The Angel and the Sword

by Sally Wragg

  ‘Have you caught up with Reuben Fairfax yet, Count? Oh, but I forgot . . . you know him best as Alex Windrow. You do realize that he grew up here on the estate and that he used to be our gamekeeper?’ The silence greeting this little volley of information told her, belatedly, she’d somehow blundered again. She stood, chewing her lip and wishing, too late now, she’d kept the information to herself. But surely, the Count knew all this already?

  ‘Alex . . . Reuben has told me a little of his history,’ the Count returned, smoothly. ‘I knew he planned a visit. He’s still in the area, I believe? It will be good to see him again. . . .’

  The conversation moved onto safer ground but it was still a relief once they’d gone in to dinner and then, after another interminable interlude, when the evening was finally over and she could escape upstairs to bed where, tired out by the day’s events, she immediately fell asleep. In the morning, after an early and hasty breakfast eaten alone, everyone else still being in bed, she went down to the bridge to meet Lewis, as they’d prearranged.

  ‘Trouble?’ he asked, taking one look at her face and grinning.

  Thinking of the Count’s unexpected arrival, the gaffes she’d made, one after another, Hettie didn’t know quite where to start. ‘And some,’ she said, grinning back. ‘Shall we go and find Bill?’ Bill, she’d decided, should be in on this too, even if, as she’d expected, some of Lewis’s good humour instantly disappeared at the news.

  ‘If we must,’ he agreed, heavily.

  Fortunately, Bill was up and, always an early riser, breakfasted and working at home rather than at college. To his mother’s obvious frustration, he was only too keen to desert his books.

  ‘You do know this is a wild goose chase?’ he observed good-naturedly as they set off towards the vicarage, situated next door to the church and where Lawrence Payne had moved once he’d taken up the role of Loxley’s vicar permanently. Hettie was aware of the two boys exchanging amused glances and annoyed by it, marched on in front.

  Lawrence Payne himself answered the door, his kindly old face breaking into a smile of greeting when he saw the young people grouped in the rectory porch. ‘You’re here to find out more about the church, Your Grace?’ he enquired, referring to his earlier invitation for Hettie to drop in any time she wished.

  ‘The great west window, at least, vicar,’ she agreed, stepping aside as he pulled the door closed behind him and following him with the others, back through the churchyard. She was thinking of the lecture he’d earlier imparted concerning the history of the church, built by Nell Loxley and according to records, replacing the crumbling ruin, all that had remained of the building from Saxon times. Surprised by it, Hettie was aware of a quickening interest.

  Inside the church, she stood gazing up admiringly at the combination of columns and arches and then, as usually happened once inside these dusty old stones, her cares simply drifted away, leaving in their place a feeling of connection with the past and all its many traditions, as if generations of Loxleys, long since gone, were reaching out to claim her as one of their own. She’d never told anyone she felt like this. They’d think her fanciful but here, more than anywhere, even Loxley, she understood the importance of her position on this estate.

  ‘The place seems different from Sunday,’ Bill observed, shooting her a puzzled look.

  ‘God’s house has many guises, my boy,’ Lawrence Payne responded quietly, leading the way past the font to the church’s famous west window, where the young people clustered round him, emitting exclamations of approval. But it was a wonderful sight, a Gothic arch, its stained glass divided into sections by vertical shafts and tracery of stone.

  ‘Why, it’s beautiful,’ Hettie said, as if she was seeing it – really seeing it – for the very first time.

  ‘You’ve only just noticed?’ the kindly old cleric remonstrated, unable to keep the hint of reproof from his voice. His face alive with a sudden enthusiasm, he stood gazing up at it as if he too was seeing it for the first time. ‘Church windows of the period were mostly thematic,’ he mused. ‘Stained glass as an art form was used to educate a largely illiterate population. The technique itself was developed in Saxon times. . . .’

  ‘And these folk depicted were actually Saxon kings?’ Lewis asked, sounding impressed.

  Lawrence Payne nodded. ‘Egbert, King of Wessex, Alfred the Great, Edward the Elder. . . . And here is your Edmund . . . Edmund the Magnificent, born in 922, a canny statesman as well as warrior king.’ He indicated a pane of glass, three rows down the perpendicular, of a particularly striking and vibrant hue, depicting a fair-haired youth on whose head a jewelled crown sat easily, his hand extended towards a young girl with luxurious golden hair, kneeling at his feet and gazing up at him in clear adoration.

  ‘Queen Elgiva?’ Bill whispered.

  ‘Mother of Edmund’s sons, Edwig All Fair and St Edgar the Peacemaker,’ the vicar agreed, amiably. ‘But other than she was a woman of great compassion, we know little about her. Truly, she was an angel and blessed by God. After her death, it was reported many desperately ill folk journeyed to her place of burial, praying to be healed of their complaints, many successfully, it has to be said. In some places, she’s still revered as a saint. . . .’

  ‘Gosh,’ Hettie muttered, impressed.

  He shot her a curious glance. ‘You seem interested, Hettie?’

  This dear old man didn’t know the half of it and it was about time she told him. Quickly, as succinctly as she could, she told him again about Leon’s captivating tale and her unshakeable belief in Aelric and the riddle in the secret passageway, surely verifying its existence.

  The vicar’s bony fingers clasped together. ‘Your mother’s told me about the riddle, too,’ he said, sonorously. ‘She’s also told me she’s worried about you, Hettie. . . .’

  ‘Well I can assure you, she’s no need, vicar,’ she declared, loftily.

  He was amused. ‘Why don’t I come up to the hall and take a look?’ he proffered.

  He could do no more, even Hettie had to admit, but at that moment, the church door opened and a man appeared, walking quickly towards them. Instantly, Hettie’s hackles rose.

  ‘Chief Inspector Digby,’ she said, coldly.

  Ignoring her, the inspector’s gaze settled on Lewis, who paled visibly. ‘Well, well, Lewis Steed, we meet up at last,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You come along to the station with me, young man. I’ve some questions wanting answers to and they’d better be good ’uns, or you’re in a whole heap of trouble, I’ll tell you that now!’

  Halting the tractor outside the gate leading to the gypsies’ encampment, Freddie Hamilton leapt down nimbly, his nostrils at once assailed by the sweet aroma of burning cedar, telling him that not only had the blighters helped themselves to a once productive patch of land, but in addition, were now helping themselves to wood from the trees at the bottom of it, too. Something about the scene before him, however, rested easily on his gaze, quickly quenching his resentment. He came to a halt, resting his arms on the gate to look down at the women sitting around the campfire against the backdrop of the brightly coloured vardoes. They were chatting, peeling vegetables and throwing them into the steaming pot as a plume of blue-grey smoke rose lazily into a crisp blue sky. It was the sort of autumnal morning the farmer had always loved. Children ran, unkempt and carefree, laughing and hollering, whilst mongrel dogs, weaving in between the melee, barked frenziedly, announcing his arrival; and yet the whole picture was pervaded with such an atmosphere of peace and contentment, Freddie was more attracted to it than he could ever have believed. Had these people got it right? This was the way life should be lived? Who was he to say ought against them!

  A tall, white-haired figure detached himself from a group of men standing idly by and, stretching out a hand of greeting, glided swiftly towards him.

  ‘Farmer Hamilton! You’re welcome here,’ Leon said.

  Freddie suppressed a wry smile. Aye, welcome on his own land and he supposed he ought
to be grateful for it, too. The gypsy leader’s gaze rested on him thoughtfully.

  ‘Is Ursula . . . Mrs Hamilton alright? She appeared upset yesterday,’ he prompted.

  Freddie winced. Somehow he’d got Ursula away from the encampment before her overwhelming disappointment at the appearance of Porter, Maisie May’s father, had seen her break down completely. Leon unsurprisingly had noticed it too. Freddie sensed this man missed nothing of importance.

  ‘She’ll be alright, given time,’ he said, not troubling to deny it and filled with an unaccountable desire to unburden himself. As if this strange, proud man would understand the trouble he and Ursula were going through and would be able to help them. ‘How’s Maisie May?’ he asked, removing temptation and quickly changing subject. ‘You must be relieved her father’s returned to look after her?’

  ‘I’d long since given up hope of it,’ Leon agreed.

  ‘But he’s back for good now? He will care for her properly?’ he demanded, discovering, to his surprise, he needed to know, not just for Ursula but for himself too. He cared about Maisie May. He wanted her to have a good life. To his relief, Leon nodded.

  ‘He was too young when Maisie May was born, he and my daughter both,’ he replied. ‘My unfortunate daughter died giving birth. The poor young man was distraught. Grief makes us do wrong things but at least he’s finally owned up to his responsibilities. There’s much truth in the maxim, blood’s thicker than water. He will make a good and loving father to Maisie, I think.’

  One look at the old man’s benign countenance verified the truth of this and instantly, Freddie relaxed. ‘You look as if you’ve made your home here,’ he said, finding, oddly, a thing once unbelievable, he was resigned to the gypsies’ presence here. Leon glanced quickly back across the field, towards the turrets and battlements of Loxley rising so proudly into the sky. His next words surprised his visitor more than anything he’d said so far.

  ‘Our time here is nearly done,’ he murmured, his gaze narrowing. ‘Mayhap you’ll miss us when we’re gone. You’re a busy man, Farmer Hamilton, but make sure and find time for that wife of yours.’ It appeared the interview was over. With a quick smile of farewell, Leon returned to his men.

  From anyone else, such a rebuke would have brought a sharp retort tumbling to Freddie’s lips but oddly he knew the gypsy leader could say far worse to him and he would still demur. Deep in thought, he returned to his tractor and climbed aboard. The old man was right, in any case. He couldn’t argue. He hadn’t been there for Ursula when he should have been, something he cursed himself for now. He drove back to the farm, jumping quickly down and heading straight for the kitchen, so great was his sudden and urgent need to see Ursula and tell her. . . . What exactly? That he loved her? That everything would be alright so long as they worked through this together? She knew that already.

  She stood at the table pummelling dough, stopping to brush a weight of hair from her face with the back of a floured hand, losing herself in work because, as she’d told him at breakfast, no matter how bad they felt, they mustn’t give in to this. Something about the sight of her as he came through the door caused his heart to lurch. He drew to a halt in front of her, searching her face for any sign she’d meant what she’d said earlier, that in an odd kind of way, Porter’s return had brought things to a head. . . .

  ‘Ursula, you really are alright about Maisie May, aren’t you?’ he asked.

  ‘Shouldn’t I be?’ she returned, shooting him a quizzical glance. ‘Freddie, you must stop worrying about me. I’m fine, really I am. I know yesterday was a huge disappointment but surely it’s better to know? There’s nothing worse than false hope. . . .’

  ‘Leon says Porter will take care of Maisie May. She’ll have a good life.’

  ‘Leon wouldn’t let her go to him otherwise. He loves her too much.’ She nodded, thoughtfully. ‘I’ve been chasing after dreams, Freddie but. . . . No more!’

  At these wise words, a tiny flame of hope sprang up into Freddie’s heart, burning there steadily. Perhaps they didn’t say these things often enough but, if so, he meant to redress the balance.

  ‘I just wanted to tell you, Ursy, I . . . I do love you,’ he said.

  A gleam of the impish humour he’d always known and loved, reminding him of the young girl with whom, all those years ago, he’d first fallen so headlong in love, sprang up into her eyes.

  ‘You’d better or else, Hamilton,’ she murmured softly. That said she leaned across the table to drop a light and floury kiss on his cheek, only to spring back laughing when his natural reaction was to reach out and pull her into his arms.

  Hettie sat drinking tea in the sitting room, meanwhile mulling over the scene with the young police constable she’d earlier harangued over Lewis’s continued incarceration at the police station.

  ‘Sorry, miss. He’s in police custody pending further investigation. Matters of high security,’ he’d muttered belligerently, if from behind the safety of his desk. Given the fact even Reuben’s furious response had been unable to elicit Lewis’s release, it was no more than she should have expected, she conceded miserably. Even worse, on the way out of the police station, she’d bumped into Chief Inspector Digby, whose smugness over what he obviously perceived as case solved had been so odious, she’d simply had to give him a piece of her mind. He’d listened patiently – and then taken not the slightest scrap of notice. Still fuming, she finished her tea, returning her cup and saucer to the side table with such a clatter, her grandmother jumped, nearly out of her chair.

  ‘Really, darling,’ she remonstrated.

  ‘I’m worried about Lewis!’ she wailed, bouncing up from her chair.

  ‘The law will take its own course,’ came the sanguine response, as if Lewis’s arrest mattered not one jot when, despite what everyone said, even Bill, Hettie was absolutely certain he was innocent.

  ‘What evidence have they got?’ she fumed.

  ‘He’s been in trouble with the police before,’ Katherine pointed out. ‘Darling, I know you’re upset. You think this boy is your friend. . . .’

  ‘He is my friend,’ she protested, thinking then how unbearable he’d find it to be locked up and the key thrown away. It wasn’t right. Her grandmother’s expression, meanwhile, had grown worryingly severe. Clearly she was running out of patience.

  ‘It’s good the police have someone for stealing the war committee papers,’ she commented waspishly before biting, with relish, into a buttered scone.

  ‘But surely it has to be the real culprit!’ Hettie responded, indignantly. Vainly, she searched for anything else with which she might obtain her objective, namely persuading this stubborn old woman that she, Hettie, was right. There was a long shot, worth a try. ‘Grandmamma . . . you know the Chief Constable. I mean in a friendly way. Couldn’t you . . . I mean wouldn’t you have a word with him?’ she wheedled.

  ‘I’d never dream of taking advantage of my position. . . .’

  ‘I wasn’t asking that!’

  ‘Weren’t you?’ the old lady countered sweetly.

  It was hopeless. No one would listen. Disconsolate, not sure where to go, nor what to do with herself, Hettie drifted out into the hall. Something was niggling away at her even above and beyond Lewis, bad as that was.

  ‘Are you alright, my dear?’ She looked up, startled to find the Count, intent on the sitting room and tea with her grandmother, watching her curiously.

  She scowled. It was their second encounter of the day. Shocking as had been Lewis’s arrest, her mother had still insisted they show their visitor around the hall, listening carefully the while to his considered opinions on family valuables which, worryingly, had turned out not so valuable after all. ‘No one ever listens to me!’ she moaned, suddenly so miserable she couldn’t care less this man was, to all intents and purposes, a stranger.

  ‘You’re worried about Lewis?’ he commiserated, with a soothing sympathy springing into his gaze, like balm to her soul.

  ‘But you kno
w Lewis, Count! You’ve employed him. You surely never believe him guilty?’

  ‘Of course not, the police have clearly got it wrong,’ the German agreed, hearteningly quickly.

  For the first time, Hettie began to appreciate how much she liked this man.

  ‘You’re the first to say so!’ she responded heatedly. He smiled wanly.

  ‘My dear young lady, you mustn’t trouble yourself,’ he soothed, a glimmer of interest showing in his pale blue eyes. ‘And now. . . . What’s this you’ve been telling me about some fabulous sword, about to make your fortune?’

  He was clearly changing subject to steer her from the worrying subject of Lewis and Hettie flashed him a grateful smile. And then, her expression altered alarmingly as, unasked, the solution to the knotty problem, so painfully niggling away at her since Lewis’s arrest, even before it, she realized now, catapulted into her head.

  The Count might never have spoken, indeed, might never have existed. ‘But that’s it!’ she muttered, if to herself. Unmindful of just how rude this must appear to the Count, whose brows rose in startled surprise, she spun on her heel and headed swiftly outside. The great front door slammed behind her, leaving Loxley rocking in her wake, one thought and one thought alone hammering in her head.

  She had to find Bill.

  She ran all the way down to the village to Bill’s cottage, scarcely waiting for Lizzie, who’d answered her impatient knock, to invite her inside, before rushing rudely past her, through into the small back room where Bill, apparently oblivious to the noise and uproar of his siblings at their varying activities, sat at the table working at his books. He looked up, his expression changing to one of pleasurable surprise.

  ‘Het! I wasn’t expecting you,’ he said, springing up.

  She took a moment to catch her breath. ‘Bill, I know what the riddle means,’ she gasped.