompany them on the Bridgwater road were all familiar with their own route.
The mood was that of a hunting party, albeit an unusually unsmiling one. Father Meadowes actually said as much to James Luttrell as they clattered down the slope to the village below. “If we had hounds with us, this would feel like a chase. Except that I’ve never gone hunting after dark before and never had a man as my quarry before, either. It’s a strange feeling.”
At the foot of the slope they turned left, to circle the castle hill on its inland side. The first group to peel off was Luttrell’s. “Good luck!” he called, taking off his hat to wave farewell to the others as he led his party away, bound for Exeter through the town of Tiverton on the south side of the moor. “I just pray somebody catches them before it’s too late!”
Christopher and Liza rode eastward through the fading day. The Channel was dulling into a misty grey and shadows were gathering in the hollows of the inland hills. “You’re safe with me. I hope you know that,” Christopher said suddenly. “Believe me, I haven’t quite abandoned my upbringing! There’s a lot to be said for being steady and reliable, and I mean to be that for you. I shall take the greatest care of you. It was clever of you to think of taking the ponies. We’ll send them back eventually.”
“Yes, of course. I hated taking them, but we needed them so much.” She did feel safe with him. They were doing a crazy thing, a wrong thing in the eyes of the world, but it was a right thing, as well. It was right because Christopher was Christopher and they belonged with one another.
“Will anyone guess where we’ve gone?” she asked. “They’ll be after us as soon as they know.”
“They might guess at London. If they do, they’ll probably think we began by making for Taunton. It’s the more usual road. But I know the Bridgwater one and just because it’s not so usual, I think it’s the safest one for us.”
“I wish it could be different,” said Liza. “I wish we could be married with everyone congratulating us and pleased with us, approving of us and wishing us luck. I feel like a hunted deer. I keep straining my ears to hear the hounds! But all the same, I’m so very glad to be here with you.”
“And I am glad to be with you, sweetheart. I hate the thought of being hunted down, as well. We just mustn’t be caught, that’s all!”
At Allerbrook Peter was not exactly refusing to speak to his father, nor was Richard making it too obvious that he was furious with his son. Neither had any wish to expose their disagreement to the world. Conversation of a sort had taken place around the Rixons’ table, mostly concerned with farming matters. It had been generally agreed that the field known as Quillet might well support a crop of wheat, but ought to be fenced.
“You’ve only got ditches there and wheat’ll invite the deer in as if the Dulverton town crier had gone round calling them,” cheerful Harry Rixon said. “You’ll get they old stags lying down, the idle brutes, squashing great patches of it and snatching every ear of wheat within reach afore they get theirselves up and stroll off to find some nice fresh wheat to squash and gobble.”
“The Sweetwaters won’t like it,” Gil Lowe prophesied glumly. “You’ve mostly used Quillet for pasture, haven’t you? I’ve noticed they put their milking cows there now and then. Are they supposed to?”
“No, but when did that ever stop them?” enquired Richard sourly. “I pay rent on that land. I’ll plant it if I like. Reckon you’re right about the fences, though.”
All that was normal enough, and if few words were actually exchanged between the two Lanyons, it was hardly noticeable, for the crowd was considerable. It included everyone who had helped in the pony drive, farmers and farmhands alike. Roger and Higg were there along with their employers. Higg alone seemed to sense something strange in the air. Higg looked and sounded slow, but he was nowhere near as slow as he seemed and Richard caught a thoughtful glance or two from him. He looked away. He was thinking.
All of a sudden Richard Lanyon was unsure of himself. All very well to decide that after all he ought to marry again and why not Marion, but there were things to consider. For instance, it was quite true that farm life would be strange to her, far stranger than to Liza, for Liza’s father dealt a lot with sheep farmers and she knew farmers’ wives and had some idea of how they lived.
Still, Marion was young enough to learn, and not squeamish. Fisherfolk were never that. Gutting a herring, or gutting a chicken; there wasn’t much difference really, and Betsy could show her the dairy work.
The lack of any respectable dowry was a worse drawback, but that might be offset if she produced sons to help on the farm, and daughters to be married off into useful families. Taking the long view, even a Marion Locke might provide a step or two on the upward ladder.
Yes. He could take Marion to wife and still remake the future in the shape he wanted. And put Peter in his place.
What would be harder would be convincing her parents that the proposal was a good one, especially as he and they had already agreed that such marriages wouldn’t do.
But, by God, he wanted her. He’d desired her from the moment he first set eyes on her. It was sheer desire that had overridden the old way of thinking, the taking it for granted that fisherfolk and farmers didn’t intermarry, the lack of dowry, the embarrassing fact that his own son had probably had her first. The wench was by all the evidence about as steady as a weathercock in a gale, but he didn’t care. He knew now that he wanted her more than he’d ever wanted Deb and about ten thousand times more than he’d ever yearned after Joan. He wanted to get his hands on her, to make her his, to surround and bemuse her so that she could see no other man, think of no other man, but himself.
The proper thing to do was to see her father, but instinct said no. Instinct said win the girl over first. Go hunting and bring her to bay; tame her to his hand and maybe she could help him tame her parents.
Today was a Tuesday, the second in the month. Next Tuesday was the third one, and she’d be going to Lynton to see her grandmother and aunt. Her mother had obligingly mentioned where her relatives lived—close to the mouth of that strange valley where he’d had a youthful romance long ago. He’d find the cottage easily enough. He meant to be open and honest. He’d call and ask to see the girl. Maybe he could coax her to stroll with him, alone, so that he could talk to her, persuade her…
And he’d make damned sure that Peter couldn’t get away that day. Yes. One week from now. That was the thing to do.
It was a hunter’s moon, shining ahead of the pursuers, low as yet, disappearing at times beyond shoulders of land as they came through the Quantock Hills, but when visible, bright enough to light the track in front of the horses, even to glint in the eyes of a fox as it darted across the path. They could see their way.
“Where are we?” Nicholas asked Gareth as they cantered their horses up a gentle hill and drew rein, looking down on the moonlit world. Somewhere in the distance was the fugitive twinkle of candlelit windows in a village. He knew the countryside east of his home, of course, but he had never ridden through the Quantock Hills after dark before.
“Nether Stowey, that is,” said Gareth’s Welsh voice at his side. “They’ll have gone straight through there, I fancy, if they ever came this way. If I had all of us on my heels, I wouldn’t stop till my pony fell over, indeed to goodness I wouldn’t.”
“Liza’d never push a pony too hard,” said Nicholas, and to his own annoyance, found his eyes pricking. He had been proud of his daughter, proud of her glossy brown hair and her smile and her kindness. She was good with the ponies. Yes, and better at catching them than anyone else because they would come to the field gate to meet her! How could she have so misused her gift with them, and done this to her parents?
“We’d better do some pushing on ourselves,” said Father Meadowes. “As fast as the moonlight will let us.”
They pressed on. Presently, as they came into a shallow dip, he checked his horse again, and the others slowed down with him. “What is it?” asked Nicholas.
Father Meadowes pointed ahead, to the top of the little rise in front of them. “See? Against the skyline? Two riders…there, they’ve gone over the crest.” As he spoke, his horse raised its head and whinnied. “If they’re on the Nether Stowey road ahead of us,” Meadowes said, “those two could be them.”
“They’ve been dithering along the way if it’s them,” said Gareth with a chuckle. “I wonder what for?”
“You mind your tongue,” said Nicholas.
Father Meadowes shook his steed up again. “Let’s catch up. Heaven’s been good to us—we can see where we’re going, just about. We can gallop here.”
“What are we to do tonight?” Liza asked. She was strong, but the day had taken its toll, and they weren’t covering the miles as fast as they should. They had taken a wrong track three times, once heading for the shoreline by mistake, and twice in the fading light as they made their way through the Quantocks. Time had been particularly wasted on a steep, pebbly path which turned and twisted and finally tried to take them back westward.
They were on the right road again now, Christopher said reassuringly as they came out of the hills, but she was growing tired and she was very conscious of having left her home and all familiar things behind. This black-and-silver moonlit land was unreal, alien. And she was cold. There was a chill in the air after nightfall in October.
“We’ll have to find somewhere to sleep, but if we can, we should avoid looking for lodgings or rooms at an inn,” said Christopher. “We don’t want to leave a trail behind. Maybe we should have gone another way, across to Devon, to Exeter. We’d have been that much harder to trace. But London will be easier to find than Exeter. I’ve been there before, as a lad, with my father. Exeter would be quite strange to me.”
“But tonight, Christopher?”
“I think we should try to find a barn with hay in it. I’ve got some bread and cheese with me. I managed to take it from the kitchen when no one was looking. We can eat.”
“But can we find a barn in the dark?”
“Oh, yes, I think so. Look, that’s surely a farmhouse over there. See—where the lights are? There’ll be barns there. Let’s walk the ponies. There ought to be a track turning that way.”
“But what if we can’t find a barn?”
“If we can’t find one here, we’ll find one somewhere else—on the far side of Nether Stowey. There are farms beyond it.”
“Is Nether Stowey far?”
“Only a mile or a little more. Take heart, love. I know where we are well enough.”
The search for a barn was unsuccessful. They found a lane to the right and before long they could distinctly smell a farmyard. But the lane seemed to be leading straight into it and if there were barns at a safe distance from the house, they couldn’t be seen because the lane was a sunken way between high banks with brambles on top, which hid anything on the far side. To make things worse, the darkness became intense because the direction they had taken had put the moon behind a hill. They heard sheep bleating, and then, alarmingly, a dog began to bark. Christopher pulled up, reaching a hand to the bridle of Liza’s pony, too.
“No good. If we go any farther we’ll have people coming out to meet us and we’ll have to explain ourselves. Turn round. We’ll have to go back. Sorry.”
“Oh, Christopher!”
“Don’t let’s have a wrangle here,” he said wryly. “Let’s quarrel later when we can enjoy it!”
“All right!” said Liza, and tried to sound as though she were laughing. She was beginning to feel frightened. They were losing so much time, and the pursuit must surely have begun by now.
They went back. Presently they were on the Nether Stowey road again and once more had the help of the moonlight. “Not far now,” said Christopher. “I think I know where we’ll find a barn, once we’re through the village. And the bread and cheese are fresh. Take heart.”
“I’m certainly hungry,” said Liza, determined to be cheerful. “I’ll enjoy our supper.”
Her new, if somewhat forced, cheerfulness had five minutes to live. At the end of that time, as they cantered to the crest of a rise and paused briefly to look ahead, she saw her pony’s ears flick backward, and then behind them, some way off but not nearly far enough to be comfortable, they heard a horse whinny.
“Christopher…!”
“Maybe it isn’t them,” said Christopher.
“It is! I know it is. I don’t know how I know, but I do!”
“All right. Well, let’s be on the safe side and assume it is, anyway,” Christopher said. “Come on! Let’s ride for it! We’ll look for another side lane and try to dodge into it and let them go past. If it is them. Come on!”
It was the best plan he could make. He had kept his voice steady, but he too was now afraid, for her as well as himself. He could endure whatever they did to him for this, but what would happen to Liza? He had done horribly wrong in bringing her away, but what else was there to do, other than let her go forever?
Side by side, alert for a secondary track, they urged the ponies into a gallop, taking advantage of the moonlight. But providence wasn’t with them. There was no break in the banks to either side, no escape from the track, and sturdy though their ponies were, their short strong legs could not match the stride of the Luttrells’ big horses behind them. They heard the hoofbeats catching up, and then a rider swept past them and swung his horse right across the track to block their way. They found themselves looking up into a dark, square face which Liza did not recognise, though Christopher did. “Gareth!” he said.