An officer pointed a pistol at them. ‘Drop arms! You are the cause of this, they say.’
‘Not so, sir. It was Lagarde’s boys – look, one of them went for me.’ Zachary showed them the gash in his sleeve, the velvet mushed with blood.
‘No matter, nimble Jack. You are under arrest. You will come with us to the Marshalsea and the magistrate will decide who’s at fault here. You too.’
‘Good sir,’ said Gin Shotterill straight off, ‘I can pay. Here, my purse. I was innocent of blame. You can ask around. He is the one who fought with Lagarde, ask anyone.’
Zachary shook his head. Trust that turncoat Shotterill to blame him.
‘What do you say?’ The officer turned to one of Lagarde’s men who was squinting round the tavern door.
‘Yes. Not him. It was that one.’ He pointed at Zachary. ‘He fight with Monsieur Lagarde. He is the maker of the trouble. See what he has done to my face.’ He touched a finger to a long wound down one cheek, and grimaced.
‘All right,’ said the King’s man, taking Shotterill’s purse. ‘Get out of here.’ Shotterill slipped away like the devil.
‘A thousand thank-yous to you too,’ Zachary yelled after him. ‘Bloody weasel.’
As Zachary was led away the crowd of young men doffed their hats to him. Like him, they knew skill when they saw it and, like him, they had seen too many rash claims and not a one proved in combat. He had lost his rapier, but he held his head up high and saluted with a wave of his buckler, his righteous pride a keener sensation than the gash in his arm.
Chapter 8
‘What is it, Father?’ Elspet said.
His face was marble-white. He came back to the table and supported himself on it as he lowered himself down into the chair, the letter in his hand.
‘Zachary. I thought I did not hear him come in last night. They’ve arrested him.’
‘Are you sure? What for? What does it say?’
‘Your nephew Zachary Deane was arrested last night and has been taken to the Marshalsea. It’s been written by a scrivener, and I can barely make out the signature – looks like Shotterill – whoever he is. Broadbank says the messenger boy ran off before he could question him.’
‘You don’t think—’
‘I don’t know what to think. But I must go there directly.’ He scraped his morning correspondence into a pile and stood up.
‘Finish your meat and bread first, Father.’
‘No.’ He paced the room. ‘If he’s been arrested because of the Faith, then we could all be at risk. Father Everard is with us this week, as you know.’ Agitation had taken hold of him; he screwed up his napkin between his fingers. ‘What if they saw us coming out of Bainbridge’s? It could all be my doing. Martha, the shutters!’
Martha hurried over and closed them sharply against the day.
‘Go and tell Father Everard to go to another safe house. Anywhere but here or Bainbridge’s. And put everything into the priest hole,’ he said. ‘Quickly now. Martha, tell Broadbank to saddle my horse.’
Father hurried out into the hall, his sleeves still flapping as he hadn’t had time to fasten them. A few moments later, she heard the sound of his boots and caught a glimpse of him as he bundled his cloak around his shoulders. The dogs barked in the hall at the sound of the door opening, and he shouted, ‘Get back, Jakes! Leave it.’ There was a yelp, then silence once more descended on the house.
Elspet hastened to Fr Everard’s chamber and knocked hard on the door. The priest opened it, and she began breathlessly, ‘My father says—’
‘Oh no. Again?’ Fr Everard’s face fell.
She shook her head. ‘I’m afraid so. My cousin Zachary’s been arrested and we don’t know why. Best to be safe. Is there somewhere you can go? Not Bainbridge’s, though.’
‘I suppose I must try Lady Gawthorpe.’
‘Here, I’ll help you.’ The poor man had not even broken his fast and already he was stuffing his tracts and papers into the panniers that stood waiting by the door. By the time he had taken his travelling cloak from the peg, Broadbank had appeared to help him lug everything downstairs.
‘Oh, what a day for it,’ Fr Everard said, glancing out at the sheeting rain. ‘I’ve never known such a wet spring.’
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, and embraced him. ‘I’ll miss our lessons whilst you’re gone.’
‘And I.’
‘I hope you will be back with us soon. Father will write to you at Gawthorpe Hall.’
‘My prayers are with your father, and with your cousin,’ Fr Everard said, bowing to her. ‘I hope, for all our sakes, he has a tight tongue.’
Could Zachary be trusted? She did not know. ‘God speed,’ she said as the priest hurried away, ‘and God bless.’ But the priest was holding his hat to his head and did not hear her.
Poor Fr Everard, she thought, always going from hearth to hearth with never a place to call home.
She passed the window on her way down to the cellar steps, and caught sight of the priest’s bowed figure trotting away on his mule, face turned to the side against the rain and wind, one hand still clamped to his hat to stop it blowing off.
Elspet and Martha ran down to the cellar and bundled everything into a basket. She did not have time to fold the altar cloth but just used it to cushion the chalice and the other fragile things. Heaving aside the stone slab that formed the second lintel of the chimney was a struggle, and Martha, being the smaller, squeezed through the narrow gap.
Elspet thrust Martha the gold cross, the statue of the virgin, the candlesticks, and the missal on its cherub-carved stand. In her hurry they had become weights of wood and plaster, metal and paper, not holy things at all. Her heart beat fast as she climbed in with Martha to help her cover everything over with a dust sheet.
Was this all it was, their faith? How could it have become so reduced? From fine stone monasteries and vaulted aisles to a few paltry ornaments stuffed up a chimney?
She felt suddenly suffocated in the tiny space. The priest’s hole was airless and reeked of dusty masonry. She pushed her way out of the gap and into the room, yet when she and Martha shunted the stone slab closed it was as though they were closing the door on their souls.
Martha looked up, like a frightened wren. ‘They’ll not come for us too, will they, mistress?’
Elspet gave a reassurance she did not feel. ‘No, we’ve done nothing wrong. But we don’t know yet what’s afoot. We are taking precautions, that is all.’
‘But what will happen?’
‘Nothing, I hope. No one will have told anyone Father Everard was here, and he will be safe with Lady Gawthorpe. It will be a false alarm and we will all go back to our duties as usual.’
‘But—’
‘Thank you, Martha, you may go.’ The maid bit her lip and hurried away.
Elspet spent the day on the household orders, but was distracted by any little noise and the figures would not come out. Late in the afternoon, the sound of horses alerted her to Father and Zachary trotting into the yard.
‘Thank God,’ she murmured. The dogs barked, and scratched at the door. ‘Only Father,’ she shushed. She picked up Diver to fondle his ears and pulled back the drapes to look out of the window.
Father dismounted and led his horse towards the stable, limping as usual from his old hip injury which had turned aguey. Zachary slid clumsily off Father’s new skittish horse and handed the reins to Broadbank. The horse tried to nip him but Broadbank hauled it away.
She moved away from the window. She had seen enough. Zachary was bruised again and a dirty blood-soaked bandage was tied around his upper arm. He walked as if he was an old man with a limp and stiffness in his joints. A night in the Marshalsea had obviously done him no favours. He did not turn to speak to Father, who was following him.
She bounded down to the hall to take her father’s cloak. By the time she got down, there was no sign of Zachary; he must have gone to his chamber.
‘You look terrible,’ she sa
id, taking her father’s arm.
‘It’s all right,’ Father said, waving away her concern. ‘He was not arrested for the Faith.’
‘Then why?’
‘For fighting.’
She pressed her lips together. ‘I thought as much. Oh, Father. I sent Father Everard away, and now he’s gone to Gawthorpe Hall. He had such a long-suffering face when I told him to go, like a dog put out of doors. And all for nothing.’ She shook her head and hooked an arm in his to lead him to the drawing room where she had bade Martha light a fire.
Father sat before it and his fingers trembled as he unbuttoned his cloak. Obviously coping with Zachary was too much for him. Indignation rose in her. She fetched a glass of port wine and placed it in his hand.
‘It’s not to be tolerated,’ she burst out. ‘He’s had the whole household in turmoil, dreading the worst. Poor Father Everard feared for his life! And all for nothing, just that wastrel, brawling again. He’s running you ragged, Father. Is there no place else he can stay?’
‘No, Elspet. He stays here.’ He would not look at her. ‘He is our kin, and I have a duty. I promised his mother.’
‘Beg pardon, Father, but he takes no thought of you, he sends no message when he’s to be late – he didn’t even apologize when he failed to arrive for the meeting at the Lace Guild the other day. He was brought home half-drunk after a duel. And now he’s locked up for brawling in the street. What will folk think of us?’
‘It was not his fault, it was a Frenchman who started it.’
She let out an exasperated sigh. If he believed that, then he was more of a fool than she thought. ‘What did the arresting officer say?’
‘Nothing. I’ve already said that it was a general affray. Zachary says he was caught up in it, that’s all.’
She felt suddenly as if she were the parent and he the child. ‘You look tired, Father. You wait up for him every night, and he is always well after the watch. Is there perhaps some useful task you could put our cousin to, something for the business? Some education that will keep him occupied of an evening?’
The atmosphere changed in an instant as he snapped back, ‘Do not be impertinent. What do you think? That we should lock him up here and give him a catechism to learn? Fie on you, Elspet. Let that be an end of it. He is settling, that is all, and we must learn to be tolerant. Young men get in the occasional scorching, it’s only natural. Now, leave Zachary to me and go and check that someone has walked those blasted dogs. They are getting out of control.’
She bowed her head and left him. There was no reasoning with him in this stubborn mood. Of course, there was still no word from Zachary himself, not a whisper of apology for the worry and trouble he had caused. Why, even the servants were on edge, thinking the whole household might be clapped in irons. Did Zachary give a fig for all that? Oh no, he was lying in his chambers like a king, sleeping off his ale-head.
A week later, Father called her into his chamber to talk. He had done nothing about Zachary’s behaviour in all that time. Her cousin continued to keep his own erratic hours and have Father run after him like a serving wench. But she was glad she would have the chance to reason with Father once more. It felt good to see his cluttered desk again, his lace-stuffed drawers that would not quite shut, his dusty, rolled parchments poking from overfull chests.
‘I have made a decision,’ he said, once she had sat down. ‘Perhaps I was a little hasty in dismissing your idea of an education for Zachary.’
Elspet clasped her hands in her lap and smiled at him. At last, he had seen sense and realized that she was right after all.
Father wrapped his fur-trimmed robe more closely around him. The fur was frayed at the collar. It made her think of Hugh Bradstone. She repressed the disappointment that he had not asked them to dine in return for their hospitality, even though the thought of that dinner made her grimace with embarrassment. She recalled her clumsy attempts at conversation, and how she had tried to follow her cousin’s ill-conceived advice. It was hardly surprising Hugh Bradstone had not invited her out.
Father cleared his throat. ‘This afternoon I met with my friend Tenter; we had some business to do and met in the Black Swan. He tells me his son is undertaking a Grand Tour. Apparently, it is part of a gentleman’s education these days, to travel a little and see our neighbours and colonies, make contacts and learn other languages.’
Her heart leapt in hope. ‘I, too, have heard people talk of this. So Will Tenter is going on a Grand Tour. Are you going to ask if Zachary may accompany him?’
‘No, Tenter’s son is quite unsuitable company.’ Father looked at her as if she were crazed. ‘He is only a mercer. No, I will send him. Zachary and I will plan the Tour together. He can go to Italy, to Rome. And to Paris, for the Cathedral, and to visit the abbeys and monasteries of France. Perhaps take my greetings to Joan. It will strengthen his faith, round off his rough edges. And he can go to the Low Countries and to Brussels where we barter – it will give him an edge in society, prepare him for his life as a master of trade. And when he returns home to us, he will be more mature.’
She reeled from this list of destinations. Father had always been a bit of a miser. He could not help it. Her mother had always wondered where the money went to, since he paid a pittance to their servants and domestic staff. Now he was employing no tutor but the priest for her Latin and Spanish lessons, yet here he was, planning to spend what must amount to a small fortune on that ne’er-do-well of a cousin.
‘But such a Tour, that will cost you dearly, will it not?’ Her voice was unexpectedly choked.
‘It will be expensive, yes. But I look upon it as an investment, to ensure the future of the business. And was it not your own idea? And a good one too. I have thought it over and you are right, my dear. All he needs is a little education.’
‘But not this!’ she burst out. ‘Not this, where he is rewarded with such an undeserved gift. I meant something where he would work hard, be of some use!’
‘He will work hard. He will be working for me.’
‘But you will not be there, Father. You will not be there to see how he spends your coin gambling, whoring and fighting.’
‘Enough.’ He stood, and she knew with horror that she had overstepped the mark. It was as if everything was happening very slowly, time’s wheel had stopped spinning. His tone turned icy. ‘I will not hear such words from your lips. You disappoint me. I thought that I had raised an obedient and mannerly daughter. Would you had listened better during your own education; it might have made you less mean-tempered.’
She retracted immediately. ‘Beg pardon, Father, I spoke out of turn.’ She waited, pulling on the lace of her cuffs, but he drew himself upright and turned his back deliberately to her. Slowly he took down a ledger from his shelf. She tried again, ‘I am sorry. It was unforgivable. I spoke in anger, without thought. I apologize.’
She agonized for a few more minutes, but his back was still a wall between them and the bristling atmosphere remained, like a ditch of pikes. After a little while longer there was nothing to do but to tiptoe away. She closed the door. He did not call after her.
Of course, Zachary was like the cock of the roost when Father told him. He smiled fit to crack his cheeks. It gave her a tight feeling in her chest to see her father’s evident delight in his pleasure.
‘Will you have me bring my embroidery down so we can sit together, Father?’ she asked him, for they had barely exchanged two words since Zachary came out of the Marshalsea, and she wanted to try to reason with him again.
‘Not tonight,’ he said. ‘Finish your embroidery. I want to begin working out the best route through the cities of Normandy. Zachary will want to see the cathedrals. He will be leaving in less than a month and we still have so much preparation to do.’
She almost laughed. It was not Zachary who wanted to see those cathedrals, but Father. She would stake her life on it. Thank the Lord her cousin would soon be gone. By all that was holy, she could not wait for that day
.
Over the next week, Father was like a man possessed, plotting with Zachary in his study, the heat of his enthusiasm perspiring on his brow. She kept her distance, but it was sad to see him living vicariously through Zachary, as though he could reclaim his youth just by being in the same room and rubbing shoulders with him.
And she could not help but note Zachary’s barely disguised boredom when Father began one of his little lectures. Father loved to instruct, and make long soliloquies on the discourses of Greek philosophers, the science of the Italians and the great printworkers and bookbinders of Europe. And his passion was re-doubled now that he could talk of the architecture and cities where these men lived.
But still, she could not feel sorry for Zachary, however hard she tried. She’d lost track of how often he had kept them hungry. She was sure that when he was supposed to be trading for her father he was up to no good – the cuts in his clothes, his air of false nonchalance that told her he had been out with his good-for-nothing friends, not doing Father’s business as he would have had them believe.
She was driven to distraction by their maps and papers, their talk of Paris and Antwerp and Cadiz. The board in the dining hall had a hand-penned map spread out in four sections, showing the pilgrimage routes of France and Spain. Next to it sat an itinerary in Father’s tight hand detailing sea passages and coach stages, and the names of his business contacts.
Once, when the pair of them went out to the offices and the warehouses, she creaked open the great-hall door and went in to pore over their plans, to trace the routes with her finger on the map. She felt the raised ink where her father had scratched the route, and she recited the foreign names to herself. It was a kind of torture, like rubbing a wound, to put her finger on all the places she would never see, yet she could not help herself.
It was unfair. She opened Father’s ledger, and read out the long list of names like an incantation. Magical places, places she had heard of from the Spanish priest who had spent a long time living with them when she was a child. Father Pelé – she remembered his way of chanting Latin with his eyes upturned towards the heavens, his feet rocking slightly on to his heels. And his tales of the other Roman Catholic countries where the great feasts still took place under the stars on warm, balmy nights.
A Divided Inheritance Page 9
