‘He became a very holy man. All the people round about were in awe of him. They said he could work miracles — could heal the sick and make barren women conceive, no matter how old or ill. Then, one day, the angel told him that God wanted him to build a chapel. He must leave Penrhyn Gwyr and walk north across Rhosili sands, towards the Burrows. Crippled though he was, he did so. He built his chapel — ’
‘All by himself? Or did the angel bring a trowel? Lay bricks alongside?’
‘Perhaps he did.’ John Rhys grinned. ‘Anyway, the chapel was built. The holy man became very famous. People came from all over Wales to hear him speak, to ask for his prayers, to beg he would lay his hands upon them. Saint Cenydd, that was his name. The remains of his chapel are there still. I'll show you, if you like.’
‘Saint Cenydd, you say?’
‘That's right.’
‘So his chapel must have been at Llangynnydd. Where we live.’
‘Oh, you're so sharp. Wicked sharp!’ John Rhys laughed. ‘Bright as a new–made pin. Well, at least you've been listening.’
But then he stopped laughing. He took her face between his hands. ‘Lali?’
‘Yes?’
‘When the time comes for the little one to be born, will you be afraid?’
‘Yes. A bit.’ Lalage shrugged. ‘I'm so small. I'm almost bound to tear.’
‘Don't worry.’ John Rhys took her hands in his. ‘There'll be no difficulty, I promise. I'll be with you. I shall deliver the child.’
‘You?’ Lalage stared. ‘What do you know about all that?’
‘A great deal more than you.’ He ran his hands down her sides, then measured her hips in spans. ‘Yes,’ he agreed, ‘you're very small. But you're strong, and you're supple. Your bones will part easily, and let him through. He won't hurt you at all.’
‘Isn't it time we were getting back?’ Lalage looked towards the west. ‘The sun's going down fast. John?’
‘Up you get, then.’ John Rhys picked up his flask. He threw the remains of the picnic to the gulls. ‘Want me to carry you?’
‘No. I can walk.’
They arrived back at the farmhouse to find Bethan in a state. Seeing them approach, she ran down the path to meet them. ‘A message from Mr Atkins!’ she cried. ‘John Rhys, you're to go at once. You're to take your men. All of them!’
* * * *
It was three o'clock in the morning by the time John Rhys finally came home. He walked softly into the bedchamber then, sighing, he sat down on the bed. He drew off his boots, took off his shirt, and groped around for his night attire.
‘I'm not asleep.’ Sitting up in the pitch darkness, Lalage fumbled for flint and tinder. ‘Just a moment, I'll light the lamp.’
‘Let me.’ His eyes more accustomed to darkness than hers were, John Rhys took the tinder box. He lit a candle. He rubbed his eyes, and groaned.
‘Well?’ Lalage looked at him. ‘A good catch?’
‘So–so.’ John Rhys covered his face. ‘We had to kill a couple of excisemen,’ he said.
‘Oh, God.’ Her heart turning over, Lalage stared. ‘Why?’
‘We had no choice. No bloody choice. Oh, Lali!’
‘What happened?’
John Rhys groaned again. ‘We went down to the beach,’ he muttered. ‘The men took the boats into a cave, for unloading. Jack and I stood on the tide–line, discussing fair shares.
‘All of a sudden, there they were. Two of them, armed to the teeth. Pistols drawn, shouting their bloody heads off. God knows how they came to be there.’
‘Someone must have tipped them off.’
‘I'd worked that out, girl.’ John Rhys flashed Lalage a look which shut her mouth like a trap. ‘But who?’ he growled. ‘Who was it? These were men we knew. Fellows Jack Atkins had drunk with, men he'd paid off with gold. When he saw who they were, he went mad. Crazy he was, like a tormented bull.’
‘Did he kill the men? Or did you?’
‘I helped.’ Remembering how smoothly his knife had slid under one man's ribs, John Rhys shuddered. ‘They had no chance, anyway. They were armed, it's true. But there were at least two dozen of us.
‘From the look on their faces when we all went for them, I think they were surprised. They'd expected Jack and me to be alone. They'd taken Jack's money, see, so then they were going to take us. Be heroes, like. Have it all ways.’
‘Oh.’ Bewildered and frightened, Lalage bit her lip. ‘What will you do now?’
‘Lie low for a while. Hope for the best.’ Getting into bed, John Rhys took Lalage in his arms. He buried his face in her hair. ‘Pray,’ he whispered. ‘Pray the English soldiers don't come.’
‘Might they?’
‘I don't know. The last time an exciseman met with an accident, a company of redcoats marched down from Swansea. All the people were rounded up. For days together, cows went unmilked, stock unfed. Strict curfew was imposed, you see.
‘Oh, Lali! Burning, stealing — that was the least of it. They had great big dogs. Terrible creatures, like wolves. At night they were out, with flambeaux, searching. Anyone they found out of doors — ’
‘Don't tell me.’
‘You need to know. They had their fun with the men, but at least they killed them. For the women, it was ten times worse.’
‘You mean they were — ’
‘Yes. That, and more. You've seen Dilys Lloyd? Lives with her brother and his wife, in a cottage by the Burrows? Sits in her window all day, staring out.’
‘You mean the madwoman? Yes, I've seen her.’
‘They caught her. When her father found her, he lost his reason. Died a month after, of a broken heart. Dilys was his darling. Such a sweet, gentle girl. She was out looking for a stray calf, you see.’
‘Poor thing.’
‘Poor thing, indeed.’ John Rhys grimaced. ‘English soldiers! They're scourings of the cess pits, the scum of this earth. I'd cut your throat myself before I let one get near you.’
‘They may not come.’ Lalage rocked him like a child. ‘Even if they do, there's nothing to lead them to us. You said so yourself. Mr Atkins — ’
‘Mr Atkins!’ John Rhys glared. ‘He'd sell his grandmother for ninepence. He'd sell me for a lump of coal. If the redcoats came for him, they'd only have to show him the hot irons. He'd be yelling my name loud enough to be heard in Cardiff! He'd have no — what's the word?’
‘Qualms? Compunction?’
‘Something like that. Well, he wouldn't care what happened to the Morgans. He'd be certain to give me away.’
‘But you've always said — ’
‘He'd definitely betray me. If he were condemned to hang, he'd make quite sure I went with him.’ John Rhys held Lalage close. ‘Just hope for the best, eh? That's all we can do now.’
Chapter 26
More than anything, Rebecca wanted to be living at Easton Hall again, to be settled in good time for the birth of Ellis's heir. It seemed likely she would realise this ambition. The Hall had been a long time rebuilding, but now it was almost complete.
Walking through its newly decorated rooms, she breathed in the delicious smells of drying plaster, new carpentry and fresh paint. Soon, she thought, soon it will all be done.
One sunny afternoon, she went up to the long gallery. Here, she found plasterers putting the finishing touches to its ornately–sculpted ceiling. Coming down from his ladder, the master craftsman told his journeyman to carry on with the job, while he spoke to Mrs Darrow. ‘Well, madam?’ he ventured, as he wiped his floury hands on a cloth. ‘What do you think?’
‘It's beautiful, Mr Lawley. Absolutely lovely.’ Looking up, Rebecca gazed in wonder at the swirls and arabesques which turned and twisted in graceful arcs, leading the eye towards the enormous Tudor rose in the centre of the snow–white confection above her head.
She felt tears in her eyes. The son of God himself had been a craftsman. Now, these two perfectly ordinary men had performed their own miracle. ‘Well done,’ she said, with fee
ling. ‘Very well done indeed.’
As if it were in some way connected with the rebirth of his house, Ellis's own health improved tremendously now. That summer, he began riding again. Mounted on a steady grey, the reins clasped firmly but awkwardly in his left hand, at first he had to take things very slowly. But soon enough he was visiting studs and stables for miles around, evidently on the look out for a high–spirited, mettlesome hunter of the kind he'd always ridden before.
He took as active an interest in the estate as ever. He began to talk of draining, of ditching, of enclosing this bit of heathland in the west or that piece of scrub over to the east. He resumed his duties as magistrate, and local felons started to be more careful, anxious as they were not to come up before him at the quarter sessions.
Good health being more or less restored, he took it for granted. ‘Don't fuss so, Becky,’ he muttered, when she expressed her concern that a persistent cold might well turn to fever — for he would go out on dull, rainy mornings in a light summer coat, rather than a cloak of thick frieze. ‘I can hardly let Robbins think I'm afraid to get wet.’
Rebecca sighed. Recalling that a mere six months ago, Ellis would have been in bed at this hour of the morning, and would not have cared what his land agent thought of him, she let him go. ‘Enjoy your day,’ she said, kissing him. ‘Dear Ellis, please take care.’
‘I always do.’ Ellis picked up his riding crop. ‘Are you going over to the factory today?’
‘Yes, I am.’
‘Well, order the carriage and be off with you.’ Ellis grinned. ‘Go and chivvy your workmen. Order them about. Exhaust yourself, and then perhaps your poor, henpecked husband will get some peace. Simmons! Where is the fellow?’
‘Sir?’ About to slope off for a quiet smoke, the butler came out of the sitting room.
‘There'll be three for dinner. Mr Hatchard, Mr Blackwell and myself. Get up some decent claret. Then tell Mrs Webster to make more of an effort today.’
‘I'm sorry, sir?’
‘You heard me!’ Derisively, Ellis sniffed. ‘That beef we had yesterday was as tough as last year's salt mutton. If the woman can't roast a piece of the best sirloin without ruining it completely, maybe we should look out for another cook.’
‘Sir.’ Simmons slouched off down the corridor. The days of peace and quiet were well and truly over. In good health and spirits once more, his master was every bit as exacting as he'd ever been before his illness. Only the previous morning, he'd complained that some perfectly acceptable coffee was luke–warm.
Going into the kitchen, the butler sat down at the white deal table. Heavily, he sighed.
‘What's the matter, Mr Simmons?’ Twirling a strand of hair back from her forehead, Mrs Webster grinned flirtatiously. ‘What's upset you?’
‘Nothing. Everything.’ Simmons sighed again. ‘Look here, Edith. Mr Darrow and two of the county magistrates will be here for dinner, and the master wants to impress. You'd better get those geese drawn. Concoct a special pudding. Prepare a rack of lamb.’
‘But there isn't time to roast geese!’ The cook wrung her hands. ‘As for the lamb, it was only killed yesterday. It needs at least three days to hang.’
‘Get the geese plucked and in the oven. See that the lamb is pink and tender. Or it'll be the ducking stool for you.’
* * * *
Out in the fresh air, the drizzle fast soaking his clothes but the exercise invigorating and refreshing him, Ellis felt better than he had for years. He was coming out of a nightmare. Out of a black, pain–filled dream which had fogged his vision and stopped him feeling the sunshine.
Seeing his land agent come riding towards him, he kicked Sophie into a canter. His eyes shining, he was as fresh and lively as his mare today. ‘Good morning, Robbins!’ he cried. ‘Well, I think we'll go over to Handley's Ford this forenoon. See how the Morrisons are getting on these days.’
‘Handley's Ford? Bit far for your honour, isn't it?’ Robbins had been drinking heavily the previous evening, and he'd hoped to spend the afternoon asleep before the fire. He was certainly in no fit state to steeplechase across half of Warwickshire, for his head ached and his eyes wanted the rest of the day off.
Now, he scratched his head. ‘Pardon my saying this, sir,’ he began, ‘but don't you think a long ride might tire you? What with your honour having been so ill — ’
‘I was ill, certainly. But I'm quite recovered now.’ The squire looked narrowly at the servant. ‘Not feeling very well yourself today?’ he enquired.
‘On the contrary, sir. I was never better.’
‘Well, then. A good gallop across a nice stretch of open country will suit us both.’
Ellis moved off. Morosely, the land agent followed him.
* * * *
When Ellis returned from Handley's Ford, he found Rebecca standing on the front steps, anxiously looking out for him. ‘I thought you'd gone to Birmingham,’ he began. ‘I — ’
‘I changed my mind. I shall go later this week.’ Rebecca was beside herself. ‘I was speaking to Mr Ferriman just now,’ she said, her eyes sparkling. ‘He says that by Wednesday — well, guess!’
‘All the workmen will be gone?’
‘Yes!’ Rebecca beamed. She clapped her hands. ‘Ellis, your son will be born at Easton Hall!’
‘Mama?’ Having given her nurse the slip, Jane had appeared from nowhere. Tugging at her mother's skirts, she searched Rebecca's face. ‘Are we all going to live in the big house?’ she asked.
‘Of course, my darling.’ Sweeping the child into her arms, Rebecca sat her astride her pregnancy. With a playful forefinger, she rubbed her daughter's little nose. ‘You shall be a princess in a castle,’ she cried. ‘You and Maria will have a school room, a play room, a music room — and the best bedchamber of all. The one with big windows, above the drawing room downstairs.’
‘Yes?’ Jane was thrilled. She hugged Rebecca round the neck. ‘I shall love that!’
‘Why do you give the girls that room?’ asked Ellis, as he and Rebecca walked over to the Hall. ‘Why not put them in the old nurseries? They look out across the garden.’
‘The windows of the great chamber overlook the courtyard.’ Taking Ellis by the hand, Rebecca smiled. ‘They won't be able to climb out. Ellis, my dear, I remember your old stories only too well. I don't want my children scrambling out of their bedrooms windows, crawling off over the tiles. Falling from the roof, and breaking their necks.’
‘Oh, children must be allowed to take risks. How else do they learn?’ Ellis grinned. ‘You let Jane climb trees. Yesterday, she was in the great oak at the bottom of the drive. Her nurse was frantic. I had to threaten her with a whipping before she'd come down.’
‘You'd never whip Jane.’
‘No, of course I wouldn't. But she doesn't know that.’
‘Does she not?’ Rebecca laughed. ‘Look,’ she said. ‘Smoke. They've lit a fire in the drawing room. Let's go and see how it looks.’
They quickened their pace.
* * * *
It was many years since Lalage had climbed a tree, but since the excisemen had been killed she made sure she kept herself fit. If the redcoats came, she might have to run for her life.
The caves with which great stretches of the Gower coast was riddled would provide comparatively safe havens for fugitives. John Rhys had taken her to one of the best hidden, shown her how to make the perilous descent down the cliff to reach it, and arranged for basic provisions and fresh water to be taken there.
But Lalage did not fancy spending time in a damp, spidery cavern. She said so.
‘You have no choice,’ retorted John Rhys. ‘Or rather, your choice will be between certain death and possible salvation.’
‘You exaggerate.’ Lalage tossed her curls. ‘You say things like this just to scare me.’
‘I only wish that were true.’ John Rhys took her by the shoulders. ‘If they take me,’ he said gravely, ‘promise me you'll hide. They'll make sure I suffer. But at
least I'll die peaceful in spirit, if I know you are safe.’
‘But they wouldn't hurt me. I'm English!’ Lalage glared defiance. ‘I'm pregnant, too.’
‘You're the wife of a Welsh criminal. As such, you'll be fair game. The fact you're with child will simply add sauce to the meat.’ John Rhys grimaced, as if in pain. ‘They'll toss you from one to the other. Use you worse than they'd use a penny whore. Then, when they've done with you in that way, they'll kill you slowly. Just for entertainment.’
Lalage shuddered. But then she shook her head. ‘No, they wouldn't,’ she said. ‘Their officers wouldn't let them.’
‘Jesus in heaven!’ John Rhys groaned. ‘Great God and all the saints, their officers would encourage them! Do you know how the Scots were treated, after the ‘45? I shan't tell you. But it's past my understanding how a woman can endure such torments, and still live.’
‘Why are you frightening me like this?’
‘For your own safety. I know what I'm talking about, believe you me.’ John Rhys scowled. ‘To English soldiers, the Welsh, Scots and Irish are animals. Wild beasts, put here on this earth to provide them with sport. So promise me, darling. If I'm arrested, give me your word of honour you'll come here.’
‘Oh, very well.’ Lalage shrugged. ‘I promise.’
* * * *
But the redcoats did not come, after all. A week went by. Then two. Then three. Betty heard a rumour that the traitor had been discovered. That he had been tried, found gulity, and dealt with.
Soon, it was general village gossip that down on Llanrhidian marshes a body had been found. That of a local shepherd, its throat was cut through to the bone. Before that final mercy, however, the man had been flayed.
‘His face was twisted awful, so they say.’ Bethan loved a good story, and now she told Betty all about it. ‘If I'd been him,’ she said, ‘I'd have cut my own throat. Long before they came for me.’ Eloquently, she sniffed. ‘Like I told Mrs Morgan, girl. John Rhys makes a nasty enemy.’
A Green Bay Tree Page 30
