Wintercombe, page 5
part #1 of Wintercombe Series
It was as the boy had said — he was an observant and truthful child — but the situation had obviously deteriorated since his dash for help. Silence, in one quick, frantic glance, took in the scene: the big, stone-walled room, the two huge fires, scheduled for sweeping that afternoon, glowing between the steaming pots and cauldrons that held the noon-day meal, the big worn table piled high with vegetables half-prepared, a brace of hens and a rabbit, a couple of carp from the ponds, knives and implements in plenty, and the frightened faces of the two other scullions peering round the dresser by the window.
The cook, Ben Darby, a man vast in all directions with a face as flaming red as his fires, stood over his unfortunate assistant, who had had the temerity to criticize his sauces. Rob Sheppard was pinned against the great table, bent backwards over it with one of Darby’s fists grasping his shirt-collar with a strength born of years of stirring sauces and butchering beef. His eyes were almost bursting from his skull and his mouth gasped for air like a landed fish, with a hoarse crowing sound. In his right hand, the cook held one of his meat-cleavers raised threateningly above Sheppard’s quailing head: and since Darby’s rages were legendary, and his obsession with the sharpness of his knives almost equally so, young Ned’s alarm had been amply justified.
At least there’s no blood spilt — not yet, anyway, Silence thought with relief; she had half expected to find Sheppard dismembered with the rabbits and poultry. Displaying a confidence she did not feel in the least, but aware of the urgency of the situation, she stepped boldly into the kitchen and said, her voice loud and scolding, ‘What do you think you’re doing, Darby? Let go of him at once!’
Not by one flicker of his heavy face did the cook betray that he had heard her. He strengthened his grip on the cleaver and on Sheppard’s collar, and the younger man gave a despairing squawk of breath, three-quarters strangled. ‘I ought to chop you in little pieces, so I ought,’ said the cook, his voice slow and thick and menacing. ‘While you’re in my kitchen you don’t say nothing — nothing against my cooking, d’you hear me? Nothing! Or I’ll hack you in gobbets easier than that there rabbit, see?’
The frantic wobbling of Sheppard’s head, still held on the stalk of the cook’s fist, indicated that he did see, quite plainly. Darby gave a grunt of what might have been satisfaction, opened his hand and walked away, throwing the cleaver down on the table. It struck with a dull thump and stood quivering in the scarred wood, but Sheppard was in no condition to notice it: he had doubled over on his knees on the flagstoned floor, coughing and retching.
Silence felt her legs shaking, both from relief that murder had apparently been avoided, and with trepidation at the encounter to follow. ‘Darby!’ she said, her voice coming out too high and nervous. ‘A word with you, if you please, in the servants’ hall. Now.’ And she turned and swept out with what she earnestly hoped was a suitable imperiousness, not to be disobeyed.
The servants’ hall, next to the kitchen, was a comfortable room furnished with settles, stools, tables and a roaring fire. It was, thankfully, empty. Silence stood by the hearth, welcoming the warmth even after the greater heat of the kitchen, and kept her eye on the door. After a minute or so, too long for submissiveness, not long enough to indicate outright rebellion, it opened and Darby’s overlarge bulk squeezed through it.
It was an unfortunate fact that in matters of cookery, he was an artist. Innumerable attempts had been made in the past by many of Sir Samuel’s friends to lure him to their own establishments, but to no avail, Darby being it seemed susceptible to no inducement, however temptingly lavish. His loyalty had been given to Sir Samuel, who had seen his potential years ago as a lowly assistant in a Bristol merchant’s house, and had promoted him to chief cook at Wintercombe, with complete charge of the kitchen. But like many artists, Darby had a wayward and unpredictable temperament, so easily offended, so hard to please, so difficult to mollify. Sir Samuel had always been able to soothe him; now, Silence must try, or face the unspoken disapproval of her household, who relished the wonders of Darby’s food and could tolerate his tantrums for that reason alone.
And besides, if she could not calm him, restore order, she could imagine only too clearly what Dame Ursula would have to say about it.
‘What have you to say for yourself, Darby?’ she enquired coldly. He might be the creator of marvellous dishes fit to tempt a king’s palate, but she was determined not to relinquish her hard-won authority. If she let him cow her, it would be common knowledge in Wintercombe within the hour, and then they would all defy her.
Darby stood just inside the door, staring at her, only slightly less menacing than when he had wielded the cleaver. Not the kind of man to be friendly with those he considered his inferiors, his origins were obscure, but Wintercombe rumour asserted that he had made his living in youth as a wrestler at fairs, and Silence could well believe it. He was above two yards high, built in proportion with massive arms and a vast, unsightly belly straining his apron, and his inimical eyes were small, lost in fat like a vicious boar’s, so that for an instant her imagination supplied him with sharpened tusks. But when his mouth opened, there was only the usual array of gapped, brownish teeth. ‘I am sorry, my lady. I do not know what came over me — the man’s impossible to work with, he’s always needling me, the little upstart!’
He’s no more sorry than Deb ever is, Silence thought, looking at that uncomely and apologetic countenance. ‘You must try to control your temper,’ she said, keeping an edge to her voice. ‘It is not seemly to quarrel thus before the scullions. Ned Merrifield wishes to follow your profession — would you place such an example before him?’
It was well-known that young Ned, bright and hard-working and eager to please, was Darby’s favourite. For an instant, an expression that was possibly shame crossed his bovine face, and then was gone. ‘No, my lady,’ he said, looking at a point past her shoulder.
‘Then be mindful of that, when next you are tempted to give way to your more brutal impulses. I don’t doubt that Sheppard can be difficult to work with, and I will speak to him also. But you are in charge in the kitchens, and there must be order there. Do you understand me?’
‘Aye,’ said the cook, with slightly less courtesy, veiled but the resentment still plain. Silence, remembering his devotion to Sir Samuel, knew only too well what he must think of her: most of the household probably agreed, but were more careful to hide it. To the end of her days, she would never be anything other than a foreigner, a stranger amongst these insular Somerset people.
Make, do, mend, said Silence to herself with determination, and dismissed him.
Sheppard was much easier to deal with. In his early twenties, he was perhaps half Darby’s age, and half his size as well. Nor was he as indispensable, and knew it. Ignoring his simmering grievances, Silence gave him the kind of brisk scolding she gave to her quarrelling children, and sent him back to the kitchen. Then she went to see how the cleaning of the Hall was progressing.
Eliza had performed miracles: whatever her difficulties in character, she was at least capable of great industry. Leah, for once subdued under her stern gaze, had helped, as had the other maid, little Madlin Tilley, who was fifteen and had only been at Wintercombe for a few months, and the ancient tapestries had been beaten free of soot, the floor swept, the rush mats replaced, and the dust-cloths removed. Now Madlin, a shy and very pretty child, was re-laying the fire while Eliza stood over her, ready to correct any deviation from her instructions, and Leah, free of Eliza’s attention for the moment, was idling in a corner behind the screens, leaning on her broom. Silence, ignoring the malicious gleam in the girl’s eye, sent her off to help her father sweep the remaining chimneys, and wondered where Mally was.
And then Mally was there, flying down the corridor from the kitchen, her orange hair falling out of her cap, her eyes wide with alarm, so that for an instant Silence thought that Darby had gone truly mad and slain Sheppard after all.
But the reality was, almost, worse.
‘They be back!’ Mally gasped, all but bumping into Silence as she halted. ‘The soldiers, m’lady, they be back — they’ve come back!’
Eliza had heard her: so had Madlin, whose gasp of terror sounded frighteningly loud. I hope she doesn’t give way to hysterics again, thought Silence amid the sudden rush of her own fear, or she’ll set them all in a panic. At least Mally would not do so, despite her apprehension: Silence had never known her maid to be anything other than steady, resourceful and dependable in a crisis.
‘What will ee do, m’lady?’ It was Mally’s voice, low and urgent. ‘Will ee bar the door to ’em?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Silence, fighting her own panic, that seemed to rush up through her body, threatening to suffocate her, bind her limbs and freeze her brain. ‘How many, Mally — how many are there? As many as last time?’
‘More, I dreckon,’ said the girl grimly. ‘There bain’t any use in trying to keep ’em out, bain’t there.’
It was a simple statement of fact. Silence met her eyes, and shook her head slowly, reluctantly. ‘I shall go find out what they want,’ she said, with much more certainty and courage than she felt. ‘At least the children aren’t here this time, to see and hear them…they weren’t exactly pleasant, Mally.’
‘Soldiers bain’t, usually,’ Mally said drily. Her last word was almost lost beneath the thunderous hammering on the door, and Madlin’s terrified wails.
Madlin was young and innocent and beautiful, in a fresh, flowering, country way. ‘Tell Eliza to take her out of sight — fast,’ Silence said to Mally, saw her look of understanding, and walked to the door alone.
The main entrance to Wintercombe, on the north side of the house, was through a porch, stone-vaulted, with an inner door and an outer to keep out draughts, and also — for the house had been built in a more violent age even than this — to delay unwelcome visitors. Both doors were oak, inches thick, studded with iron and bound with massive black strap hinges tipped by curling fleurs-de-lys. The inner possessed a key that weighed the heaviest on the chain at Silence’s waist; the outer had another so large that it always remained in the lock, and a great bar of wood that clasped door to stone, and looked strong enough to resist a battering ram. In these uncertain times, it was always kept bolted and barred; but no ordinary manor-house such as this could hope to resist the entry of determined soldiers, without much damage and injury.
Silence opened the inner door. The porch was cold, and very dark; the only light came from a little squint looking from the dining parlour, that had been set into the wall as a way of keeping watch on intruders. The knocking stopped, and was then repeated; she heard the cry, harsh and brutal. ‘Open! Open up, in the King’s name!’
Using all her slight strength, Silence heaved the bar back into its slot hidden in the thickness of the wall, and shot back the bolts. The knocking ceased, and she heard sounds of satisfaction on the other side of the door. She knew that this should be Turber’s task, but he, old and quavering, would not be able to resist the invaders. She might not, either, but she would not have their presence soiling her beloved house, frightening her children, damaging and destroying all she held dear, without doing her utmost to prevent them. Everyone and everything in the house at her back was her responsibility, and she would not fail them without a struggle.
The key was stiff: obviously, it had not been oiled this week. She turned it, and the twisted iron handle, and pulled the door wide.
The courtyard, usually wide, empty, neatly gravelled, was full of horses, trampling and restless, a sea of brown and chestnut, grey and bay and black, so many soldiers that she had no hope of counting them. And on the doorstep, an officer she had never seen before, a caricature of a Cavalier in extravagant lace, beribboned lovelocks, fringed gloves and preposterous bucket boots that were, she saw with a glimmer of grim satisfaction, well splattered with mud. It was still raining heavily, and the courtyard was liberally puddled with water and horse dung.
He did not bow: in her sooty old dress, opening the door to him, he must take her for a servant. ‘Yes?’ she said, using the voice with which she had discouraged hawkers in Paternoster Row. ‘What do you want?’
Her hostility seemed to disconcert him not at all. He smiled menacingly, showing teeth more discoloured than Darby’s, but sharper. ‘A word with your lady, my pretty. And I’ll have the proper courtesy from you, or you’ll have cause to regret it.’
Over his shoulder, suddenly, appeared a face she recognised: the red-veined nose and bloodshot blue eyes of the fair-haired man who had been so unpleasant before. There was no doubt that he knew who she was: forestalling him, Silence said to the officer, ‘It is I who should have more courtesy from you, sir. I am Lady St. Barbe, and I demand to know what you want of me, and why you and your men have invaded my house without my leave.’
‘We need no leave,’ said the man, smiling still. ‘We have the King’s warrant — what higher authority do you require, my lady?’ And he gave her an insolent bow, mockingly extravagant. ‘Since you have no choice in the matter, I will enter.’
She stood aside, her face hot with fury, because if she had not he would have shouldered his way past her: she could see it in his face. Behind him came his Lieutenant, Byam she thought his name had been, and then the brown Captain, the autumn-coloured man of Tabitha’s fanciful description, damp with rain, cloaked and booted and muddy. The rest of the men, still mounted in no sort of order in the courtyard, remained where they were, and she wondered with brief despair if there were any other officer left outside to keep them from mischief and destruction. Then, with suddenly shaking hands, she saw Mally, dependable, reliable, solid Mally, waiting in the screens passage. She left the door, knowing that the girl would shut and bar it again, and followed the three King’s officers into the Hall.
Fortunately, there was neither sight nor sound of Madlin, whose lovely face would undoubtedly prove a temptation to licentious men such as these; nor of Leah, who would with equal certainty encourage their attentions. The Cavaliers stood by the fire, which was still unlit, their faces as hostile as she knew hers must be. Silence clamped her hands together to stop their trembling, and said coldly, ‘I have had the dubious pleasure of meeting these other men on an earlier occasion — but I do not know you, sir.’
‘Ridgeley is the name, Lady St. Barbe — Lieutenant-Colonel Ridgeley, of Sir Thomas Bridges’ Foot. I also have the honour to be in command of his troop of horse.’
‘At present outside, trampling my courtyard?’
‘At present in your courtyard, yes, my lady. Captain Hellier and Lieutenant Byam you have met before, I know. They reported that your welcome on that occasion was…shall we say, less than warm?’
‘They came with threats,’ said Silence. ‘In the circumstances, I could not be particularly enthusiastic about their presence.’ Keep calm, said the still voice of reason in her head. Keep calm, for your sake, for the children’s sake, for Wintercombe — or you may lose everything.
‘Your husband is with Waller’s army, I understand?’
‘He is,’ she said. It was common knowledge all over Somerset, the other men had known it, so there was no point in denying it.
‘And his father, the lamented Sir Samuel St. Barbe, has recently died, I understand. There seems to have been some disagreement between father and son — since this house was not willed to his heir, but to his wife.’
‘There is no entail, he could bequeath it where he liked. You know all this,’ said Silence, battening down her terror and her rage beneath that old, brittle armour of calm. ‘Tell me what you want, and I will endeavour to supply you, and then be gone. This is a house of women and children, and you have no business here.’
Ridgeley laughed. He was a big man, heavily and floridly handsome, with a drinker’s belly and hair so dark that his jowls showed blue, though it was only mid-morning. His amusement was genuine, and utterly threatening. ‘Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, my lady. We do have business here, quite legitimate business — myself, my officers here, and those forty-three men outside.’ He paused, a contemptuous sneer on his face, and took a paper from inside his sleeveless buff jerkin with ostentatious slowness. As the silence crawled interminably, he unfolded it and thrust it at her. ‘Here, my lady. A warrant signed with the King’s own hand. The manor known as Wintercombe in the village of Philip’s Norton is to give shelter, assistance and supply to Sir Thomas Bridges’ Horse, without let or hindrance of any kind, on pain of forfeiture or other dire penalty, for so long as the said Sir Thomas Bridges shall think fit. There you are, madam — will that put an end to your futile arguments?’
She took it. As she read the relentless lines, in a neat secretary’s hand that conveyed its message all too clearly, the full extent of their doom came down upon her, and the words blurred and wavered. Furiously, she blinked the betraying tears away: she would not be humiliated in front of these leering, repellent, all-powerful men. She raised her head proudly to meet their insolent gaze, the sign manual of their sovereign smudged under her thumb. ‘There is indeed no argument,’ she said, deliberately omitting any mark of respect. ‘Where His Majesty commands, there must his loyal subjects obey.’
Ridgeley smiled, vulpine. ‘Then you will bow to reason, my lady. I am pleased that you have made the reasonable choice.’
‘I did not think that I had a choice,’ said Silence, and was surprised at the bitterness in her voice. She was aware, at her back behind the screens, of the scratchings and shufflings of assorted members of the household, like mice creeping to listen. This time, however, there would be no argument, no dispute, no escape. The menacing Ridgeley would descend upon Wintercombe, with his unpleasant officers and his forty-three undisciplined troopers, to despoil and plunder and make waste the house and gardens and lands that she loved, and held in trust for her husband and his mother — although that lady’s nominal ownership was a polite legal fiction, concocted by Sir Samuel and his attorney as a means of keeping Wintercombe out of the clutches of the King.
