White Water

by Pamela Oldfield

  White Water

  Pamela Oldfield

  © Pamela Oldfield 1982

  Pamela Oldfield has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1982 by MacDonald Futura Publishers Ltd.

  This edition published in 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  For Dennis Barker

  While researching this novel, I read many fine books. My thanks to the staffs of the County Library, Maidstone, and Westcountry Studies Library, Exeter, for helping me to find them.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  CHAPTER ONE

  Devon, May 1574

  The small brindled terrier trotted eagerly at the unwashed heels, keeping a wary eye on the stout stick which his young master carried. He glanced from time to time at the old leather bag slung across the boy’s shoulder. A slight movement within the bag brought a whine to the dog’s throat and without turning his head the boy said, ‘Bide your time, Brin. You’ll have some rare sport later.’ The boy was thin, with narrow shoulders and bright ginger hair which hung about his peaky freckled face and fell into his pale brown eyes. He gave his unkempt hair a practised flick and could see once more. The day was nearly done and there was a mist which clung damply to his skin, but he was oblivious to the discomfort, his mind busy with ways of spending the money he would earn.

  He slashed with the stick at a particularly high nettle in the hedgerow and his lips moved slightly in the beginnings of a smile as the green head of the plant flew upwards. Brin sprang forward, catching it as it came down, delighted with the chance of action however insignificant. ‘Daft besom!’

  He whipped off a few more plant heads and then squinted up through the mist at the warm bright glow that was the sun and nodded, satisfied. Tomorrow would be a fine day. He would walk into Exeter — a matter of two hours — and sample the heady delights of market day. A cart passed him, loaded high with logs and the driver raised his whip.

  The boy replied with a slight wave of his hand and turned to watch the cart’s erratic progress. The old man slouched in the seat, his lolling head betraying the amount of ale he had drunk. One of the cart’s wheels skidded into a rut and the logs shifted alarmingly. The old man also swayed but managed, with an oath, to steady himself. Shaking his head, the boy grimaced and turning off the highway, shouldered his way through the dense hedgerow. Beyond it the grass sloped down to the river and Nat turned left and began to follow it. After half a mile he stopped, whistled to the dog, which had disappeared temporarily, and sprang lightly across the boulders which served as stepping stones. Landing on the far side, he found himself face to face with a young girl who regarded him critically.

  ‘Who are you?’ she demanded.

  ‘Nathaniel Gully, ma’am,’ he said with an exaggerated bow and a graceful sweep of an imaginary hat.

  She looked at him from large blue eyes and then glanced nervously at the terrier who was following him across the water, barking shrilly.

  ‘You must go away,’ she told him. ‘This is our garden and you … ’

  ‘Nathaniel Gully, rat catcher extraordinary,’ he went on. ‘Not a better in the whole of Devon, though I say so meself, and who’s to deny me?’

  ‘You can’t come here,’ she insisted with a toss of her long fair curls.

  The terrier ran towards her, wagging his stumpy tail, but she withdrew a few yards to the bottom of grey stone steps which led away from the riverside garden and offered a retreat if it should prove necessary.

  ‘Shoo! Go home!’ she told the dog. ‘You must both — ’

  ‘Nathaniel Gully at your service,’ he continued, unperturbed. ‘Here at the request of one Mistress Kendal.’

  ‘Mama asked you to come here?’

  The dog still leaped about, barking excitedly and she retired to the third step, clutching her skirts. He raised his stick menacingly and the dog crouched low, silenced but still watching.

  ‘Not exactly,’ he said. ‘’Twas Beth who sent for me and said as how the mistress would pay me well for my labours.’

  But the girl was no longer listening.

  ‘Your bag!’ she said, astonished. ‘’Tis wriggling. Your bag is wriggling!’

  ‘A ferret,’ said Nat and he plunged his hand into the bag and withdrew a slim furry creature with sandy fur, bright eyes and short spiky whiskers.

  With a scream the girl turned and scrambled to the top of the steps crying, ‘’Tis a rat!’

  ‘No, no,’ he reassured her. ‘Just a jill ferret as’ll kill all the bad rats in your barn. See, she doesn’t bite me. You want to stroke her?’ The girl shook her head violently. ‘Then will you tell your mama I’m here? Will you be a big girl and take a message? Say Nathaniel Gully is here as promised.’

  The girl hesitated. ‘Mama has ridden into town,’ she said.

  ‘To Ashburton? Then will you tell Beth?’

  ‘Aye.’ She decided that he was to be trusted and said suddenly, ‘My name’s Lorna, I’m six years old and I’ve a new gown of lavender silk.’

  ‘Lavender silk, eh?’

  ‘Aye.’

  She studied him carefully to see that he was properly impressed by this information. He returned the ferret to the bag and smiled cheerfully.

  ‘Lead on then,’ he prompted and at last she turned and led the way. They went through the orchard and across the herb garden to the back door yard. Leaving the dog and boy on the doorstep, Lorna hurried inside. Beth was mincing mutton and heard Lorna’s news without much enthusiasm.

  ‘He should have been here a week since,’ she said, ‘but send him in.’

  Her eyes widened when the boy entered.

  ‘You’re not Nat Gully!’ she exclaimed.

  ‘I’m his son, ma’am. Nathaniel Gully the younger at your service.’

  He made her the same elaborate bow. Lorna, perched safely on a stool, watched with interest. ‘And every bit as good as my father, and he’d be the first to say so, and I’m sent in his stead ’cos he’s laid low with his guts and he’s griping that bad ’tis a wonder he don’t turn himself inside out.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Beth regarded him dubiously. ‘You don’t look much like him with that red hair,’ she said.

  ‘I take after my mother, God rest her soul.’

  ‘Hmm.’

  Lorna said, ‘He’s got a ferret in that bag.’

  ‘I should hope he has!’ said Beth. ‘Can’t catch rats without a ferret, that I do know.’ She addressed herself to him again. ‘So you reckon you’re as good as your father, do you?’

  ‘I do, ma’am — and is the mistress not at home?’ It was his way of reminding the old woman that she was not employing him.

  ‘No, she’s not,’ said Beth irritably, recognizing the lightly veiled barb for what it was. ‘And what time d’you call this, to come rat-catching?’ Twill soon be dark.’

  ‘That’s the best time.’

  ‘Hmm.’ She stuffed the last handful of meat into the mincer and swung the handle with a final burst of energy. ‘Be off then, and get on with it. You’ll not earn much standing here.’

  Lorna slid from the stool. �
�I want to watch him,’ she said.

  ‘You’d best not,’ said Beth,

  ‘Oh!’ Lorna’s face puckered up and her lips quivered. ‘Mama would let me,’ she protested.

  ‘She would not,’ said Beth.

  ‘I’ll keep out of the way,’ said Lorna.

  Beth hesitated. She was sorry for the child because her brother Piers had been allowed to go hawking with their father and the tutor.

  ‘Will she get bit?’ she asked the boy.

  Nat shook his head. ‘No, ma’am. Brin here will see to that. None’ll get past him. Real fierce he is, with rats. Fast as lightning, as they say. A bolt from the blue. One shake and they’re dead.’

  ‘Then go, Lorna, and mind you do as you’re bid and keep out of the way — but you’d best not tell your mama, just in case. You take Nat to the old barn — and not before time. I’ve never seen so many of the dratted creatures. There’s not a sack without a hole in it and they’ve even had a go at the tallow.’ As he turned to go she said, ‘And what’s the mistress paying you?’

  ‘A shilling for the first three dozen and another shilling for each dozen after.’

  ‘Hmm. You’ll be making your fortune then.’

  ‘I wouldn’t mind,’ said Nat. He held out a hand for Lorna and together they made their way across the yard.

  The old barn was long and low and raftered. Sacks of provisions were stored in it, as well as straw and hay. Rope and nets were kept there also and in one corner logs were stacked against the wall. The dog ran ahead of them sniffing hopefully in every corner. Lorna looked around her in dismay.

  ‘They’ve all gone,’ she said.

  ‘They’ve gone under the floor,’ he told her. ‘That’s where they live but we’ll soon have them out. But first we must block off all the runs and all their escapes. You can help me, if you’ve a mind to.’

  She nodded.

  ‘Watch me then,’ he said. He took a handful of straw, twisted and folded it into a compact ball, then stuffed it into a hole in the wall. ‘If I don’t fill that hole they’ll run away through it. We’ve got to fill all the holes except two. Then we’ll put the little jill down one hole and watch the rats run out of the other. See, there’s a hole, down there by the door. Take some straw and block it up. You can be my assistant — would you like that, eh? A rat catcher’s assistant.’ He grinned.

  ‘I’d like it well enough,’ she said and set to determinedly.

  It took them nearly half an hour to find and seal off all the routes by which the rats could escape. At last Nat closed the door and decided they were ready.

  ‘Now where are you to go?’ he mused. ‘You can’t stay there for there’ll be rats everywhere and we don’t want them nipping your toes, do we … Ah, I see the very spot. Wait and I’ll lift you up.’

  A large chest stood to one side and this he pulled forward with much grunting, for it contained old farm implements and was very heavy. As he struggled with it, the little girl considered him thoughtfully from the shabby leather shoes and bare legs to the patched breeches and faded blue shirt. His arms were flea-bitten and his hair was greasy with dirt.

  ‘If you were cleaner, I would wed you,’ she said at last, but Nat burst into loud guffaws as he picked her up and stood her on the chest.

  ‘You’d best not let your mama hear you say so!’ he laughed. ‘’T’would turn the poor woman grey in an instant! Now then, stand still and no screaming.’

  Gently, he took the ferret from the bag and at once the dog stood motionless, one paw raised in the air, his small dark nose quivering expectantly.

  ‘Why are his legs so short?’ asked Lorna.

  ‘So he can squeeze down rabbit holes, now hush.’

  He went over to a hole in the far corner and set the ferret down before it. The animal gave a slight flick of her tail and disappeared. For a moment nothing happened. Boy, girl and dog waited. Then all at once there was a scuffling and a large rat darted across the floor. In a flash the dog was on it. He gripped it by the neck, shook it and tossed it aside. Before Lorna had recovered from the suddenness of the deed, two small rats streaked past her on their way to a familiar bolt hole, only to find it blocked with straw. Their frightened squeals were silenced — one by a blow from Nat’s stick, the other by the dog. More rats appeared, scattering and squeaking in fear as, pursued by the ferret, they fled to the safety that no longer existed. Mercilessly Brin pounced, shook and dropped them, and Nat dealt with the others. Still the rats came tumbling out from the hole, their dark bodies moving at an incredible speed across the earth floor, difficult targets in the failing light.

  Suddenly there was a lull. Nat waited, stick raised. Brin watched, panting and trembling, his dark eyes glinting with the thrill of the hunt. Dark, still bodies littered the floor. As Lorna opened her mouth to speak, two more rats ran out and the dog took them both. There was another pause and then the ferret appeared. Nat lowered his stick and gently coaxed the tiny animal into his hand and back into the bag.

  ‘I’ll give her a fine supper of rat,’ he told Lorna. ‘She likes rat.’

  Lorna shuddered. ‘Can I step down now?’ she asked and her voice shook slightly.

  ‘Aye, and well done,’ he said, helping her. ‘I’ll count them up and see what I’ve earned.’

  She watched, fascinated, as he picked the rats up by their tails and threw them into a pile.

  ‘ … forty-one, forty-two … and two more, that’s forty-four … and another here that’s — how many?’

  ‘Forty-five,’ said Lorna promptly.

  ‘Aye. Forty-five, ’tis indeed. That’s a shilling for three dozen and nigh on a fourth dozen. Not bad at all.’

  They returned to the kitchen to find Maria home from Ladyford and she paid Nat willingly for his services.

  ‘And you’d best come again,’ she told him, ‘and clear out the stables. They’re alive with rats and Jon says they bother the horses and make them restless.’

  It was agreed and then Nat was away, the dog at his heels, the coins clinking cheerfully in the old purse at his wrist. Heron would see him again.

  *

  In 1574 the people of England were enjoying a period of comparative calm after the alarms and excitements of the previous years. The Kendals at Heron shared this peaceful existence with their neighbours in the West Country and prayed that they might continue undisturbed to mine their tin and raise their children. The nation was still adjusting to the Pope’s excommunication of Queen Elizabeth and the fact that it no longer owed allegiance to Rome. The dreadful events of St Bartholomew’s day were no longer news, for two years had passed since the Catholics had heard of the massacre of thousands of Protestants in France. Catherine de Medici contrived at intervals to propose her sons as suitors to Elizabeth though with little success. In 1572 Mary Queen of Scots’ plan to take the English throne with the Duke of Norfolk as her husband had ended in failure for Mary and death for the Duke. But in Devon the events of the outside world went mainly unremarked in the face of a too-familiar threat from within.

  Maria Kendal set down her goblet and raised anxious eyes.

  ‘Plague?’ she echoed. ‘In Ashburton?’

  The years had been kind to her and at thirty-three her oval face still kept its firm lines. The grey eyes no longer blazed but held a softer expression which suited them equally well, and the dark hair beneath the beaded headdress was barely touched with grey. Her strong teeth were almost as white as when she married and her smile was sweet. Now, however, the finely arched brows were knit. She was unsmiling for the subject was grim. Her daughter-in-law, Harriet, who sat opposite, waited for Hugo’s reply.

  Her husband, Hugo, nodded. ‘’Twas only in one street, I grant you, but the three doors bore painted crosses and in one a woman leaned from the upstairs window talking to another who waited in the street below.’

  ‘Was there a watchman at the doors?’ Harriet persisted. ‘No, but the door was barred. And at the far end of the street a man unloaded brushwoo
d from a cart.’

  ‘For the bonfire,’ said Harriet soberly. She was a small slim girl, with soft brown eyes and a gentle face. Her hair was held back by a neat velvet head-dress and her fingers played nervously with the new wedding ring which gleamed on her left hand. She had been married to Allan Kendal for only three months, but had lived at Heron for the past two years. Allan was the eldest Kendal son — the only child of Simon and Hannah. Now a man of twenty, he was finishing his law studies in London and Harriet longed for his return to Heron at the end of June. They were ideally suited and the little time they had spent together augured well for their future happiness. At some time Allan would inherit and she would be mistress of Heron but she was still young and not eager for such responsibility.

  At present she was content to share the pleasures of the Kendals’ family home. Maria was like a mother to her and Hugo treated her affectionately — almost brotherly. She was fond, too, of Beatrice, Allan’s sister, now eighteen and living in Exeter with her husband, Mark Quarterman. Life was very agreeable and she considered herself most fortunate. She wanted nothing to disturb their peaceful existence and Maria’s talk of plague dismayed her. Barely sixteen, she had only the vaguest memories of the last serious outbreak to affect the West Country and now all her fears were for her beloved Allan. She adored her tall blond husband and longed to give him a family of tall blond sons to carry on his name. Her one fear was of losing him.

  ‘Is it elsewhere, do you think?’ she asked as casually as she could.

  Hugo shook his head. ‘I’ve not heard of it,’ he said. ‘Pray God ’tis a local outbreak and soon ended.’

  ‘Then pray God ’tis not in London,’ said Harriet, putting a name to her fear.

  Hugo, understanding the direction of the girl’s questions, smiled at her. ‘There’s no mention of it in London,’ he said. ‘And no mention of it in Exeter.’ He put a hand over hers. ‘We must put it out of our thoughts,’ he told her. ‘Three shut houses and a bonfire! ’Tis very little to be alarmed about. That may well be all there ever is to it.’