by Deryn Lake
And then they both saw it together. Practically hidden by the long grass but glinting beneath the orb of the looming winter sun, was a frozen circle of water. Round, and as light a blue as a blinded eye, it lay hard with ice beneath the gathering snow.
‘What is it?’ said Sibella.
‘It must be a disused well.’
‘Used it to serve the hunting lodge?’
‘Centuries ago.’
‘It frightens me.’
For reply Hyacinth put his hand upon her arm.
They were alone in all that wilderness, nothing about them but the virgin trees and the huge, sickly sun amongst the falling flakes. And it was then that a part of his brain, not subject to his consciousness, told him that he knew her, that she had constantly been his friend through many journeys.
‘Who are you?’ he said.
But she just smiled and answered, ‘You know who I am.’
To lean forward in his saddle and salute her with a kiss was as natural to him as breathing. Yet the kiss was not that of a lover, nor yet that of a brother, but somewhere in between the two. And as they kissed, cheek upon cheek, eye close to eye, lip loving lip, the meaning of their lives became fused forever.
*
The arrival of Sootface — black as a rook against the falling snow — told Elizabeth that, much as she had hoped, her brother would be in residence for Christmas. And sure enough, a few minutes behind the Negro — who ran barefoot in the coldness — Joseph’s carriage slid softly, wheels muffled by the drifting white, into the welcome enclosure of the quadrangle. After him, as always, came two carriages, laden with gifts, and he strode through the Middle Enter and stood, looking about him, for all the world like a merchant of the East.
At his feet were heaped sweet-scented woods from the Lebanon, musks and spices from Araby and bales of cloth from Damascus; to say nothing of jewel caskets, boxes, sea chests, strangely shaped parcels, baskets of fruit and cartons of sweetmeat and marchpane. And he himself, without saying a word, was walking evidence of his year-long voyage, for his velvet coat and breeches had been stitched in Russia, his leather boots worked in Poland, his cloak handmade from the sumptuous furs that had had their origin in the traps of the American Colonies. And, even more exotically still, his shirt shone with the silk of Thailand, his sapphire-strewn waistcoat hailed from Cathay and the cascading lace at his chin from Valenciennes.
Yet for all that, for all the wealth he carried upon him, for all his assurance and brilliance, his eyes were nervous as he waited for his first glimpse of Sibella. And there she was! Without any warning, crossing the Great Hall still in her riding habit, and beside her a young man with eyes blue as a springtime wood and hair as red as embers. Without knowing precisely why Joseph sensed danger, sensed that here was his downfall personified, and something about the very stiffening of his back must have alerted Sootface, for the blackman’s hand went silently to the emerald-bright dagger that hung, curved and wicked, from his silken belt.
Sibella stopped in surprise.
‘Why Uncle Joseph! We had hoped that you would be here — but had no idea as to when or if at all.’
He bowed and Sootface relaxed his hold on the knife. ‘Miss Hart,’ Joseph said. ‘You have grown up.’
With his eyes he asked her a million questions, but she chose to ignore the replies, and he knew that his suspicions were correct. That the love he had laid at her feet when she was a child was under attack from the young man, who had saluted him politely and introduced himself as Matthew Banister. With the speed of decision that favours those who win the game of life Joseph knew immediately what he must do.
‘And am I to be treated differently because of it?’ she said, half jokingly.
‘Yes,’ Joseph answered evenly, ‘quite, quite differently.’
But there was no time for any more for, from upstairs, came the sound of laughter and the sight of Elizabeth, plump as a partridge and rounding nicely to a child, met Joseph’s astonished gaze. Holding her arm and doting with love John walked beside her. And, as if she knew that a family party was foregathering in the Great Hall, Melior Mary flung open the Middle Enter and stood, a veritable snow maiden with flakes on her eyelashes and cheeks.
‘Why, Uncle Joseph,’ she said, ‘what are you doing here?’
Joseph looked about him aware that he had the undivided attention of everyone present. Then slowly he moved to where John stood on the bottom stair and made an elaborate bow. There was a moment’s silence as everyone gazed in amazement and then, sweeping his eyes round till they finally came to rest on Sibella, he said in a quiet but extremely clear voice, ‘Sir, I have come to ask you for the hand of your ward — in marriage.’
8
In the silence of his small room in the stable block Hyacinth woke and instantly knew fear. It seemed to him in the hazy blur that was all his poor eyesight allowed, that something moved in the far corner of the room. He peered and for a second saw quite distinctly what it was. A funny crinkled face with hair cut as round as a basin was looking at him and shaking its head as if to say ‘No’.
In one movement he had found his glasses and jumped out of bed, and yet aided by their magnification and a hastily lit candle, he saw that there was nothing. A trick of the moonlight had combined with his half-waking state to produce a weird hallucination. But nonetheless he rose from his bed and, throwing on his shirt and breeches, made a thorough search not only of his own quarters but downstairs in the stables themselves.
And as if to confirm his suspicions Fiddle, black as Hell and capricious to match, was pawing the ground and rolling his eyes whitely whilst Sibella’s mare stood trembling. Only Ranter — Hyacinth’s mount — remained placid in his stall.
Outside the winter moon blazed in a star encrusted sky and the snow sparkled a million points of diamond where the frost lay heavy upon it. Yet, for all the bitter chill, Hyacinth found himself reaching for his fur hat and leather coat and throwing a saddle over his horse’s back. The illusion of that jester’s face, grinning at him yet with a sense of warning, had ruined his repose. And now he wanted to be free in the coldness and think through the hundred and one different emotions that had become his pleasure and torment since he had first arrived at Sutton Place.
Quietly over the cobbles he led Ranter out so that the sleepers in the great house would not be disturbed. But once in the parkland he mounted and went at the gallop over the glittering ground to where the trees grew thick and dense and he felt that he was solitary with his soul.
And then what thoughts came to him. He saw again that lonely boyhood with the Banisters of Calais — who were in some remote and unimportant way connected to him; remembered only too clearly his search through the villages and towns of Europe in a quest for his parentage; recalled the shock of the extraordinary letter from England telling him that Mrs Weston of Sutton Place awaited him. And then, on arrival, learning nothing from Mrs Weston, who, for all her affability and charm, for all her kindness and sweetness of nature, either could not — or would not — give him the answer he sought. Matthew Banister nicknamed Hyacinth, and adopted by the Weston family as if he were one of their own, had no more information now about who he really was than he had on the day he arrived at the mansion house.
And, as if to add to his sense of isolation — for he would have appreciated the wisdom of a father or brother so much at this point — had come the torment of passion. He was not old enough yet to know that love can wear many masks, that it can flow like a mighty river into different tributaries and brooks, that it is never the same thing twice. And because he loved Sibella as one would love a sphinx, cherishing the timeless quality of her, he was riven with guilt because of the fascination which Melior Mary’s beauty held for him.
For some mysterious reason he found he had been walking while he thought, and that he stood on the edge of a thicket. The trees there grew so dense that they leaned one upon the other, and even the infiltrating snow had been unable to penetrate the ground they
covered. Why Hyacinth pushed his way through the tangled mass he never afterwards knew, but push he did, and by dint of much snapping of twigs and squeezing his body through narrow gaps he forced his way in.
And then he stopped short. For lying there was a sad solitary skeleton resting on its back, its gaunt eye sockets turning towards the heavens, its stick arms cushioning its head. That it had died there, hiding itself rather than being hidden, Hyacinth had no doubt. Yet it had not suffered for there was no contortion, the body being as calmly arranged as if it had lain down for an afternoon sleep. How he knew it was a Romany gone back to the wild for his ending he was not sure.
And then he realized that at least one other person had seen this sight before him, for a hand-carved cross of wood was stuck in the ground above the skull and on it there was lettering. Bending low over it Hyacinth was just able to make out the weather-worn inscription — ‘Giles of Guildford sleeps in peace’.
*
It was Twelfth Night, and the great low-roofed barn that had stood on Sir Richard Weston’s estate from the time Sutton Place had been built, was for this one night of the year transformed from its dark guardianship of the hay and was now a veritable palace of noise and splendour and brilliant light, thrown by the motleyest collection of equipment ever seen collected in one place. Rushlight holders vied with brass candlesticks from the cottages and beside these jostled silver candelabra from the big house. And all filled with a selection of candles made from the coarsest homemade tallow to scarlet wax brought from the East.
It was a scene of vivid colour, a brazier of glowing embers throwing its light over the dresses of the farm girls and wives and the flowing gown of Elizabeth, who rested on a chaise specially brought down from Sutton Place. She clapped her hands and tapped her foot to the tune of the fiddler, who sat perched on a stool above the heads of the throng, beading them with drops of sweat as he flung the bow across the strings as if Hell’s host were calling the tune.
Everybody except for the very old and the very young was dancing; stamping and clapping in time and calling out the steps, echoing these shouts with cries of ‘whoops’ and ‘whee’. And every now and then the door would open and the snow would pour in over the dancers as a man would go out to relieve himself or entwined couples would disappear into the bitterness of the night. And on these occasions there would be a glimpse of the white stillness of the home park and the breathless beauty of Sutton Place as it towered above all. But tonight it was ignored for everyone was in the barn, guests of the Lord of the Manor, feeling like kings and dancing like princes.
Against one wall stood trestle tables loaded with food. Pies and puddings crowded mammoth beef sides and giant hams spilled over haunches of game and jugs of hare. Trifles, jellies and custards nestled alongside vast tarts of fruit and great iced cakes lay waiting, white as brides, for the first insertion of the knife. Drink flowed in profusion — ale for the peasants, wine for the gentlemen and gin for those whose stomachs were strong enough. And all the while the fiddler went for his life as the dancers shrieked for tune upon tune.
Joseph, in his shirtsleeves, had removed his wig so that his cropped thick hair shone in the crimson light. He had taken Sibella round the waist and carried her half off her feet as they went skimming breathlessly the length of the barn. Melior Mary meanwhile, with holly berries in her silver hair and a dress of winter green, brought the young men almost to blows as they challenged one another for the honour of dancing with her.
And Hyacinth, galloping valiantly and fast with Old Fat Phyllis stared at them both and, cursing himself, collided with Bridget Clopper so that there were loud peals of laughter and his attention was distracted. So much so that he did not notice when Joseph put on his coat and, helping Sibella into her cloak, stepped outside with her to where the shrill fiddle and the laughter were muffled and the ice glittered on the farmyard stones, and little ponds shone like crystal. Nor did he see that they stepped quietly into Joseph’s carriage, hidden in the shadow waiting and ready to drive them, silently and unnoticed off into the darkness of the trees.
‘You know why I have brought you here?’ Joseph said, as they finally drew to a halt on the edge of Sutton Forest.
And because she had old wisdom and was not a foolish empty-headed girl she simply answered, ‘Yes’ and waited for him to go on.
‘It is because, though John Weston has agreed that you may be my wife, I want to ask you myself. I am thirty-four years old and you are not yet sixteen. Sibella, do you love me? Do you want to marry me? Or has that boy Matthew stolen you from me?’
In the great whiteness of the night every detail of their faces showed. His so worldly and strong-featured, hers so small boned and clear-eyed.
‘Oh I do love you,’ she answered. ‘My love for him is as for a friend, a companion. An eternal one. Do you understand?’
His mouth sought for hers. And to his infinite joy she leaned against him. And though, to him, the mystery of her love for Hyacinth deepened still more Joseph did not give it another thought, merely ordering Sootface to drive deeper into the forest where he, Joseph, might defy the laws of good behaviour and rob her of her virginity — the carriage curtains drawn against the moon — her body carried by his over the final rapturous threshold of womanhood.
*
In the long barn the noise had grown wilder as drink was drained till the mugs stood empty. Elizabeth had long since been escorted back to Sutton Place but Melior Mary still whirled and turned and laughed with everyone but Matthew Banister. Like the Queen of Winter, with her green-forest dress and her holly red wreath, she teased her way amongst the bucolics occasionally allowing one an extra glance, which would set him jostling and pushing to dance with her again. But at last, with the old fiddler slowing his pace and sinking his head upon the bow, she found herself before Hyacinth and bobbed a curtsey in imitation of a farm girl.
‘Well, Brother Hyacinth,’ she said, ‘you find time for me then?’
The vivid eyes flashed.
‘I had thought, Miss, that the boot was in the other stirrup.’
She tossed her head and the silver cloud of hair flew round her face.
‘Well, who’s to argue? Are you going to scowl or shall we dance?’
He had never held her quite so close before and the sensation amazed him. He was at once, from head to foot, on fire.
‘Do you love only me?’ she whispered.
He nodded the halo of curls, speechless.
She pushed him away.
‘Are you struck dumb?’
And turning she started to thread a path between the bounding dancers. A premonition swept Hyacinth as he pushed and heaved his way after her and, at last reaching the coldness of the night outside, heard the thud of hooves. Melior Mary had taken one of the farm horses and had headed off towards Sutton Forest.
*
Very slowly, the curtains still drawn, Joseph’s coach was easing its way through the snow towards Sutton Place. Inside he and Sibella sat together intimately, her head resting upon his shoulder and her eyes closed. She was weary to the bone with her first taste of a man’s love. He could think of nothing but the presents he would shower upon her when she was his wife, for his latest speculations had paid off handsomely and he was amassing another fortune through Mississippi shares. It had once been rumoured that he was richer than Queen Anne, and that had not been true, but now there were even wilder rumours and they were — his fortune equalled that of George I.
Thinking about these things made him say, ‘My darling, I must go away in January to get you a crown. When I return we shall be married and you shall wear it on your wedding day.’
She laughed and kissed his cheek. The musky scent he wore was in her nostrils and she was just thinking how happy her life could be with him when, as if to plague her, there came a sudden beat of hooves and a thunderous knocking on the carriage door.
‘Good Christ!’ said Joseph, and a cocked pistol was suddenly in his hand, seeming to appear from nowh
ere.
Outside they heard Sootface give the cry of ‘Whoa there,’ and heard the four Flemish horses rear and whinny in the traces. The knocking came again and Joseph, springing to his feet, threw open the door and with the same gesture thrust the pistol beneath the very nose of the intruder.
‘One move and I’ll blast your damnable head from your body,’ he said.
But the rider shouted, ‘Don’t shoot. It is I — Matthew Banister. Where is Melior Mary?’
‘I don’t know,’ Joseph answered angrily. ‘Is she not at the party with you?’
‘We disagreed and she rode off somewhere,’ Matthew replied.
‘Then you’re an even bigger fool than I took you for.’
All Joseph’s anger was aroused, his jealousy and resentment combining with the thought of what Hyacinth might have seen had he come upon them a mere ten minutes before.
‘How could you let my niece go off on such a night? If any harm comes to her the fault lies with you. Is this how you abuse my sister’s kindness to a wastrel bastard?’
For answer Hyacinth’s fist shot through the open door and sent Joseph flying onto his back.
‘Take that back.’
Joseph got to his feet.
‘Matthew Banister — I have never liked you.’
And with that his hand too went flying, knocking Hyacinth clean off his horse and crunching into the snow. And not content with that he jumped out of the carriage and stood, fists at the ready, waiting for his assailant to rise that he might knock him down again.
They set about one another, hitting like schoolboys, the blood from their noses dropping like crimson flowers upon the snow. It was Sootface who ended it. Jumping from the coachman’s seat as light as an opera girl for all his great size, he picked up the two combatants by their coat collars — one in each hand — and swung them above the ground like puppets.
‘Enough, Master Joseph,’ he said, ‘and enough from you, sir, who dares quarrel with the greatest man in London. It is Melior Mary who rides out in the darkness. It is she who must be sought.’
