The Curse of Becton Manor

by Patricia Ayling

  She turned quickly towards the kitchen, raising her voice, ‘Mum, we might have a burglar! Tom’s heard someone upstairs, come quick!’

  With all the shouting, Mickey rose from his bed in the kitchen and started barking furiously as my irritated mother followed him to the staircase.

  ‘Quiet, Mickey!’ she scolded, but he took no notice and ran up the stairs, passing me along the landing. The whispering had ceased.

  ‘Don’t be silly, Annabel,’ Mum sighed. ‘It’s just the creaking sounds of a very old house. You’ll both have to get used to it. For God’s sake, put that candle down before you set us all ablaze; there’s too much bloody wood in here! Mickey, come here!’

  We could no longer see him on the landing but heard him whining.

  Chapter Four

  August 1597

  The earl, his tall slender frame now bent over his steed, felt a new energy as he broke into a gallop. As he neared his beloved Derbyshire he was eager to see his family but also to rid himself of the vision of the tortured priest.

  His men had trouble keeping up with him, especially the one with the provision packs either side of his saddle. The earl saw him but was irritated. The man had willingly loaded the packs and now they were not going to stop. The galloping, after all, meant that they were nearly there: at the new home, the place where his wife Charlotte, son Oliver and daughter Mary were eagerly waiting for him. It had been six weary days and nights, staying in inns and waiting for the horses to be rested, but the hot parched weather had caused the already deep ruts in the rough road to become rock-hard. Riding had been difficult.

  *

  The earl wiped his face with his kerchief as he surveyed his new home. The soaked cloth had absorbed days of rancid sweat and, although he could taste the residue on his lips, he was smiling at the sight of the new home and the large, shining windows.

  How they reflected the sunlight! His wife had wanted even larger windows like those of her friend Bess of Hardwick, but in this smaller manor house, the current ones looked fine.

  Crowning the heavy front door was the beautifully carved coat of arms; his initials, WH. The sound of his children’s laughter was near. They were not at their lessons today as his letter had said he’d be home by Friday. He felt a rush of excitement at the thought of the looks on his children’s faces when he would greet them at long last.

  He hastily dismounted just as the stable boy, Henry, was running up to lead the horses to the stables and Father Peters was walking around the side of the house. Close behind him were his charges: Oliver, the earl’s son, and Jack, the whipping boy.

  Oliver ran to his father.

  ‘Welcome home, sir.’ Both were laughing as they embraced, the earl picking his son up and swiftly spinning him round.

  ‘How have you been, my son?’

  ‘Well, sir.’

  Oliver smiled. Father and son, both slim and tall, shared the same dark dancing eyes and thick dark shoulder length hair. hair which curled on their shoulders.

  Jack stood watching until the earl greeted him.

  ‘Well, lad, you are taller.’

  Jack grinned and nodded. The earl patted the boy’s back as he recalled the day the idea of having a whipping boy was put to him. ‘It will challenge your son’s spirit to ensure he remains the superior of the two,’ Father Peters had said. ‘Keep him on his guard. The beating of a subordinate will indicate his own failure.’ He hadn’t particularly liked the sound of it but, as it turned out, he had been pleasantly surprised by the mutual affection between the two boys, their trust in one another and their progress.

  Jack was the son of the local herb woman, Kathleen Melton. The earl also offered lessons to Jack’s younger sister, Ruth, who had become a close companion to his daughter, Mary. It was a beneficial arrangement but, sadly, his wife Charlotte did not share his views. She rarely smiled at the presence of ‘low births’ in the house.

  *

  As the two boys ran away, the earl greeted Father Peters. The earl noted the priest’s wide grin as he watched the boys laughing and running. He was a trusted friend and confidante, but there was an important issue at stake, that must be discussed with him. Sadly, he feared the happiness, clear in that wide grin, would no longer exist, following the words that needed to be spoken.

  The pair embraced tightly, each patting the other on his back. Father Peters spoke first.

  ‘Welcome home, brother,’ the label, a token of their shared faith. A strong bond had formed over the years.

  ‘I am indeed relieved to return to my new abode, Robert. It is good to see you…and you look well, brother.’ The earl wanted to say more but he disguised his concerns…for now.

  The image of the priest in the torture room continually tormented him; the scrawny arms and swollen red belly would be imprinted on his mind for the rest of his life. It could easily have been Father Peters on that rack. That must never happen.

  They went indoors. The earl was about to fling his hat onto the hall dresser when another child shouted with glee. His daughter, Mary, was running towards him, her companion and fellow student Ruth—Jack’s sister—holding back to allow the two to greet one another.

  ‘Father!’ the young girl with a pretty round face, ran towards him, her reddish brown hair bouncing and her large blue eyes wide with joy. Slight of frame, her red velvet dress proved too heavy for her to be running in, despite her holding it high with both hands. Unlike her brother, she wasn’t expected to address her father as ‘sir’.

  He hugged her, then noticed her lips. They were almost the same colour as her dress: bright red with cinnabar. Her doll-like face was a pallid white, painted with a lead powder and vinegar mixture, just like the noble ladies at court. The Queen, perhaps afraid of her advancing years, seemed to apply hers more thickly each new day.

  He regretted the time he had told her of the women at court and their desire not to look brown and weathered as villagers and workers in the field do; such faces were only seen on those of a low birth. Now he couldn’t determine if her face or her ruff was the whitest.

  He imagined his daughter growing old with a cracked white face and shuddered. He no longer cared if she never became a lady-in-waiting. It was always going to be dangerous for Mary to be at court. Just then, the raucous laughter of the two boys disturbed them and the earl noticed his daughter’s frown.

  Father Peters interrupted his thoughts.

  ‘I will take the boys to the courtyard, my lord. The Lady Mary has much to discuss with you.’ He smiled and nodded towards the earl’s daughter, but Oliver must have been listening. He leapt forward, seemingly from the open door.

  ‘Yes please, Father Peters. That will indeed be welcome, will it not, Jack? It must be so boring to spend such time caring about how you look at court.’ He glared at his sister.

  ‘You still have to learn, brother, how to present yourself,’ an irritated Mary responded.

  ‘That’s enough!’ said the earl but he was amused, by the healthy banter between siblings. Mary had been a sickly infant but now she was a high-spirited nine year old. Far too eager to get to court, however.

  ‘Have you decided yet, father, when I shall be presented at Court? You promised me it would be soon.’

  ‘Yes, I am fully aware.’ His smile was forced. The desire to endlessly fuss over the Queen and vie for her favours, he found tiresome.

  ‘How do you like this new gown?’ She spun around, the full red velvet revealing little clusters of pearls. She tossed her long red tresses behind her. ‘I must be dressed as becomes a lady of the Court, or the Queen may dismiss me.’

  ‘You look beautiful, Mary.’ But she must not go to court.

  Mary nodded, pleased with the compliment, before turning to her nervous companion. ‘Come, Ruth, don’t be afraid of Father, he will never hurt you.’

  ‘No, indeed!’ The earl confirmed as he threw his head back and laughed heartily. The shy girl came closer to him and coyly curtseyed.

  He thought
she would never relax the way that her brother had done, but he was of the opinion that Charlotte had once upset her and, ever since that day, she had shown a sense of inferiority.

  The earl remembered the occasion. He and his wife were in the parlour, the door was open.

  The girls were in the hall. His wife, he knew, was well aware of this and he was both surprised and disappointed at her words, spoken loudly, bitter words of contempt:

  ‘She smells incessantly of her mother’s herbs and hedgerow plants! They are very lucky children to be taught alongside our own son and daughter, William. Who else gives such charity to a whipping boy and his sister, offspring to a mere herb woman?’

  Lord Becton recalled the scorn in her voice as he had chastised his wife, but he knew the words would resonate with Ruth for a long time to come. She did at least enjoy her lessons with Mary and the governess, Anne Sawyer.

  Ruth sighed with relief when the earl turned his attention to his daughter.

  ‘Mary, I need to speak with your mother. Where is she?’

  Mary knew not to ask the reason why, noting the suddenly serious expression on his face. ‘I will fetch her, Father.’

  *

  As was often the case, Lady Charlotte was found in the garden, pruning and weeding. There she could attain a quietness and contentment; unlike at court, which she hated. She found large groups of people mortifying.

  She was often observed speaking to her plants; so much so that some visitors thought she was bewitched. The garden had come to be her pride and joy. She turned swiftly on the gravel path as she heard running and smiled at the sight of her daughter. Here was a young lady whom she hoped, one day, would be wedded to a suitable rich suitor, to consolidate their status and wealth.

  ‘Mary, don’t run so. When you get to court you must not be so exuberant. It is not becoming.’

  ‘Sorry, madam. Father wishes to speak with you.’

  In the parlour, the earl had been gazing out of the window and, on hearing his wife enter, he turned to face her. His expression was stern, his index finger and thumb rubbing his chin. Charlotte nervously fiddled with her kirtle. ‘What is it, husband?’

  ‘There are many whisperings at court, Charlotte, of Jesuit priests disguised as teachers and meetings addressed in code. You know recusants are guilty of high treason and the punishment is by hanging?’

  ‘Yes, but what matter is that of ours? We should not heed the punishments of others…’

  The earl shook his head at her dismissal of the torment of others: innocent others.

  ‘Hanged is what I said, woman. It could be the fate of Father Peters. All you understand is your plants.’ As soon as the words were spoken, he cursed his impetuous outburst.

  Lady Charlotte raised her voice.

  ‘I am aware of other things, sir. You are away so much, what else am I to do? The children love you to come home because you never discipline them as I do; my domain is not the troubles at court. Father Peters is safe with us, here in Derbyshire.’

  There was a silence as Lord Becton sought the words to make his wife understand the dangers they needed to be aware of, and that living in Derbyshire was no safe haven. She was staring at him and he knew that she would rather be dismissed to return to her garden, but instead she drew closer to him.

  ‘Look at all the silver and gold he attained from the old King’s ruination of the monasteries,’ she said. ‘We must have treasures hidden everywhere. He is too clever to die, William.’

  There was another short silence before the earl spoke with deep emotion. ‘You remember the priest: Henry Walpole? His death was long and tragic, by God: hanging for hours, but still alive when his body was drawn and quartered. A short while ago, I had to witness a torture on the rack. He was a friend of Father Peters. The old man was here in this house to discuss the construction of hiding places. They spoke at length. I remember his dignified manner, his knowledge and enthusiasm. I can hear him laughing, both of them, but I was mindful of their commitment to the Sacraments.’

  The earl gazed out of the window, sadness etched on his face. ‘He was so frail, Charlotte.’ Then his demeanour changed as anger swept over him. ‘Only following his faith, for Christ’s sake!’ He yelled now, arching his neck backwards, looking towards the high ceiling as if seeking retribution from God, but his vision, once again, was filled with that of the priest on the rack and the torturer laughing. ‘In the name of the Lord, I could do nothing. Nothing!’ His eyes glistened with pooled tears.

  There was a loud bang as his fist struck the table.

  ‘Executions do not overlook titles or wealth, or give privileges according to where you reside, Charlotte. Even our own daughter, if she was at court, would pose a threat to us. Our faith has become a burden.’

  Lady Charlotte was startled at her husband’s words. She had not seen him so full of anger, and even fear, before. He was studying her, wanting a response. It was not what he wanted to hear.

  ‘You are aware of how bad tidings bring on my melancholy sir and force me to my chamber for days,’ she said. ‘Frances will have to find my soothing balm. I am not sure I am able…’

  ‘In heaven’s name, madam!’ the earl shouted. ‘You must learn control; your balm will not change things. Father Peters is in danger. We as a family are at risk. Our faith is the old faith and punishable by death. So…do not deem thyself, madam. I have taken the decision to dismiss Father Peters and will seek a new tutor: a Protestant.

  Charlotte simply asked to be dismissed. Lord Becton nodded but, as she opened the door, Oliver and Jack were close by. Her eyes glistening with pooled tears prevented her from speaking but their faces showed they had heard some, if not all, of the quarrel.

  Chapter Five

  1597

  Father Robert Peters was born in 1564. As a child he had shown great academic ability and his parents had secured a tutor for him in the house of some wealthy friends. He had triumphed in Greek, Latin, theology, and philosophy; even medicine. Eventually following in the footsteps of his elder brothers, he entered the Catholic Church. After many placements teaching, he was ordained as a priest.

  Some time around 1588 he was studying late into the night in a small upstairs room at the home of a family friend when he heard strange knockings. He extinguished the solitary candlelight by his side and crept along a passageway in the dark towards the sound. At the end of the narrow passageway he was astonished to observe a man busy with what seemed to be repair work in a cupboard.

  The young man, short of stature and of similar age to Robert, caught sight of him watching and laughed as he climbed up and out, not from a cupboard but a distinct hole. He immediately held out his hand to shake Robert’s. Realising this man was of little threat he grinned, but curiosity was overwhelming him.

  ‘What in God’s name are you doing here?’

  The man, still smiling, replied without hesitation. ‘I could ask the same question of thee young sir.’

  The young man was called Nicholas Owen. He was a priest supporting the work of the Jesuit Superior, Henry Garnett, but his disguise was that of a travelling carpenter and his task was the construction of hiding places for priests. After hearing accounts of ferocious persecution for followers of their faith, Father Owen inspired Robert, who had heard of such persecutions. The conversation did not take long before Robert felt compelled to join his new companion in support of the Jesuits.

  Shortly after this event, Father Peters was offered a job as a family priest and eventual tutor for the young son of the wealthy Earl of Becton. Realising the family wished to retain their faith, Robert requested the services of Father Owen to construct a place where they could hold Mass and hide priests if necessary.

  Now in his mid-thirties, he felt settled and content, teaching and attending to duties in his religious life.

  *

  The addition of Jack as a whipping boy had made a strong difference to Oliver. Father Peters had met his mother, Kathleen when she attended the sick in the villag
e where he used to teach and give sermons. The boy was keen to learn and Kathleen eager for him to do well in life. The earl had agreed to the suggestion for Jack to be Lord Oliver’s whipping boy.

  Both boys were competitive, and Oliver’s perception of Jack as inferior inspired him to achieve according to his status. Jack, however, was a good match with a keen mind.

  Father Peters watched their progress and demeanour very carefully and chastised Oliver if he became too headstrong and pompous. He liked Jack and encouraged the boy to learn as an equal and not a subservient student. The boys knew that Father Peters had their best interests at heart and they worked well for him.

  Mass was performed in the hidden chambers behind the manor house, cleverly constructed behind a secret panel at the back of the stables.

  As he was preparing to meet with Lord Becton, he pondered the dire changes in the church. Under the early reign of the old King Henry, his mentor—the priest, Father Murphy—was adorned in elaborate and jewelled robes. There was a sense of importance of his role as a priest. Now priests were in disguise for most of the time, their intentions wrongly interpreted as political and suspicious. He was glad he was able to tutor.

  Although monasteries were stripped of their ornate wealth, during the dissolution Father Murphy had been quick-witted and shrewd, anticipating the grab of this wealth by the country’s aristocracy. He managed to hide his vestments, alongside gold and silver belts, robes threaded with gold, and many other artefacts and jewels. Towards the end of his life, he had passed these on to the younger priest. They were now safely hidden in Becton Manor. Only the earl knew of their exact whereabouts.

  At the end of the school session in the twilight of the day, the earl placed a large lantern on the table, next to a flagon of mulled wine and two goblets. While he prepared for the arrival of Father Peters he was considering the potential loss of not only Oliver’s education but also a dear friend. There was too much at stake, though, to keep him.