The men—judging by their clothes, a gentleman and a rough laborer—were walking along the stream’s opposite bank. They were already well to Richard’s right and making for two horses—one a reasonable-looking hack, the other a cob—tied in the trees at the mouth of the small valley. Richard raised his head further and looked along the rise, but the rise continued, curving away from the end of the valley, which opened into a clearing. If the men rode out through the clearing, they wouldn’t see Malcolm the Great.
Satisfied on that score, with the men no longer speaking, Richard turned his attention to whatever construction the pair had been examining. He studied the stream; the men had been standing on the far bank, more or less opposite Richard’s present position, looking at something while facing him…
The men mounted and turned their horses. Richard flicked a glance their way, but didn’t catch any clear view of either man. He hadn’t seen their faces, only very oblique profiles and their backs as they’d walked away.
He grimaced. He waited, unmoving, until the men’s horses’ hoofbeats faded, then he rose, dusted the woodland detritus from his clothes, and walked back to Malcolm the Great. Richard untied the reins and led the great horse up and very carefully down the other side of the rise and into the valley.
Determined to discover what was going on, Richard secured Malcolm the Great beside a small copse of trees opposite where the men had tied their horses. Then he leapt over the stream and walked back along the other bank. Once at the spot where the men had stood—easy enough to define via the footprints in the softer earth—he looked around, trying to see what the pair had been discussing, what the “construction” was.
It took him several minutes to grasp the implications of what he was seeing—that the stream burbling down from the head of the valley, now to his right, lost volume as it passed along that stretch until, to his left, it was reduced to a trickle.
The construction wasn’t easy to stumble upon; if he hadn’t known something had to be there and actively searched, he would never have found it.
It was also ingenious.
He spent long minutes working out what had been done. The bed of the stream was over two feet deep. Tunnels had been carefully bored into the stream bed below the level of the rippling water. None of the tunnels were big enough to show suction or appear as a gaping maw, but all working together, the series of tunnels was enough to drain the stream of much of its flow.
Richard turned and looked away from the stream. At that point, on that side, the valley didn’t slope upward but ran roughly level to a rocky line beyond which the ground fell away. Richard strode to the line of rocks and discovered that they marked the edge of a short drop, the first of a series of what might, centuries ago, have been landslips along the edge of an escarpment.
Standing on the lip of that escarpment, he looked out and found himself surveying the wide swath of land known as the Somerset Levels. On the northwestern horizon, he saw a peak bathed in the rosy glow of the westering sun. The peak looked vaguely familiar…then he realized he was looking at Glastonbury Tor.
Instantly, he could place where he must be. The Tor lay southwest of Wells, which meant there was no chance at all that he would reach the comfort of his uncle’s hearth that night.
With a disgusted grunt, he turned back to the stream and his examination of what was, in essence, a cannily concealed diversion. The tunnels channeled the water away under the bank and continued underground, but only for so many yards. Thereafter, the water had been allowed to ooze out and spread over the surface, but by that point, the ground sloped gently toward the escarpment, so the water continued in that direction, camouflaged by rocks and leaf litter, until it spilled over the edge.
Crouching and peering over the edge, he visually traced several rivulets snaking down the escarpment’s rough and tumbled face. Immediately below, at the foot of the first drop, the grass grew in a particularly verdant shade of green, more like a boggy water meadow than a normal tract of cliffside grass.
He rose and walked back to the stream. “So the gentleman and his man diverted the waters of the stream, but to no discernible purpose.”
Of course, the gentleman had a purpose; Richard simply didn’t know what it was.
The air was starting to lose its warmth as the sun dipped toward the horizon. Richard leapt over the stream and strode along the bank to where he’d tethered Malcolm the Great.
Untying the reins, he stroked the horse’s long nose. “Come on. I might be lost, but there’s one woodsman’s trick that’s guaranteed to work even in this accursed wood. If you want to find habitation, just follow water downhill.”
He set off with Malcolm the Great clomping behind.
As he walked beside the dwindling stream, Richard wondered just what the gentleman had meant by his “getting all I want” from the diversion he’d arranged.
Chapter 2
Several hours later, with the long summer twilight deepening to dusk, Richard finally—finally!—stepped out of Balesboro Wood onto a neat gravel drive that curved through a wide clearing in which stood a large manor house. The drive swept in a gentle arc to the forecourt before the house’s front door.
Richard glanced at the eager, smiling faces of his companions—a woodcutter and his wife. Their footsteps crunched on the gravel, a counterpoint to his own and the clop of Malcolm the Great’s heavy hooves.
His idea of following the stream had been a good one; it had led him to the woodcutter’s cottage and not a moment too soon. The couple had been about to leave, having been summoned to the local manor house for a celebration.
As their cottage—a single-roomed hut—was far too small to accommodate the likes of him and they had no stable, the pair had suggested he walk with them to the manor. They’d assured him that the Tregarths, the owners of Nimway Hall and the woodcutter’s employers, were very nice gentlefolk and would be happy to offer him shelter.
Naturally, both woodcutter and wife had taken in the quality of his clothes, his sword, and Malcolm the Great and correctly identified him as a gentleman. Accepting their cheery and plainly confident assurances of welcome, Richard had joined them on the short trek to what he understood was an impromptu celebration occasioned by an old spring running again.
Given they were in Somerset, he’d refrained from leaping to conclusions. If there was a connection to the gentleman’s diversion of the stream, he would find out soon enough.
As they walked up the drive, Nimway Hall rose before them. Built of the local pale-gray stone with impressive corner towers three stories high, the central block comprised two neat stories with dormer windows above and the hint of a basement level below. Ivy, the creeper’s leaves a bright summer green, covered sections of the wall, but the clinging tendrils had been neatly trimmed away from around the numerous multi-paned windows. The lawns surrounding the house stretched wide, smooth and scythed. Although there was no fountain or sculpture to break up the rolling sward, the enfolding arms of the wood and the majesty of the house rendered such ornamentation superfluous.
That evening, every window on the lower level shone with the welcoming glow of candlelight.
The woodcutter and his wife increased their pace. “Looks like most of us are already here.” The woodcutter’s wife’s face was alight with joyful anticipation.
Richard noted a narrower extension of the drive curving around the house to the left, presumably leading to the stable. Several gigs and traps and at least one coach were lined up along its verge. No saddle horses were visible, but others must have ridden to the house. As, beside the woodcutter, he approached the front porch, Richard wondered what to do with Malcolm the Great. The horse needed care; Richard didn’t like leaving him hitched to a bush and unattended. Aside from any other consideration, if Malcolm got loose, given the door was open, he might follow Richard inside.
But then a tow-headed lad, no doubt alerted by the crunching gravel, peered out of the open door. On seeing Richard—or, more correctly,
Malcolm the Great—the lad’s eyes grew wide, and he hurried to step out, onto the porch, where he paused uncertainly.
“There you are, Young Willie,” the woodcutter boomed. He was a large robust man with a large robust voice. “This gentleman got lost in our wood, and we’ve brought him here to beg shelter. And his great horse has fallen lame, too—best you take the beast around to the stable while we take the gentleman indoors to speak with the Tregarths. No doubt Hopkins will be interested and will come to see to the beast.”
Radiating suppressed eagerness, the lad descended the three steps and readily approached. “I can take him to the stable for you, sir.”
Richard smiled and held out the reins. “Despite his size”—the horse more than lived up to his name—“he’s very even tempered.”
The lad stroked the long velvety nose, and the horse—who was also intelligent enough to know who to butter up—chuffed encouragingly. “What’s his name?”
“Malcolm the Great.”
The lad grinned, as did the woodcutter. “I’ll take good care of him, sir,” the lad vowed. He nodded to the horse’s lame foreleg. “And if you speak with Hopkins—he’s the stableman—I’m sure he’ll come out and do what he can to make the beast more comfortable.”
Richard nodded and, as the boy led the big gray away, followed the woodcutter and his wife up the steps and inside. He stepped over the threshold and paused.
He stood in what he recognized as the antechamber to a medieval great hall. The large rectangular space that opened up two paces on had unquestionably been a great hall in its time; the large, solid, polished-oak beams that ribbed the walls and arched across the ceiling testified to its past. At several points in more recent centuries, it had been built onto, with wings to either side and stories above, until the house had attained its present form. Richard judged that the great hall now operated as the central hub of the manor house. And, as at that moment, the space provided the perfect venue for communal celebrations.
A mass of people—all solid country folk as far as Richard could see—thronged the room, yet it wasn’t overcrowded. This wasn’t a ton “crush” but a pleasant gathering of people comfortable in each other’s company; the hum of conversations interspersed with easy laughter bore witness to that fact.
“Evening, Mr. Cruickshank.”
Richard turned as the woodcutter bobbed his head to a man—tall, thin, and garbed in the long-tailed black coat favored by butlers everywhere—who had materialized out of the shifting crowd.
“This here gentleman”—the woodcutter gestured to Richard—“got lost in our wood. He found his way to us, and we thought to bring him to the manor for shelter. Him and his lame horse.”
The butler—Cruickshank—assessed Richard’s station, or as much of that as Richard allowed to show, in one swift glance, then bowed appropriately. “Sir.” He straightened. “Mr. Tregarth and Miss Swinford are by the fireplace. If you will follow me, I will make you known to them.”
Richard inclined his head. “Thank you.” He turned to take his leave of the woodcutter and his wife, but both had already been claimed by friends.
Richard caught the man’s eyes and inclined his head gratefully, then with his customary easy smile curving his lips, he turned and followed the butler. The man led him down one side of the room, skirting the knots of guests filling the space.
Several people glanced his way, but that was hardly surprising; he was taller than most, and even in his traveling clothes, deliberately chosen to be unremarkable, he cut a sufficiently striking figure to draw eyes—he always had. Unperturbed, he idly surveyed the crowd. He recognized their type—good, honest gentlefolk, squires, small landholders, tenant farmers, and those who served the manor, their lives spent, busy and content, managing their acres or fulfilling their duties unconcerned with and largely oblivious to the exercise of wider power. These were the people his mother referred to as the backbone of England, and she wasn’t wrong. Without them and their labors, his class—the ruling class—would have little to rule.
Halfway down the long hall, a lady, part of a large group in the center of the room, swung around and blatantly studied him. She was, he judged, somewhere in her twenties, yet there was no challenge in her gaze, only frank and straightforward assessment. Her gaze steady and assured, she surveyed him for several seconds, then briefly, she met his eyes.
Openly noting him—taking note of him—yet with no judgment or, indeed, any reaction that Richard could see.
That last piqued his interest, far more so than had she smiled invitingly.
Smoothly, the lady returned her attention to her companions, none of whom had noticed her momentary distraction, while Richard continued on.
Without conscious direction, his mind had cataloged the lady’s appearance—glossy fair hair in a warm shade of honey blond piled artlessly atop her head, a wide forehead and finely arched eyebrows above eyes whose color he hadn’t been able to discern. A straight nose and delicately curved lips, beautifully sculpted, with cheeks plump and just touched with a healthy rose…and a firm and determined chin. It was, he realized, that chin that had made the biggest impression on him, that had drawn his interest enough for him to have noted all the rest.
Her gown ranked as among the more expensive in the room, fashioned of teal silk in the current style, with a front panel of fine ivory lace.
Idly—he reminded himself that any interest on his part could be nothing more than idle—he wondered who she was.
Just because he’d set his mind against marriage didn’t mean he’d set his mind against female companionship altogether. The sight of the lady—who might well be married—had evoked a familiar pressure in his loins, reminding him that it had been weeks since he’d last indulged. Unfortunately, given his partners in pleasure were, by his invariable rule, of his own class and also well and truly wed, then unless he was exceedingly lucky and found a willing and suitably qualified lady, he might be facing a prolonged period of abstinence.
The butler—Cruickshank—reached the far end of the hall and led Richard to a settle flanking a massive stone-manteled fireplace. An older, rather faded, but sweet-faced lady sat on the settle, her hands clasped in her lap, and alongside her, ensconced in a Bath chair with a rug spread over his knees, from under bushy eyebrows, an older gentleman surveyed the throng.
Cruickshank bowed to the pair. “Mr. Tregarth. Miss Swinford. This gentleman found himself lost in our wood and has come asking for shelter.”
“Heh?” The older gentleman—Mr. Tregarth—squinted at Richard, his gaze as openly assessing as the unknown lady’s had been.
Richard smiled, stepped forward, and bowed with his customary grace. “Mr. Tregarth.” Straightening, he inclined his head to the older lady. “Miss Swinford. My name is Richard Montague.” He often used his last given name, also his mother’s family name, whenever claiming that of his exceedingly powerful and well-known father might not be in his best interests. With a self-deprecating smile, speaking to both his hosts impartially, he continued, “This morning, I set off from Yeovil for Wells, on my way to visit a relative in the bishop’s household, but to my abiding astonishment, I became quite turned around in the nearby wood. I fear I am, indeed, reduced to throwing myself on your mercy and asking for shelter for myself and my horse.”
Miss Swinford’s hands fluttered, and she beamed up at him. “Well, of course, dear. We’ll be only too happy to put you up. Won’t we, Hugh?” She glanced at the gentleman.
Hugh Tregarth was scrutinizing Richard. “Got lost, did you? In our wood, you say?”
“Balesboro Wood,” Richard replied. “I believe it forms part of this estate.”
Slowly, Hugh nodded. “Indeed, it does.” Hugh eyed Richard for a moment longer, then Hugh’s wrinkled face creased in a genial smile. “And Elinor’s quite right—you are, indeed, very welcome.”
Richard half bowed to them both. “Thank you.”
“You mentioned your horse?” Hugh inquired.
“Yes, and sadly, he’s gone lame. A sliver of wood wedged into his off-front shoe.”
“Nasty. We can’t have that. Good beast, is he?” Hugh asked.
“A Trojan,” Richard averred.
Hugh shifted in his chair, scanning those around, then he raised an arm and waved. “Hopkins! Over here, man.”
Richard watched as a man as old as Tregarth, heavy chested with the bow-legged stance of one who had ridden on most days of his life, drained the tankard he held, set it down on a nearby dresser, then weaved through the crowd to present himself with a crisp nod. “Aye, sir?”
“This gentleman”—Hugh indicated Richard with a flick of his hand—“Mr. Montague, got lost in our wood and will be staying for the nonce. His horse picked up a sliver and is lame. Thought you might see to him.”
The stableman’s interest was immediate. “Aye, sir—that I will.” The man raised his gaze to Richard’s face.
“I left the beast with your stable lad—Young Willie,” Richard said, answering Hopkins’s unvoiced question. “I believe he took the horse to the stable.”
“Aye, he would’ve done. Not wanting for sense, Young Willie.” Hopkins nodded to Hugh Tregarth. “I’ll get along there and see what’s what.”
“If you don’t mind,” Richard said, “I’ll come with you.” He met Hopkins’s faintly surprised gaze. “I’m rather fond of Malcolm the Great.”
Hopkins blinked. “That’s the beast’s name?”
“I bought him at a horse fair in Scotland. The name seemed appropriate. You’ll understand when you see him.”
Hopkins’s eyes widened. “In that case, sir, if you’ll come this way?” Hopkins waved to an archway giving onto a corridor that led away from the great hall in the direction of the stable.
Richard bowed to Tregarth and Miss Swinford. “If you’ll excuse me, ma’am, sir. I’ll return once I’ve seen the beast settled.”
“Of course.” Tregarth waved him away. “Commendable thing, to take care of one’s cattle.”
THE LEGEND OF NIMWAY HALL: 1750 - JACQUELINE Page 3
