by Deryn Lake
The saddling done she led the horse out by the bridle. For fear of too much noise she would not mount till they reached the grass where a conveniently situated block assisted her. And then she was off, galloping through Sutton Forest in a dawn that rent the sky with a finger of saffron and spice. And with each shard of light her heart lifted, for would not all this be hers one day — the forest and its creatures, the farms and buildings and, above all, her beloved Sutton Place? And was she not, at fifteen, already the toast of the county? Every head had turned when she had walked into Sibella’s wedding feast and swept off her feathered hat to reveal the bountiful silver hair and the wild-violet eyes. And somewhere an unknown voice had called out, ‘Here comes the Beauty,’ the others had taken up the cry and she had turned, smiling to find a hundred goblets and more raised to her — Melior Mary, daughter of John Weston and heiress to the finest estate in Surrey.
The forest was thinning a little and she realized that in the darkness she had headed her horse towards the old well of St Edward and the ruined manor house within whose boundaries it lay. She had never really liked the spot, seeming to her, as it did, too quiet and still. And this morning it had a coldness about it at odds with the fine summer sunrise. To her left the ruins reared black and stark against a sky that now glowed with a tinge of crimson and she caught herself thinking how many of them there were, how she had never realized before how well the building was preserved. In fact, if she narrowed her eyes, she could almost see it as it would have been centuries ago, before it was abandoned and fell into decay.
The sound of thundering hooves behind her made her jump and Fiddle reared in terror as a grey horse ridden by a dark crouching figure seemed to come upon them from nowhere. They passed her by so closely that she could hear the man’s breathing but his face remained hidden beneath the cowl of his cloak. Startled, Melior Mary reined in, and then a curiosity overcame her and she urged her reluctant mount on in pursuit, for the man was on her father’s property and had vanished, apparently, into the ruins.
‘Ho there,’ she called out after him, ‘may I speak with you, sir?’
But there was no reply. Nor was there any sound except for Fiddle’s snorting breath and the sudden laboured beating of her own heart. And then, at the entrance of what must have been the old courtyard when the house was first built in the reign of King John — brother of the Lionheart — the horse refused. He simply put down his head and stopped dead in his tracks and no amount of cajoling or threats would shift him. Melior Mary had no alternative but to dismount and leave him, motionless where he stood.
The glow of morning once again gave the old dead stones the appearance of life. It seemed almost that a fire was roaring somewhere and that a young suckling pig turned on a spit above it. So real was the illusion that the smell of fresh sizzling pork apparently wafted in the air. And then as Melior Mary stood there, sniffing a scent that she knew could not be in reality, she saw the man again. He stood with his back to her, his cloak — which fell from his shoulders to the ground — giving him a disembodied look, etched black as he was against the rising sun.
‘Good morning, sir,’ she called out, mastering the fear that suddenly came upon her, turning her blood to ice.
He did not move an inch and she was forced to take a couple of faltering steps forward and then, so suddenly that she almost died of fright, he wheeled round and she found herself looking into a face that she would never forget. Hawk-like were the features; a sharp strong nose, fierce dark eyes, a mouth that would give no man mercy. His cowl had fallen back and she saw that he wore a strange hat, flat to his head like a beret, the only ornamentation on which was a dark red brooch. On his hands were massive leather gloves and, as if to echo his appearance, a hooded bird of prey perched upon his wrist, turning its head in a series of jerks to the sound of her voice.
‘Yes?’ was all he said.
She had never been so unnerved. He did not move a muscle in his face or body but just stood there, dark and forbidding, waiting for her to say something. The sound caught in her throat as she tried to speak again and nothing came out. Melior Mary was paralysed with terror.
‘I...I...’ she stuttered.
‘Yes?’
That same monosyllable again, as if it were the only word he knew.
‘I am Melior Mary Weston,’ she managed eventually in a voice that came out as a rasping whisper.
Still he did not move but regarded her with those frightening eyes.
‘Gilbert Bassett.’
She knew that she should drop a curtsey, acknowledge the introduction, but still the ice of fear was in her veins. He was waiting for her to say something more but she could do nothing but stand like a dumb man at a freak show, her teeth chattering with terror, her knees useless beneath her.
Finally he said, ‘Well?’
‘I...I’ve come from Sutton Place.’
Her voice bounced back at her off the stone walls. ‘Where?’
‘Sutton Place — the big house.’
He looked at her uncomprehendingly and she thought that he must be a total stranger indeed, for everyone for miles around had heard of her father’s mansion. At last he said a sentence and his voice was curious — English but with an odd way of pronouncing his words.
‘Are you looking for Godrun?’
Now it was her turn not to understand.
‘Who?’
His voice was irritable, his manner suddenly sharp, but still he kept that same unnerving moveless stance.
‘My wife. She was brought to bed of a child last night.’
Her lips formed themselves into meaningless words of congratulation but he silenced her.
‘It’s dead. The midwife crushed its skull. It was a question of saving the mother or the child. And a woman can bear more children.’
There was an almost imperceptible shrug of his shoulders and Melior Mary wondered if he could really be as unfeeling as he pretended or if he masked some deeper emotion with his harshness.
A wind had come up and was freezing her to the bones as he said, ‘Then who are you that rides before dawn? What is your business here?’
Her immediate reaction to put him in his place was totally suppressed by her dread.
‘I am John Weston’s daughter. From Sutton Place.’ He still looked at her as if she were speaking another language so she added, ‘From the manor house.’
The ferocious eyes glared at her.
‘Don’t play with me, woman. You are not from here!’
‘But I am, I am,’ she answered, near to tears. ‘My father is Lord of the Manor.’
He drew in his breath with a hiss and at last he took a pace forward, raising his free arm as if he would smite her.
‘I’ll have no more of your tricks. Get hence before I have you flogged.’
‘But what have I done?’
‘You have mocked me as my wife lies within a thread of her life. For I am he whom you claim your father to be. I am the Lord of the Manor.’
And then it appeared to Melior Mary that the earth was opening up to let her fall in because as he stood there before her she realised that his cloak, which had seemed so dark and so all enveloping, was as thin as tissue and that through it she could see the outline of the wall behind him.
The scream was on her lips as he took one more menacing step in her direction and at last her limbs were free of the catalepsy. She turned and it seemed that she jumped to where her horse stood, for she had no recollection afterwards of her feet touching the earth. Somehow she clambered up into the side-saddle and with a wild shout headed the animal for home.
Behind her she could hear the noise of him leaping onto his mount, followed by the terrifying plunging of hooves as he started in pursuit. And it was only in Sutton Forest that the nightmare chase ended, for somewhere in that maze of trees the sound of the pounding horse died away and she, exhausted and weeping, at last caught her first glimpse of Sutton Place.
*
As the cry of ‘l
and’ rang out over Joseph Gage’s principal trading vessel, he and Sibella came once more onto the deck and, in the brightness of that halcyon day, saw the outline of the French coast and the town of Calais — once the fortified citadel of Henry VIII and his Court — reflecting in the afternoon sun. Sibella, who had never left England before, was agog for not only was this foreign soil but was also the place in which Matthew Banister had been born. Somewhere amongst all those houses, dwarfed at present to a blur, lay the very cottage or villa or even, perhaps, mansion where the infant’s first cry had heralded his arrival. And though she would have liked to speak of this to Joseph she had learned better.
She had changed, at her bridegroom’s request, into a travelling dress of brocade and he — slightly to her consternation — was now adorned in a full-skirted coat of the lightest pink, heavily laced with lilac threads; a rose-coloured waistcoat bearing embroidered flowers; shoes with very high red heels; and a cravat in which was placed a large and twinkling diamond. To crown the effect he had tied ribbons of matching pink upon his walking cane.
After a few moments of silent contemplation Sibella said, ‘Joseph, your ensemble gives the wrong impression of you.’
He turned an amused face towards her and said, ‘Oh? What impression would that be, my dear?’
She hesitated, too young to be subtle, too old to come out with what she was really thinking.
‘Well?’
‘It makes you seem womanish, too pretty and mincing,’ she said at last.
‘You think so?’
He raised his lorgnette and peered carefully at his waistcoat and breeches.
‘Yes I do. I would not like the French to think you a flip-flap.’
Joseph laughed.
‘Do you think of me as one?’
Sibella’s response was immediate.
‘You know I do not.’
‘Then, my darling, I care nothing for what the rest of the world imagines. They may think me as dainty as a powder puff if it pleases them.’
‘But I would not like it said that I was married to such.’
Joseph’s smile disappeared, and with a firm hand suddenly under her elbow he was propelling her back to the cabin saying, ‘There is something you must know. It is only fair that I tell you everything.’
Sibella gazed at him anxiously.
‘You are not a...?’
‘No. I am not. Sibella, does it occur to you that in Europe I dress more — daringly, is that the word? — for a particular reason?’
She looked at him blankly.
‘I see that you have not considered it. Well, to come straight to the point there is a purpose. It is simply that I wish to appear the grand fop, the fool with scarce two twopenny wits to rub together.’
‘But why?’
His whole demeanour had changed; within that pink coat dwelled a man as tough as leather.
‘Because I am a spy.’
Sibella was so astonished that she could not utter a word.
‘An agent for James III, my darling. I should have told you before — you have married an active Jacobite.’
Sibella found her voice.
‘But you are often at Court — an associate of King George!’
Joseph’s eyes twinkled.
‘I am what some would term a traitor. King George’s Court regard me as a harmless, rather eccentric, man of wealth, and then I cross the Channel where I am regarded as a man of dubious inclinations. My real purpose is to pass on information to the Court of King James.’
‘And is it my role to play the child wife of this monstrous dandy who flaunts himself in all the capital cities of Europe?’
‘Just so. And you will forget our conversation if you are loyal to me. Not a word to anyone of it, not even Melior Mary or...’ His voice took on a harsh note, ‘...or your beloved Brother Hyacinth.’
She would have liked to say then that he need never worry again, that he — Joseph — with his strange sweet courage and wild kind ways, was everything to her. But the words died on her lips. Always, gnawing at her contentment like a cancer, was the fact that Matthew Banister lived and breathed. And she knew that as long as they both walked the earth there would never be any true and lasting happiness for her.
*
In the sudden chill of the roseate sunset that ended that strange June day, Brother Hyacinth saddled up Ranter, the strawberry mare that had been assigned to him by John Weston, and headed for the ruined manor house that lay within the limits of the Manor of Sutton. Even before he had risen that morning, just as he was stepping from his bed, Melior Mary had burst into his room like a fury and wept where she stood. It was so foreign to her nature, so strange to see Elizabeth’s capricious daughter humbled in any way, that he had taken her in his arms.
‘What ails you, sweetheart? You’re trembling like a hare.’
The strange tale had come out in frightened whispers and as he listened Matthew had felt his spine prick with terror and the scalp seethe upon his head.
‘So someone’s a-walking there?’
‘He said his name — Gilbert Bassett. He’s dead — and yet he looked at me with his fierce hawk eyes.’
‘They have always been strange — the ruins and the well. Sibella...’ his voice was suddenly too casual, ‘...she was frightened of the place.’
As if this reminded her of something Melior Mary suddenly thrust her hands forward. ‘Hyacinth, can you read palms? Tell me if I will ever get my heart’s wish — if you and I will be married and run Sutton Place together.’ He laughed without humour. Matthew’s jaw — the only mar to his looks — grew set.
‘And is that what you really want? To be saddled with a bastard for a husband? A man with no name and no money save that which he earns as your father’s secretary.’
Her eyes deepened to purple and Melior Mary took him by the shoulders.
‘If I cannot have you, Hyacinth, then I shall have no-one. I would rather decay to rot in spinsterhood.’
For answer he pulled her hands into his. A whirring sound was already beginning to throb in his eardrums, the walls of the room pulsating in rhythm with his heartbeat.
‘It frightens me — this magic,’ he whispered.
‘I knew you possessed it.’
‘How?’
‘You have a look of Sibella sometimes.’
But her voice was far away for — beneath Hyacinth’s feet — the room was changing and he, for the first time in his experience, was out of his body. He stood, seeing but unseen, in the midst of a great group of men and realized from their cockaded bonnets, their roughspun kilts and fearsome two-handed swords that they were clansmen of Scotland. Bright red stripes crossed by four green and one yellow was the tartan in the sunshine; and a thousand voices were raised as a banner of white silk with a crimson surround suddenly floated free in the Highland air. A legion of swords flashed up in salute, the pipes skirled a greeting and a great cry of ‘Prionnsa Tearlach’ seemed to sweep over the lochs and rumble in the foothills of the mountains. In the distance a solitary figure clad in scarlet breeches and waistcoat snatched off his yellow bobbed bonnet in acknowledgement. Who he was or what the occasion signified Hyacinth had no idea. But he knew one thing, he was seeing so far into the future that this man was not even born.
He dropped her hands. He was back in his own room and she was gazing at him with frightened eyes.
‘Hyacinth, I thought you were dead upon your feet! Your soul seemed gone for a moment or two.’
‘It was.’
‘Where?’
‘That I cannot tell you.’
‘And did you see my future?’
‘I think you have the power to become a Princess if you so choose.’
She gazed at him in amazement.
‘But that can never be. I am quite determined upon you.’
He smiled sadly and her hot wild blood rose in her.
She had made an exasperated noise, thrown her riding crop upon the ground and swept from his presenc
e in a fury. But long after she had gone Hyacinth had stood stock still gazing at the open door and wondering how future events would fall into place and what role, in the play of Kings and Princes, was destined for Prionnsa Tearlach.
Yet now, with his horse slowing beneath him and the ruins of the ancient manor house coming into view, his mind was completely on the present and what lay waiting for him amongst the rapidly lengthening shadows. He had gone, that very afternoon, to John Weston’s library and there — hidden amongst all the old and precious documents — he had found the key to Gilbert Bassett’s haunting. It was the anniversary by date of the man’s death. Over five hundred years before when King John Plantagenet — he who had signed the Magna Carta — had bestrode the throne of England and the thirteenth century had been but a mere babe-in-arms, on this day, Gilbert Bassett had ridden to his death.
In his mind Hyacinth could see the great falcon sweep up from the leather gauntlet, could imagine the craning of his neck as Bassett watched it beat its wings against the glow of the sun; could almost feel the sudden rearing of the horse, startled by a yapping hound, and sense the catapult into oblivion. And then — was God turning his back? — the milk-sucking babe, the third that the Lady of Sutton had produced but the first to survive its birth, puking and choking in its crib and growing white as wax, even as the messenger’s feet ran the flagstones to tell her the other news. Hyacinth shivered. It must have been too much for her to bear. Had she run demented from her child-bed into the forest and thrown herself down in the green darkness to scream out her anguish? Or had she turned her face to the wall and accepted her cruel fate? No-one would ever know. Only the silent stones that rose before him so enigmatically had witnessed what actually took place.
It was with a sense of fear that he realized that, from a walking pace, his horse had now actually come to a halt. He looked down and saw by the carriage of its head and the pricking of its ears that something, somewhere, was moving. And then he realized what it was. From out of the ruins, soaring in an arc of power, a falcon rose into the air and fluttered, seemingly, above his head. With a sound of terror Hyacinth’s mount bolted, shaking him out of the saddle and up onto its fore-quarters, his arms clinging to its neck. And then — just as Melior Mary had described — he too heard the beat of hooves behind him and knew that Gilbert Bassett had stepped through time and was reliving that last terrible hour when he had gone to hunt and had himself been the quarry.
