The Curse of Becton Manor

by Patricia Ayling

  Kathleen was full of remorse and Father Peters spent hours trying to reassure her that her medicine and the methods she used worked, but that the Lady Mary had simply gone too far. The physician could not cure her either, he needed to keep repeating to Kathleen in her depths of woe. Lady Mary would not have survived from any of the known treatments.

  Jack and Ruth felt a sense of loss as they stayed in the cottage, not knowing what to do with themselves. Jack would soon resume his studies but Ruth would no longer enjoy the privilege of being educated.

  In addition, Ruth felt guilty as she felt a wave of resentment that Mary had died. Mary never did help her to find the hidden treasure of Becton Manor. She thought about asking Father Peters directly but doubted he’d tell her. Her dream of having something of value was lost.

  *

  Early one morning, as Henry was attending to the horses, he heard a commotion in the nearby field.

  He ran along the track until he came to a small gate which enabled him to peer through.

  Hundreds of men and boys were tearing down fencing, shouting with a frightening urgency. Further in the distance, some were setting fire to the fences. Henry could smell the burning and hear the wood crackle and spit.

  He turned back to the house and almost flew through the door, panting furiously. Breathlessly he shouted to Margaret in the scullery.

  ‘There’s a mob on the field across the way. They’re setting fire to the fences and tearing it all down. There’s hundreds of ’em!’

  He was speaking so fast, Margaret struggled to understand. ‘Henry, calm down, for the love of God.’

  As soon as he was able, he slowly repeated what he’d said. Margaret said he must tell the earl, and she went with him to knock on the study door. The earl always rose early and was now sitting at his desk. He looked up, surprised, as Margaret entered followed by Henry.

  ‘I am so sorry to disturb you my lord, but Henry has something of importance to say.’

  Henry looked nervous. It wasn’t often that he had an audience with the earl.

  ‘Well, speak up, lad, what tidings have ye?’

  As soon as Henry had told him the barest of details, the earl turned his head to the window.

  He opened the nearest one and listened to the commotion. Breathing deeply, he could smell burning wood. He grabbed his hat and, with Henry close behind, rushed to the field.

  A man in the field shouted, ‘There is the man who has ruined our livelihoods.’

  Several men started to run towards the earl, who stood his ground. They were waving sticks and Henry was afraid for the earl’s safety. He wondered why the earl just stood there; he had no hope of fighting all these men. Henry did not know what to do except keep shouting, ‘No, no! The earl has done you no wrong.’

  One man, disregarding status, pounced upon the earl and dragged him to the ground, holding him down with his left hand while wielding a stick in his right.

  ‘You think you can destroy our lives, you greedy lot of high-borns?’

  The stick waved menacingly in the air until Henry intervened, grabbing it away from the man and kicking his shin. The other men gathered to watch this encounter, some laughing at the boy’s efforts but others egging the man on to ‘finish him off,’ ready with their sticks to continue attacking the earl. Henry jumped onto the man’s back but the man, big and brawny, just threw Henry off, dumping him to the ground.

  ‘Get yourself off, ye little scoundrel.’

  Henry stumbled as he tried to get up.

  Another man was running up from the rear, shouting loudly.

  ‘Wait, wait, do you want to be in prison or hanged for murder? That won’t help you or your families. Stop! He will listen to me.’

  The earl, wiping mud from his face, looked up to see who was shouting. He knew this man as Yeoman Thomas of Barley, who was a hardworking, honest man. They had a good relationship and respected one another, or so the earl had thought. He slowly stood up, brushing mud from his breeches and doublet, and faced the big man who had attacked him.

  ‘I could easily have you hanged, man. Name yourself!’

  Thomas of Barley winced at the threat of death and quickly interrupted.

  ‘We need to speak, my lord. These men have good reason for their intrusion.’ The earl had spoken kindly to him and his family in the past. There had to be a better way.

  Once he had caught his breath, the earl looked piercingly at Thomas. Raising his voice, he stepped towards him. ‘If there is strife, Thomas, why did you not seek my counsel?’

  Thomas answered clearly. ‘Perhaps I should have come sooner, my lord, but these men have had enough of high rents and seizure of their land for your sheep! Some are near starvation: no land, no crops, nothing to sustain us. You have your profits from your sheep, wool, milk and meat, while we starve. Do you know what our lives are like, without a crumb on the table, while you eat venison and drink French wines?’ There was a pause. ‘These men are very angry!’

  The earl was dumbfounded but knew this had to have something to do with Griffin.

  Thomas agreed to halt the mob until he had spoken in private with the earl and they marched back to the house.

  The earl thanked Henry for what he had done. In truth, Henry had enjoyed the scrap. ‘I’d do it again, sir.’ The earl smiled at the animation on Henry’s face.

  In the parlour, Thomas explained.

  ‘These men, my lord, are just a small number of those who are getting angrier by the day. Your rent increases and the land you enclosed for sheep robs us of our livelihoods. We are unable to sustain our living, my lord. The price of grain is rising but we have precious little land left to grow crops. We were told by a man who represents you that we would benefit in the profits from the sheep: there would be wool, milk and meat to trade and we would all have a share, including a supply of butter and cheese. Truth is, my lord, we cannot wait for that day.’

  He nodded to the window.

  ‘Some of the small farmers out there are beginning to starve. Young Harry Osborne has four children now and he cannot feed them properly. His wife trembles with fear of what tomorrow may bring. She frets so much that her milk to nurse the little one has dried up. They are unable to take anything to market or to buy from others. You must listen, my lord. I have told the men you would listen.’

  The earl was indeed listening and very thoughtful; Griffin was on his mind. Had this man turned out to be a scoundrel? He hadn’t mentioned raising the rents.

  He recalled his wife coming to him with complaints of the man’s demeanour with the boys. He recalled his daughter Mary wanting Griffin dismissed, for sheer arrogance. He recalled that Margaret and Frances disliked him intensely.

  Had he been missing something? Or had he chosen to ignore what happened around him, as he ignored Charlotte’s complaints about the children and the servants? Could it be there was torment enough for him, with troubles at court?

  The fact remained that he had put his trust in someone he hardly knew and had not checked this man’s actions. He gave his head a brief shake: he had made mistakes, mistakes that might be costly. He should take more note of what was said and done.

  He said to Thomas, ‘I will see to it that some of the fencing is taken down, so the villagers can take back land on which to grow crops. Before I do that, I will look for myself at the enclosures and speak with the villagers. But you must give me your word of no further attacks, either on my land or on my person. If there are any other disturbances, I assure you: there will be hangings and bodies will be gibbeted.’

  Thomas of Barley shuddered.

  The earl strode to the bottom of the stairs and called up, ‘Master Griffin, would you come down here a moment?’

  Griffin had watched the commotion from an upstairs window, forbidding the boys to leave their desks. He was nervous.

  ‘Yes, my lord?’ he asked as he entered the parlour.

  ‘I understand you have met with the tenant of Barley Farm: Thomas?’

 
‘Yes, my lord.’ Griffin observed the dried mud on the earl’s face.

  ‘Pray, explain to me, Master Griffin, what dealings you have had with this man.’

  Griffin looked uncomfortable. Thomas was saying nothing, but there was a look of discontent on the man’s face that led Griffin to believe his explanation should be diplomatic and conciliatory.

  He cleared his throat and offered his tale of the encounter with Thomas and the other villagers.

  When he mentioned a venture that would benefit all the smallholders in exchange for most of their land, the earl interrupted.

  ‘Oh, what benefits are those? When might they come into effect, I wonder? You see the mud on my face, Griffin? The attack that I have just been subject to should have been on you, sir! A pity you did not hear the commotion from your study and come and join in the scuffle, eh?’

  The earl waited for his response but Griffin remained quiet.

  ‘Well, Master Griffin, what are you going to do to make amends? Already, some of your fences have been destroyed this morning, some by fire. Worse than that, people are starving because you have not delivered your promise to the villagers. I am more angry, Griffin, that you did not report to me what you were up to!’

  There was a long awkward silence before the earl shouted again. ‘I will repeat myself, Griffin: what are you going to do?’

  Griffin finally turned to Thomas. ‘With respect, sir, you appeared not to have listened well to me. You are correct: when we met, I gave you my word that I would share the dividends of the sheep trade, but you must understand business. Lord Becton has not yet received payment for the wool I despatched to Nottingham and Lincoln. As soon as that is in Lord Becton’s hands, you will benefit.’

  Lord Becton stepped nearer to Griffin, his anger obvious.

  ‘That does not solve the problem of the land being taken from the villagers and as a consequence they are losing their livelihoods, sir.’

  He paused to check the tutor’s reaction, then he continued with increased wrath.

  ‘You have not discussed this with me, Master Griffin. You will give back the land to the people…that is what you will do. How dare you bring further grief to me so soon after the death of my daughter? Come and report to me your actions on Friday and bring the accounts. I will decide your future when we have discussed them. Now go back to the boys.’

  The earl turned away from him and looked at the floor. How much of his money was taken up in these wool dealings?

  At the end of the day’s lessons, Anne walked with Griffin as he left the house.

  ‘I will most likely be dismissed, Edward. I will have no work soon. With Mary gone and Lady Charlotte’s refusal to have Ruth in the house, I am no longer needed as a governess. Lady Charlotte will shortly leave for her sister’s house in London. I think she will take Oliver with her, which means that you will not be working for the earl either. We will both need to find employment.’

  Griffin barely listened. He refused to accept that his scheme would fail. He had nowhere near the amount of money needed to set himself up in business. He had to think about this – he must have more money. He focused on the plants in the hedgerow, the belladonna leaves that lay in wait for their beautiful purple flowers to bloom. The baneful belladonna.

  *

  On the Friday evening, he strolled along the track at the back of the manor house, heading for his meeting with the earl. Resentment continued to burn within him. He would need to do something fast and pull himself up by his wits.

  He was greeted at the house by an icy Frances. She announced his arrival to the earl, then came back to the hall to show him into the earl’s parlour.

  ‘Sit down,’ the earl commanded, scrutinising him before seating himself opposite.

  After an awkward pause, Griffin began to explain how he would compensate the families for loss of land with food provisions until profits started to come in, of which he was sure they would. He detected irritation in the earl and wasn’t sure if he was fully listening.

  ‘Do you have the accounts?’ asked the earl.

  Just then, Frances knocked and entered with the earl’s evening brandy.

  ‘Leave it on the table by the window, Frances.’ said the earl with a dismissive wave of his hand.

  As soon as Frances left the room, Griffin clumsily dropped all his papers. He gathered them up.

  ‘I will sort these in no time, my lord.’ He took them to the table by the window, leaving some on the floor by the earl’s feet. The earl tutted but bent down to pick them up.

  ‘It will not take me long to order them, my lord.’

  ‘Oh for God’s sake, man!’ The exasperated earl impatiently picked up the rest of the papers. Griffin turned his back, tidied the papers, then passed the earl his brandy. The earl, still irritated, took one large swig from the goblet. Griffin’s eyes widened, his grin slight but wicked.

  The earl began to study the accounts, which were now haphazard. ‘Go away, Griffin, and get these in order. I want proof that you are increasing my profits, sir!’

  Griffin bowed his head as the earl continued.

  ‘My daughter did not like you, sir, and that makes me wonder why. My instinct tells me to dismiss you now, but I am giving you one more chance to redeem yourself. My wife will be visiting her sister in London and taking Oliver with her, so you will be relieved of your tutoring for at least two weeks. That gives you time to concentrate on my accounts. You are working for me, Master Griffin, not yourself.’

  Just before Griffin turned to leave, he watched the frustrated earl finish his brandy. He closed the door hesitantly. What was done was done.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Spring 1598

  The next morning, Lady Charlotte and Lord Oliver left for London. Lord Becton bade them farewell, hiding the signs of acute nausea from which he was suffering.

  Not long after they had gone, he was heard violently vomiting. Frances was reluctant to send for Kathleen, knowing that Lady Charlotte would not want her in the house. But she felt that something needed to be done quickly for the earl and knew of no one else other than the physician, who was hard to get hold of. She sent Henry to fetch her.

  Kathleen rushed in to the earl’s bedroom and set down her jewelled herb box. She felt his forehead. He was indeed sweating and irritable with fever. She tried to calm him and instructed Margaret to boil some leaves and the root of marshmallow together with fennel.

  She added some barley flour to the mixture, slathered this onto a muslin cloth and applied it gently to the belly, covering it over with a warm blanket. Margaret was asked to prepare some sour apple juice. When she returned from the kitchen, Kathleen poured some into a goblet.

  The earl gripped it with trembling hands and sipped it with quivering lips.

  Margaret’s words were a warning.

  ‘Whatever you choose to do, Kathleen, I hope it is effective. After the death of Mary, I fear you will suffer tragic consequences if the earl does not recover. Not only that, but I will be dismissed as well as Frances for allowing you into this house.’

  Kathleen glanced upwards, fear on her face. She must use the correct mixtures. She could do no more; she knew the sweating meant that the body needed more fluids in order to balance the humours.

  ‘Lots of the apple juice, Margaret. I will return tomorrow.’

  On Sunday, the illness was contained, but on Monday the earl deteriorated. The vomiting and now bloody diarrhoea persisted. The retching could be heard in the kitchen. Then he called out and Frances rushed up the stairs.

  Edward Griffin had also arrived early on the pretext of leaving some accounts at the house. Frances, having been told that his presence was not required for a few weeks, was disappointed with this intrusion and reluctant to let him enter.

  ‘The Lady Charlotte informed me you were not required for tutoring in the next few weeks, sir. What brings you here?’

  ‘I have notes to prepare, madam. The earl is aware of this. Now allow me to enter.’ He
stepped over the threshold, not waiting for her reply. On his way to the schoolroom, he heard a soft mumbling from the earl’s bedchamber. Frances hurried to the room. Griffin left the schoolroom door ajar, to listen.

  ‘Frances…fetch…Father…Peters…do…you…hear?’ the earl feebly uttered, barely audible.

  ‘My lord, I do not know where he is to be found.’

  Griffin crept nearer to the edge of the door and strained his ears to catch the words being spoken.

  The earl spoke softly again. ‘He resides with Kathleen.’ Then it sounded like a gasp for air. ‘Send Henry… I believe it is time… To meet with my maker.’

  ‘Don’t speak like that, my lord. This will pass.’

  Edward Griffin loitered in the schoolroom. He grinned maliciously, nodding to himself. Here was proof the priest resided with Kathleen. A most unholy union: a priest and a witch, both hiding treasures. People would want to know of this.

  Griffin kept his head down, pretending to scrutinise the accounts until he heard the sound of horses’ hooves along the track, a short distance away. Soon, there was a loud clatter on the gravel just outside the house as the horses came to a halt.

  Henry rushed in, followed by Father Peters. Griffin squinted as he watched from the slim crack of the slightly opened schoolroom door. Footsteps hurriedly mounted the stairs and Griffin caught sight of Henry carrying the priest’s bag.

  *

  The upstairs was not usually part of Henry’s domain and, as he entered the earl’s chamber, he was shocked by the sight of Lord Becton lying motionless in his bed. As he slowly stepped nearer, he was struck by his master’s bony cheeks, the white skin stretched taut and his chin prominent and pointed. What had happened to the strong and jovial earl?