So was I like to have slept from my great weariness, but did not, for in the hour that followed I heard and saw that which kept me waking, aye, as wakeful as in the fray, for it was as fatal withal, though never a blow struck or hand raised, and gave more grief to my spirit than all that had gone before, and abideth with me still and ever shall.
Master Lightfoot being gone about his affairs, and we three alone in the hall, came the bailiff bidding Wattie to bed, and Waitabout also for whom there was a place prepared in the armoury, “a right bed chamber for a man-at-arms”, says Hodgson heartily, and clapped him on the shoulder saying he had earned his rest, aye, and four-fold for the Nixons, and had my old lord been there he had given him feathers to lie on for his good service.
Waitabout thanked him, but said he was for the road, having naught to stay for, and would be away on the moment. I marvelled at this, and the bailiff also that gaped and then laughed, clapping him again and saying he should by no means leave so suddenly, “and thou but half-fed and sleepless, go to! Nay, man, for our credit and thy good shalt bide at ease in Askerton a twelvemonth an ye list, for my lady would not have it other! Also she will look to hear from thee of Triermain, and do thee service in turn.”
Waitabout said she would hear of it well enough, and for himself he had better away, “for the bargain’s kept, and the day risen, nor am I comfortable indoors, for myself and others.” He looked on me a moment smiling, and asked was it not so, “for you, Father Lewis, have had little comfort of me, and Master Lightfoot even less, and for my lady who can tell?”
Now at this my heart smote me, for though he had much angered me, and given me grief on his behalf and mine own, yet I would not be the cause of his going off so poorly requited, that had done good service in his fashion, which if cruel and beastly to his foes yet had he perilled his life and kept Triermain secure, and this on his word given that he need not have kept being wrung from him on fatal compulsion by my lady. He might have fled away, yet had done his devoir, as they say, and I was loth to see him depart without notice.
So I said he should stay for my part, and I doubted not for my lady’s also, and the bailiff swore it was a daft start, surely, for “but wait you upon my lady’s coming down, I warrant there’ll be a pound or two for thee in this, aye, good money, man, think on!”
Waitabout laughed and said there had been no talk of more fee than the door open and a clear road over the fell, “and so that I keep the steel bonnet and sword it is enough, master bailiff, that and Black Dod’s hobbler at the barnekin gate.”
Seeing him resolved against all persuasion, the bailiff said he would see to the horse, but it was a folly, for sure my lady would reward him if he stayed. Hodgson being gone, I said as much again, and bade Waitabout bethink it were scant courtesy to my lady to be away without a word. He smiled awry, and said she would excuse it, and for courtesy between them hers had been of a hempen kind when last he saw her, and he knew not what her present humour might be. I cried shame that he should doubt her, “for whatsoever means she used to compel your service, yet now ’tis done she will be beholden to you, and do you good besides.”
He took up the steel cap and weighed it in his hand, still with that narrow smile, and said he doubted I had dwelt overlong among peasants, “for gentlefolk are not like them, Father Lewis, as King Saul doth witness. No, nor lawyers. Necessity called last night, but if I read Master Lightfoot aright, Prudence is the counsellor now, and Amen to that.”
I asked what Lightfoot had said to him in the fields, and he said he had asked exact account of what befell at Triermain, and even more jealously of the bargain made with my lady beforehand. “Now a nod’s as good’s a wink, father, and I think he would not have me tarry at Askerton, but reasons that if mischief should follow of last night’s work, haply if I go I may carry it with me.” And asked me smiling did I not know that when a deed was done past recall, those who had willed it were wont to think little kindness of the doer, though they had set him on. “They cannot be shot of it, but they can be shot of him, so let him saddle and ride.”
I said he did my lady wrong to think so meanly of her, and he answered it was all one, for he would go, but first would take leave of Wattie, “for that’s one of good metal, aye, dirty but stout beneath, and deserves well of you and me.” Then said he would return presently for my blessing, “if it please you give it to an unworthy offender, for his comfort, and it may be for your own.”
So I lay alone in the hall a little time, and my thoughts busy as the crackling fire, heavy at heart that he should go, for there was that in this same Waitabout that I would have known more of, and being gone would leave an emptiness behind that would not be filled thereafter. I knew not well why it should be so, and know not now, save that he was such as one doth meet but rarely in this life, having their eyes open upon the world, subtle men whose faults are many and their errors great, yet are they uncorrupted in their hearts, seeing as children, simply, so that at all shifts and trials and hazards there is but one word for them, and that word is “true”.
And as I lay drowsing, I heard a foot that tarried on the stair beyond the door, and two voices that spake as in conference, the one in question and the other full of busy instruction, and knew them for my lady and Master Lightfoot. He as ever talked at a great rate full earnestly, but more softly than his wont which I was hard put to make out, for I thought no shame to play the eavesdropper, I assure you, being greatly curious, and if it were wrong I brazen out the fault gladly.
He was urgent with much wordy vehemence that she bore no blame for what had passed at Triermain, “for mark it well, this Waitabout Noble slew these same Nixons, he and the Bells at his direction, and had no licence or permission from your ladyship for this, who bound him only defend your village and make it secure. So are you clear there, if it should come to any bill or charge or claim for damage or compensation for their deaths, as might arise, though I think it shall not, but yet it might.”
I heard my lady answer doubtfully that she had plighted her word to answer for Waitabout what he did, to which Lightfoot cried, aye, indeed, “but this was on your handfast bargain only, which I think shall not hold at law, being only the custom of the country and short of a proper bond, to which the priest and bailiff, can testify that were there when ’twas made. So, at law, no blame may lie against your grace for aught that followed therefrom, you being not lawfully bound.”
At this she gave a good round trooper’s oath. “Blame? How can blame lie, on our side? These thieves, slain untimely, were spoilers in arms that came to assail and bleed my tenants, and by God shall I not defend mine own?”
“There you have it, lady!” cries Lightfoot. “Defend’s the word, and this you set him to do, but not to slay over-barbarously as he did and bade others do! For thus it was, as I conclude from what I have learned of the fray from your lout Wattie, aye, and from this Waitabout himself. For resistance and security, well, but murder is another word, and this it might be called before the Wardens. But of this you stand clear, content you, for that your bargain with him was not lawful in any case.”
Here he gave over, for now they were come into the hall, and my lady frowning in perplexity, yet when she saw me where I lay in my nook beyond the fire, cried out and hastened to me. I saw she had waked to the news but lately, having on a mighty fine gown of shotten silk over her night rail with dainty broidered slippers to her feet, and her hair unbound which was a wonder to see so long and flaxen fair, falling either side her shoulders nigh to her waist and there was clasped with a cingle of silver links such as I never saw the like before. She was lily pale in her looks, as well she might be on such tidings unexpected.
“Master Lightfoot has told me of your hurt,” says she, “and would to God I had kept you home, for I would not have you take harm in my behalf for all the world!” And took my hand right tenderly when I made shift to rise, staying me, and smiled and said naught should lack for my comfort, and would have a chirurgeon from Carlisle to
see to me. I was abashed but right glad to see her so moved on my behalf, and could have borne more of it, but Master Lightfoot croaking at me was Waitabout gone yet, and I answering that he bided, he stamped and muttered in his beard, and drew my lady away with more anxious advice, that she should remove to her chamber until the fellow was safely gone.
“For it were best you saw him not, for if it should be known that you had speech with him after the fact, why, this might be seen as approving him, and might by shrewd advocacy appear as a conference or conspiracy between you, if it should come to law, so please you my lady withdraw, and I shall give him such discharge as shall content him, and your ladyship shot of him.”
Now this was such dealing as Waitabout had foreseen, aye, to the very words, that I was amazed, and knowing my lady’s proud stomach, thought to hear her bid Lightfoot go hang, for she would speak with Waitabout if she so willed. But she frowned, as one in doubt, and ere she might speak I heard Waitabout whistle without, and then he was come in, and stopped in the doorway at sight of my lady. Then Lightfoot put his back to him quickly, and looked on my lady with such a face of boding as would have frighted sheep, and whispered urgently to her that she say not a word, nor so much as a look, but to mark him not at all, and presently withdraw.
Now Lightfoot left her and came to Waitabout with a great false smile, and took him by the shoulder to lead him by the farther wall to the window with “How now, good fellow, what, not away yet?”, walking wide of my lady and not looking upon her, and babbled at Waitabout that it was well enough he had tarried departing, yet he might be gone soon enough when he had heard somewhat to his advantage. And ever Lightfoot kept himself between Waitabout and my lady, as though she had not been there, which to my mind was the vainest pretence, but who knows the minds of lawyers?
My lady being close by me, I saw she liked it not, as contrary to her own desire and wont, yet unwilling to run against her own advocate his counsel who had been so earnest with her, and indeed it is a foolish client that doth so. But for her very pride she would not withdraw, but looking neither right nor left went to her great chair that stood across the fire from where I lay, and there sat with a set countenance.
Lightfoot asked Waitabout, was he a lettered man (knowing well he was), and Waitabout, having looked to where my lady sat that marked him not, put on his droll face and said he could make shift to write “but in the accent of Bewcastle only, the rude phrases of Northumberland being beyond me, though I can read them and a little Scots too.” Which answer confounded the lawyer that knew not the fanciful rogue he dealt with, but he passed it over and came to his point, that there was no written bond with my lady for what was done at Triermain, “but a handfast bargain, aye, in good faith, but an understanding only, ha?”
Waitabout looked long on my lady turned away, and set his shoulder at ease to the wall, and said, even so, a bargain that she would answer for him, and what o’ that?
Being a lawyer, and this his meat and drink, Master Lightfoot told him what of it, with fine windy periods at length as one useth who is loth to speak plain, as commonly ariseth when the letter of the law is so-and-so but the spirit of it must be breached wide enough for a battery train to pass through. The marrow of it was that Waitabout having wrought great slaughter at Triermain, which my lady had not foreseen nor could countenance, and his service having been engaged not by lawful bond but on handfast only, it might be that if any claim or charge arose, that she could not well maintain him at law, or answer for him, howsoever much she might wish so to do. For she was greatly beholden to him, and wished him right well, so for convenience it might be best if he gat himself out of the March speedily, for then if complaint arose there would be none to answer it, she being under no obligation, and Waitabout not being there, “so, how say, good fellow, all will be right, go to, ha?”
For my part, I never heard a sorrier sophistry, and had Ananias been above ground he had cried quits with Master Lightfoot that hummed and hecked and span his words by hook or crook to prove my lady clear and hoodwink a simple broken man (as he thought him). And all this while my lady sat like a statue that frowned troubled but spake not, and Waitabout looked curiously upon her at a distance, and no longer with a droll face.
Lightfoot now fumbled in his scrip and gave Waitabout a paper, saying that if his road lay through Penrith he should show it to Master Lowther that was a lawyer of the town “who will give you that shall ease your passage away, for ’twere best no fee passed in this house, nor are no names named in the paper, but a line only to requite the bearer, that I think shall content you.”
Waitabout looked not on the paper but still on my lady silent, and told Lightfoot no fee was needful “nor all your persuasion neither, for had ye not held me in chat I had been past Brampton by this. Nay, sir, it needed not you to make it plain that I am unwanted here, having served my turn, and the peril being past Askerton would fain see the back o’ me.”
This in a light pleasant voice that my lady heard full well, for I saw the crimson mount from her bosom to her cheek like a tide, and her hands grip the chair. A moment she sat ere she came to her feet bright-eyed, and if the boy Wattie had grovelled there with his logs I warrant he would have taken such a kick as would have carried him to Bewcastle Cross. Master Lightfoot, his back being turned to her, saw not this but rubbed his hands and smiled, praising Waitabout his quick understanding, but said he should take the paper that well deserved it. Waitabout shook his head, but said there was something he yet would have, and the lawyer in quick alarm asked what it was.
“Why,” says Waitabout, “I think ’tis for my lady to say.”
Hearing this she turned to him, high of colour and taking breath to command herself for wrath against him that spoke the reproof and against Lightfoot that had been the cause of it. He looked all distraught from one to the other, and was like to trip on his gown in agitation to prevent her answering, clocking like an old hen that if Waitabout would say his desire, it should be through himself, “such being my lady’s pleasure, nor is it meet she should speak you,” but he had as well tried to dam Eden with his shoe, for she snapped at him to hold his tongue, “for shall I not speak to my servant?” He waved his hands and would have prated on, but she cast him a look that stopped him dumb, and with a little crook of her finger bade Waitabout come to her.
He stood before her with not two yards between them, and she with her head high asked what he would of her.
“Not this,” says he, and stooping put Lightfoot’s paper on the fire, at which the colour left her face and by and by there grew there the ill smile she had worn in her hanging humour. “What then, fellow?” says she, and January wind had sounded kinder. “Is it too little for thee?”
He answered that, much or little, it was by the way, “for as I told your man there, ’twas not in our bargain, which was that I should serve and your ladyship maintain, an obligation both ways. Well, I have served, and if as your counsellor makes plain I am not to have the maintenance promised, well, it is no matter, for I need it not, looking to be out of the March this day and beyond all plaint or charge. So you are quit there. And yet,” said he, “there is a little thing that I would have, of no sterling value, but counted high in the custom of this country.”
Now I trembled as I lay there, doubting if the high and potent Lady Dacre had ever been spoke in such wise before, in courteous rebuke of her plighted honour, and this from a broken fellow of no esteem that disdained her maintenance yet with all respect. She could not well believe her ears, and would fain have boxed his for insolence but her dignity prevented, keeping her countenance but with a Gorgon eye, and I marked how her hand gripped the stuff of her gown like to tear it. She asked him with a hard eye, what was the little thing he would have?
He said it would leave her no poorer, “though me it shall enrich greatly, unless Master Lightfoot find another loophole to deny me. Nay, my lady, ’tis but this, at parting: a word of thanks.”
Now was she at a loss that I h
ad never thought to see out of countenance, as myself and Lightfoot, who had looked to hear him ask some thing material, however small. I marvelled that he should goad her so that was right dangerous to meddle with, as he knew, yet the rogue did it full craftily, in all humility and spread his hands.
“Nay, lady, ‘tis little enough to ask, surely. What, for your village secured, and the Bells kept in health and goods, at peril of my life – aye, and four great Scotch thieves laid stark, two gored and slashed like mincemeat, one drowned in the dunghill, another unbowelled wi’ a pitchfork, and their four heads sent back to Liddesdale in a bag?”
“I asked not that!” cried she, and thereon let blaze at him with such a fury as made my old lord’s choler seem but a whisper, for she stamped her foot and damned him for a brute beast that dared flout his barbarousness in her face that she had never looked for nor could countenance, but when she drew breath he spake gently as before.
“Do me right, lady, did ye think I went to play at pat-a-cake wi’ them? I served you as best I knew, aye, and better than ye know, for I secured not only Triermain last night, but Askerton and all your folk and lands for ten year hence! Oh, believe me,” said he in all earnestness, “they will ride wide of you hereafter. For even now they look aghast on those four heads and whisper ‘Christ Saviour, what a woman is this!’ Nay, noble lady, if ye doubt me, ask Father Lewis there, or your lawyer, or your bailiff. But I beseech you humbly, reproach not me for my zeal in your service. If it was over-zealous, as you and the priest do think, well, the fault is all mine. But the benefit is all your own, for you have your safety with a clean conscience.”
Whether he mocked or not I could no way be sure, and am not still, though my lady with her keen wit suspected it, yet looking on his face so comely open that met her eye soberly, knew not how to answer, and being wroth with herself therefore, sat herself down with her gallows face again, and baleful bonny she was.
The Candlemass Road Page 11
