A Green Bay Tree

by Margaret James

  ‘Don't talk now.’ Lalage rubbed her husband's cold hands. ‘We'll get a doctor,’ she declared. ‘I'll send William into Swansea, to fetch the best surgeon there is.’

  ‘He wouldn't go. Nor would anyone else. It's far too risky.’ John Rhys shook his head. ‘Anyway, a surgeon could do nothing for me.’

  ‘Of course he could! If — ’

  ‘Lali, my darling, I've had it.’ John Rhys sighed. ‘Either way, I'm dead. Here, or at a rope's end. So take Owen and Bethan, and get yourself to England. Go now.’ Exhausted by the effort of speaking, John Rhys closed his eyes.

  Lalage let him rest. Taking a cloth, she dabbed ineffectually at his shoulder, trying to staunch the flow of blood from a wound there.

  A minute went by. Two minutes. ‘John?’ Feeling his pulse grow even weaker, Lalage wanted to hear his voice once more. ‘John Rhys? Speak to me!’

  ‘It's no good, Mrs Morgan.’ Touching the farmer's other wrist, William Parry shook his head. ‘You and the boy must get away. You — ’

  ‘Fetch Bethan.’ Lalage stood up. ‘Go and wake Bethan for me, now.’

  ‘But, Mrs Morgan — ’

  ‘I want to see Bethan.’ Lalage scowled at the man. ‘Do as you're told, and get her!’

  * * * *

  Poor Bethan, roused early from her fitful sleep and practically dragged along the country lane, was horrified by the sight in the byre. Seeing Lalage was both hard–faced and dry–eyed, she realised everything the villagers said about her was true. This woman was a witch, a creature from another world, for anyone human would have been weeping. As Bethan wept now.

  As her heartless mistress wrapped her cloak around her shoulders, Bethan frowned. ‘Where are you going?’ she demanded. For the task now, surely, was to lay out the dead. ‘Mrs Morgan? Where are you off to, at this time of the morning?’

  ‘I'm going out. I have a call to pay.’ White–faced, Lalage glared. ‘Bethan? Listen to me. You must take Owen away from here.’

  ‘Away?’ Frowning even harder, Bethan folded her arms. ‘The soldiers won't touch Owen,’ she declared. ‘They won't kill a child. Even the Saxon swine won't hurt a poor little thing just seven years old.’

  ‘They would. They're on their way here now, to do just that. Therefore, Bethan — ’

  Lalage explained what she wanted Bethan to do.

  ‘Darrow.’ Grimacing as she tried to get her tongue round this peculiar foreign name, Bethan met Lalage's eyes. ‘Ellis Darrow,’ she repeated. ‘Of Easton, in the county of Warwickshire.’

  ‘That's right.’ Lalage willed Bethan to remember. ‘Take the coach to Birmingham. Then go on to Warwick. When you get there, ask for directions to the village of Easton. I'm not sure where you'll find Mr Darrow. He used to live in a big old house there, but that's long since gone.’

  ‘So, this Mr Ellis Darrow. Your employer, was he?’

  ‘He's my brother.’ Now Lalage felt cold and ill. ‘He loved me once,’ she whispered. ‘He'll not turn Owen away.’

  ‘You're sure of it?’

  ‘Certain.’

  Lalage's self–control was slipping. Owen! She could take Owen now. She could escape. She could get them both back to England, and safety. ‘Oh, Bethan,’ she cried, ‘please go! Look — in the cashbox on the dresser, you'll find sixty English guineas. Take them, get Owen out of bed and get away.’

  * * * *

  While Bethan wrung her hands and wept, Lalage slipped into the farmhouse, changed out of her bloodstained clothes, then rummaged around until she found what she wanted. She pocketed it.

  For a second, she stood alone in the parlour, wondering if she might take just one last look at her child. But then, deciding against it, she left the house. The morning sun was high as, for the first time in her life, Lalage approached the great mansion on the headland, where the Englishman lived.

  ‘I wish to see Mr Atkins.’ Her inward turmoil masked by a veneer of frosty dignity, Lalage swept right past the neat little housemaid who opened the door. Standing in the entrance hall, she looked about her. ‘Mr Atkins is at home?’

  ‘Yes, ma'am. Certainly he is. But — ’

  ‘Say Mrs Morgan wishes to speak to him. At once.’

  The housemaid scuttled away.

  Left alone in the cool gloom of the hall, Lalage eyed the place. This was a gentleman's home! Fashionable prints adorned the neatly–papered walls, an expensive Turkey carpet lay on highly–polished boards, and thick, velvet drapes festooned the large windows. Smelling sweetly of beeswax and fresh flowers, this was no smugglers’ lair. Lalage wondered if she'd come to the right place.

  She had never met the man she was here to see. As she hurried along the lanes towards Oxwich, she'd wondered what he was like. She had imagined a big, rough buccaneer, a great English lout who ruled his smuggler rabble like a pirate king. But now, she hardly knew what to expect.

  ‘Mrs Morgan? Will you be so good as to come this way?’ The little housemaid smiled at her. ‘Just along the passage here. Mr Atkins will see you in his study.’ Reaching a panelled oak door, the housemaid tapped once. She opened it, and ushered Lalage inside.

  Jack Atkins was small and slim. He was old, too. At least sixty. A neat, trim, grey–haired gentleman, he was clad in a suit of good broadcloth. His linen was fresh, his cheeks were newly shaven and his hair was lightly powdered. He looked every inch the plain country gentleman. A pillar of the community. An honest English squire.

  ‘Come in, Mrs Morgan.’ Politely, Jack Atkins nodded a welcome. ‘Do sit down. A dish of tea? Polly, my dear? Will you see to it?’

  Only when Lalage was seated did Jack Atkins sit down himself. ‘Now, dear lady,’ he said, kindly. ‘What may I do for you?’

  Lalage stared at him. Although she'd had no idea at all how she would be received, she certainly hadn't anticipated this softness. This courtliness. This bland politesse. She'd meant to confront Jack Atkins with his treachery, curse him to hell, then —

  She was completely nonplussed. ‘My husband has been arrested,’ she said.

  ‘Arrested?’ Jack Atkins frowned. ‘When was this?’

  ‘Yesterday. The soldiers came at first light.’ Lalage began to weep. ‘They took John Rhys away,’ she sobbed. ‘I don't know why. Mr Atkins, my husband is an honest farmer. He's done nothing wrong!’

  ‘Hasn't he?’

  ‘No!’ Lalage wept harder. ‘Sir, you're a magistrate. Can't you do anything to help?’

  ‘Well, now. Let me see.’ Jack Atkins reached for a pen. He found some paper. Reassuringly, he smiled.

  Looking at his visitor, he saw she was pretty. Beautiful, in fact. He had been led to believe that John Rhys Morgan's bride was a scrawny old hag with dewlaps and a cast in one eye, who had somehow tricked the young bachelor into marriage. How wrong he had been.

  For, this woman was absolutely lovely. She was a few years older than her husband, certainly — but she was still quite young. Slender, soft and comely, she had the bloom of a peach and the dusky radiance of a summer rose. She even had the air of a lady. Her carriage was graceful, and her manners perfect.

  She was pregnant, too. Now Jack Atkins smiled again. If that greedy Welsh lout survived long enough to be brought to trial, the brat might even see its father face to face. Albeit in the market place in Swansea, swinging from a rope's end.

  ‘Humour the creature,’ he thought, as he wrote the deposition. Fob her off. She was English herself. Hopefully, therefore, she would prove rather less excitable than the average Welsh peasant. Sweet words and false assurances would keep her quiet for a few days. Possibly even a week.

  Glancing at her again, Jack Atkins remembered he was a widower. Once this poor but exquisite creature was widowed, she was sure to be courted again. Who would be more eligible than her dead husband's colleague and faithful friend? The very idea put new life into his dry old bones.

  ‘I'll do everything I can,’ he promised. ‘I'll speak to the authorities in Swansea. I'll use all my influence there.’
Still wearing his Judas smile, he rose to his feet. ‘Mrs Morgan, rest assured I'll do everything in my power. If there's been a mistake, if he is in fact innocent of any crime, we'll soon get your husband released.’ He walked towards the door.

  He had his back to her. Now, thought Lalage. It had to be now. She felt for the handle of the knife. She grasped it firmly.

  She ran up behind him. Clumsily — for she'd never done anything remotely like this before — she grabbed Jack Atkins by the collar. She yanked his head backwards and stabbed him, between his skinny shoulder blades.

  The knife took so long to penetrate! Razor–sharp though it was, the mass of cloth, skin and gristle obstructed its progress. As her victim squirmed, Lalage felt her hand slip. The handle of the knife was now pushed back against her own chest.

  Desperation made her strong. With a sudden jerk, she pulled the weapon away. She stabbed again. She drove the blade upwards, towards Jack Atkins's cold, perfidious heart.

  His screams were heard all over the house. Almost immediately footsteps clattered on boards and flagstones, and within a minute the room was full of relatives, servants and hangers–on, all talking, all exclaiming, all shouting at once.

  Lalage stood silent. Blood streaking her gown and splashed all over her shoes, she was clearly guilty. Now she stood like a statue, as servants and relatives hung over Jack Atkins’ prostrate form.

  For moment or two, everyone was more concerned with him than with her. This gave her the chance to slide the weapon under her cloak. To hide it behind her back.

  Tenderly, Jack Atkins was helped to his knees, then laid face down on a sofa. His coat was eased off and cloths applied to staunch the blood. An old woman, an upper servant it appeared, for she wore a good black stuff gown and a spotless linen cap, now examined him. She said the wounds were not deep. His life was in no immediate danger.

  Michael Atkins turned to the would–be assassin. ‘Hold her,’ he said. ‘You, Robin. Henry, too. Hold the bitch fast.’

  Lalage did not struggle. Calmly, she met Michael Atkins's pale blue gaze.

  ‘You'll suffer for this,’ he told her. ‘You'll die by inches. Days, it will be. Weeks, even.’

  Lalage winced. Looking up at Michael Atkins's hard, Flemish face, into his almost colourless eyes fringed with sparse, pale lashes, she understood that here was a ruthless killer who meant exactly what he said. She would suffer the torments of the damned. Recalling how cruelly her own husband had dealt with traitors, she felt sick with dread.

  Now she remembered the baby inside her. Poor child, would they tear it from her womb, and laugh as they watched it die? She thought of Owen. She'd had such high hopes of John Owen! Such a clever boy, such a handsome child, he was a son to make any mother proud. Lalage sighed. So this was it. This was the end.

  The knife was still warm, its handle still damply sticky in her hand. She would have to do it now. Soon, they would search her — indeed, it amazed her they had not done so before. So now, she twisted away from the men who held her. Immediately, there was a rush to bar the windows, to block the door. But Lalage stood where she was. Falling forwards, she stabbed again.

  This time, the blade slid in easily. Sweetly, smoothly, John Rhys Morgan's knife pierced his widow's willing flesh, and found its home in Lalage's heart. With no more than a surprised whimper of astonishment that it should be so simple, Lalage drove the blade home, right up to the hilt.

  As Michael Atkins leapt to restrain her, to cheat her of a clean and easy death, Lalage slumped against him, lifeless.

  * * * *

  ‘He'll survive.’ Summoned from Swansea, the surgeon finished bandaging his patient. He smiled encouragingly at Jack Atkins's anxious son. ‘He'll be weak for a month or so. But provided mortification does not set in — and I see no reason why it should — he'll certainly live.’

  ‘Good.’ Michael Atkins sucked his teeth. ‘What about her?’

  The doctor glanced at the woman laid out on the table. ‘She's past my help,’ he said. ‘Poor lady. Young, and so pretty — pregnant, too. What happened?’

  ‘She had a grievance against my father. She tried to kill him. Fortunately, we prevented her from causing him serious injury. Then she turned the knife on herself.’

  ‘Were there witnesses?’

  ‘A dozen, at least. Maybe more.’ Michael Atkins shrugged. ‘Apparently, she was well–known in Llangynnydd. Was disturbed in her mind, so they say. My people will be making statements this afternoon.’

  When the doctor had gone and Jack Atkins was safely put to bed, Michael Atkins called Robin and Henry to the study. ‘That's the dog and vixen accounted for,’ he muttered. ‘Now to deal with the cub.’

  But, before his mother's limbs were even stiffening or her eyes glazing over, little Owen Morgan was running. Taken from his bed and hurriedly stuffed into a suit of clothes, he was soon scrambling along beside his nurse. They were making for the high road from Port Eynon on which, if they were lucky, he and Bethan would meet the Swansea coach.

  ‘Oh, Bethan! Where are we going?’ His face still creased from sleep, the child tugged pathetically at his nurse's hand. ‘Bethan, I'm frightened! Where's my Mam? Where are we —

  ‘We're going to England, my lamb.’ Breathless now, Bethan held her aching side. ‘We must get on a coach — ’

  ‘A coach? But Bethan, what about Mam?’ Almost in tears now, for bewilderment and fear had made him quite unlike his usual jaunty self, Owen began to wail. ‘Bethan, what about — ’

  ‘Tell you later.’ Grasping Owen's hand more tightly, Bethan stifled a sob of her own. ‘All you need to know now is that we're going to England. To your uncle. To safety. Come along, cariad,’ she gasped. ‘I can hear the coach coming now. Run a bit faster for me.’

  Two hours later, Bethan and Owen were in Swansea, swallowed up amidst the market–day crowds.

  * * * *

  ‘There's a person to see you, madam.’ Finding Rebecca in her little sitting room, where she was playing a game of chess with Rayner before he went to bed, Simmons pursed his lips in distaste. ‘It's a rather peculiar old woman,’ he went on. ‘She has a child with her.’

  ‘What does she want?’ Seeing her queen in mortal peril, Rebecca moved it — only to find that, with a crow of triumph, Rayner now took her one remaining bishop. At seven, he was far more of a strategist than she would ever be. ‘Well, Simmons?’ she asked, standing up. ‘What's her story?’

  ‘She doesn't have one, madam. She asked to see Mr Darrow first. When I told her he was away from home, she said she would speak to your ladyship, instead.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I expect she needs food. Or some other sort of relief.’ Smiling, Rebecca conceded defeat to her son. She told him he took after his father, and was sure to be a great man some day. She turned to Simmons. ‘Is this woman from the village?’ she asked.

  ‘No, madam. She's a stranger. Welsh, I believe.’ Sniffing, Simmons turned to go. ‘If your ladyship is busy, I could tell one of the maids to give her some scraps from the kitchen. Then send her on her way.’

  ‘No, don't do that. I'll see her now.’ Always mindful of her obligations to the poor and needy, the squire's lady followed her butler out of the room.

  As Rebecca walked into the service passage, she saw a very stout, plain, middle–aged woman in voluminous red petticoats and a striped flannel gown. An outlandish–looking person, she had a great willow basket on her arm and a black, high–crowned bonnet on her head. Hearing footsteps, she turned to look at the mistress of the house.

  Rebecca opened her mouth to speak. But then she saw the child at the woman's side. Cold and dirty, his clothes travel–stained and his face smudged with fatigue and recent tears, Rayner Darrow was standing there.

  But Rayner was in his mother's sitting room, putting away the chess set. Rebecca blinked. She looked again.

  Black–haired, dark–eyed, this child was unmistakeably a Darrow. There was no doubt of it. Generation after generation of faces exactly like his
had stared solemnly from dozens of those family portraits which had graced the long gallery, in the days before the fire. Now, looking at Owen Morgan, Rebecca knew straight away whose son he must be.

  The sound of a door slamming shut behind her made Rebecca start. Now, her husband's familiar tread sounded on flagstones. He had presumably gone into the gun room. Leaving the woman and child standing there, Rebecca ran back down the passage. She found Ellis talking to Simmons, who was helping him take off his outdoor clothes.

  ‘Ellis!’ She fell into his startled embrace. ‘Oh, Ellis! She's sent him to us. She's given us her son!’

  * * * *

  ‘Do you think the woman was telling the truth?’ Having got over her initial shock, Rebecca was calmer now. ‘Ellis? Do you think Mrs Davies's story can possibly be true?’

  ‘I've no reason to doubt her word.’ As astonished as Rebecca had been by the sudden, dramatic appearance of Owen Morgan, Ellis shrugged. ‘It's a rather gruesome tale, but I don't see why it shouldn't be as she says.’

  ‘What do you think has become of Lalage?’

  ‘God knows. But I shall have enquiries made, and I shall certainly find out.’ Ellis stood up. He walked over to the window and gazed out at the darkening summer evening. ‘It would appear,’ he continued, ‘that Mr Morgan was an extremely unpleasant piece of work. He seems to have met with a singularly appropriate fate. As for that Atkins fellow — he will be thoroughly investigated. There'll be an official enquiry, I expect. Down there in the back of beyond, he doubtless thinks he's safe from the laws of this land. But he'll find he isn't.’

  Ellis turned to his wife. ‘Well, Becky? What have you done with the boy?’

  ‘I had Molly make up two beds in the old nursery. He and his nurse, or whatever she is, have taken themselves up there. Poor creatures, they're both exhausted.’

  * * * *

  By late evening, Bethan Davies was down in the kitchen again, drinking dish after dish of strong tea and relating her adventures to the housemaids and the cook. Her little charge, however, still slept. Rebecca and Ellis went upstairs.