Crusader's Tomb
Page 1
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Contents
A. J. Cronin
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Part Two
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
Part Three
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Part Four
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
Part Five
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
A. J. Cronin
Crusader's Tomb
Born in Cardross, Scotland, A. J. Cronin studied at the University of Glasgow. In 1916 he served as a surgeon sub-lieutenant in the Royal Navy Volunteers Reserve, and at the war’s end he completed his medical studies and practiced in South Wales. He was later appointed to the Ministry of Mines, studying the medical problems of the mining industry. He moved to London and built up a successful practice in the West End. In 1931 he published his first book, Hatter’s Castle, which was compared with the work of Dickens, Hardy and Balzac, winning him critical acclaim. Other books by A. J. Cronin include: The Stars Look Down, The Citadel, Three Loves, The Green Years, Beyond This Place, and The Keys of the Kingdom.
Part One
Chapter One
Afternoon had turned to evening and all the sweep and movement of the Downs lay still, bathed in pearly light. The drenched grass, silvered as with hoar, gave off a wispy vapour that hung cobwebs on the hedgerows, made lace-work in the hollows of the fields. The dew-ponds, saucers of skimmed milk, held no image of a yellow moon that watched, round and low, like the eye of a great cat, crouched on the hill, ready to lap.
Into this bright stillness, from a stone Norman church so small, so lost in a fold of the weald it seemed – despite the sharp etching of its long and short work, its squat tower, and leper squint – unlikely as a dream, there emerged a shadow, long and dark, which was succeeded, following the thud of oak and the clang of a heavy bolt, by the figure of a man, less long perhaps, but of equal darkness. Appropriately enough, a clergyman, Bertram Desmonde, Rector of Stillwater.
Bareheaded, but with a cape about his shoulders, he threaded the maze of lichened slabs, passed the two great twisted yews, of which the younger had undoubtedly made bows for Sussex archers at least five centuries before, then through the wicket to the lane. Here, caught by the whiteness of the night, by an upsurge of his secret joy, he paused and, with a long breath, drew in the beauty of his glebe, a good two hundred acres, reaching away on one hand to the high beech wood of Ditchley, upon the other to the sandy gorse warren that verged the country road to Stillwater. Distantly the Ring of Chanctonbury was visible against the eastern sky, and lower, amidst trees, an absurd yet friendly turret of Broughton Court. To the west the weald swept on, cut by a chalk-pit – a bloodless wound, by barrows reputed to be Roman, yet more likely the workings of an ancient tile kiln. Then came labourers’ cottages, six, like mushrooms, in a row, and faintly, above the rim of the road, the twinkle of the village. Beneath him, bright with lights, stood the Rectory.
Solidly Georgian, with Palladian windows, a spacious portico supported by fluted columns and – delightful thought! – a balus-trade coping, it was a real country house, built by his great-grand-father, Canon Hilary Desmonde, in 1780, of the local white stone – the quarry, quite near, was now fortunately overgrown. Traces of an early Tudor building still persisted in the brick barn and stables, the farm outhouses, in the exquisite old wall of flint and rounded pebbles surrounding the large kitchen garden. Embosomed in soft lawns, bordered by beds of tulips and primulas, the rose garden, not yet awakened, a formal hexagon about the sun-dial, cordons of aged Ribstons and Beauty of Bath standing surpliced with blossom, like ancient choristers, along the south meadow, a giant ilex shading the gravel drive, this house, this little Blenheim, rooted and unchanging, his home, home of the Desmondes for so many years, tonight especially it sent a proud warmth into the Rector’s heart.
Almost certainly they had come over with the Conqueror. One of them, the Sieur d’Esmonde, who had gone to the Crusades, lay beneath his marble effigy, the beaked nose broken, alas, by some vandal tourist, in the little Downland church. If the name had been altered somewhat by rustic usage – one could not apply the word corrupted – did not this identify them more completely with the good Sussex earth? They had served their country well in the three professions open to a gentleman: in the Church particularly, but also at the bar and in the army. His brother Hubert, after long and useful work on the frontiers of Afghanistan, was now partially retired to Simla Lodge, some fifteen miles away, with the rank of general, still in touch with the War Office, and devoting his leisure to the scientific cultivation of Jargonelle pears. Only on one occasion, so far as recollection went, had the family stooped to trade: when, in the early reign of Victoria, one Joseph Desmonde, great-uncle of the Rector, had embarked upon the manufacture of ecclesiastical furnishings. But as the business had a flavour of discretion, and as a considerable fortune had accrued from it, the lapse, though regrettable, was less difficult to condone.
‘A fine evenin’ to you, sir.’
In the profundity of his reverie, the Rector had failed to observe the stumpy figure of old Mould, his head gardener, who was also his sexton, limping up the lane to close the church.
‘Good evening, Mould. I’ve locked up, you may turn and go back with me.’ He paused, not revealing the impulse which, against his habit, had drawn him to the church, yet prompted by the same elation to add: ‘Stephen comes home tonight, you know.’
‘As if I’d a forgotten that, sir. And high good news it be. I hope he shall find time to come rabbiting along of me.’ He added more gravely: ‘We shall have him in the pulpit soon, belikes.’
‘He still has some way to go, Mould.’ As they walked down the lane together Bertram smiled. ‘Though I daresay you’d rather hear a youngster fresh from Oxford than an old fogey
like me.’
‘No, Parson, you shan’t say that. I h’ain’t served the Desmondes fifty year without I come to know their quality. And howsoever they may preach, there be none better in the county.’
It needed only this touching proof of almost feudal loyalty to set a seal upon the Rector’s mood. The clotted scent of primroses was sweeter, somehow, the thin night bleating of the lambs, behind their wattle fences, so poignant it almost broke the heart. Ah, this England, he thought: and here, the very heart of it, precious as a jewel, sailing in the moonlight like a ship of souls, his little parish that would be Stephen’s too, inviolate, enduring, timeless and changeless as eternity.
‘We shall want help with the luggage. Will you see that Albert is on hand?’
‘I shall send him up, master … if he be home. I’m’aving trouble with that boy o’ mine. ’E don’t take kindly to service. But I shall belt ’im into it … I promise you.’
‘He will settle down in time, Mould,’ Bertram answered equably. ‘Don’t be hard on him.’
He parted from the old man at the squat, bow-fronted gatelodge and, some moments later, stood in the wide entrance hall of the Rectory, yielding his cape to his daughter Caroline, who, inevitably, was on hand to greet him.
‘Not here yet?’ He rubbed his hands together: the hall had the defect of its lofty ceiling and tessellated floor – a sense of evening chill, barely relieved by the clank of tepid pipes.
‘No, Father. But they should not be long. Claire has gone to the station in her new motor.’
‘We really should get one of those contraptions.’ A light of whimsy relieved momentarily the austerity of Bertram’s thin features and slightly hollowed cheeks. ‘Useful for parish visiting.’
‘You cannot be serious, Father.’ Her practical mind, entirely devoid of humour, took him literally. ‘ You know how strongly you object to the odour and the dust. And don’t I do well enough for you with the pony-cart?’
No doubt the imminence of Stephen’s return had put her on edge. Thus, she spoke more forcibly than she intended, her plain, earnest face shiny with feeling. And indeed, before she could regret this, her father’s absent look as, with ears attuned, he waited for the sound of wheels upon the driveway, punished her severely. She lowered her eyes, her thickset body, supported by too solid calves, drooped insensibly. Would he never appreciate the limitless depths of her devotion, realise that her one desire was to serve him? – from the first moment which began her day, that long day wherein, after her hasty dressing, without benefit of mirror, she shouldered the burden of his household, conferred with cook as to how he should be fed, arranged the flowers, supervised the garden and the farm, dealt with his correspondence, with importunate visitors, bedridden parishioners, sere archaeologists, equally with waggonettes of holiday-makers from Littlesea clamouring to view the ‘ toom’, found time even to attend to his linen and knit his woollen socks. And now to make matters worse, she had a bad cold in her head and must blow her sore nose in a sodden handkerchief.
‘Is your mother coming down?’ He put the question with caution.
‘I think not. I bathed her forehead with cologne this afternoon. But the discomfort is still there.’
‘Then we shall be four at dinner.’
‘Only three. Claire telephoned to say, so very sorry, she cannot stay.’
‘A pity. Still … there will be other days.’
His tone conveyed regret, yet she perceived, despite his high regard for Claire, daughter of Lady Broughton of the neighbouring Court, and his warm approval of the tacit understanding existing between her and his eldest son, that, in his heart, he was glad on this night of reunion, to have Stephen entirely to himself.
With an effort she kept her tone even.
‘I’ve not quite finished typing your notes for tomorrow’s convocation. When shall you be leaving for Charmittster?’
‘Oh, after lunch, I suppose. The Dean is seldom punctual.’
‘Two o’clock then. I’ll drive you over.’ Suddenly, with jealous, glistening eyes: ‘You look tired, Father. And you have a heavy day before you. Don’t let Stephen keep you up too late.’
‘Do not fuss, Caroline. And by the bye, I hope you have something good for us to eat.’
‘There’s mulligatawny soup, and the salmon Uncle Hubert sent us from the Test, with cucumber and green sauce of course, then a saddle of lamb with our own peas and new potatoes. For the sweet, Beasley has made that whipped apple charlotte Stephen likes so much.’
‘Ah, yes, my dear. I remember he always asked for it when he came home from Marlborough. Well done. But wait, isn’t that the chug of the motor?’
A feeble, if rhythmic beat was indeed perceptible and, advancing to the door, he threw it open, disclosing a small De Dion coupé, alive and quivering, from which, once the agitation had subsided, by the exercise of some ingenuity two figures emerged.
‘Stephen!’
‘How are you, Father … and you, Caroline? Davie isn’t here?’
‘Not yet … he breaks up next Monday.’
The fan of light from the portico revealed a slight figure of less than medium stature, darkly clad and struggling with a leather valise – Mould’s boy had not appeared – a glimpse, also, of thinly chiselled features, sensitive nostrils, a narrow, thoughtful, rather too serious face. Then came, with reserve, allowing the family greetings to subside, a tall girl in gauntlets and a long tweed coat. Her motoring bonnet, veil-draped, absurdly like a scone, worn only in deference to maternal urgings, could not quite destroy her air of quiet composure, a sense of inescapable good breeding, confirmed by her voice as she joined the little group.
‘I’m afraid we left some luggage behind. My little runabout has no space for trunks.’
‘No need to worry, Claire dear. We’ll send for it tomorrow.’ The Rector took her arm in a near paternal gesture. ‘But cannot you stay with us now?’
‘I do wish I might. But Mother has some village people coming … an agricultural committee … tenants … who cannot be put off.’
‘Ah well! One must pay for being lady of the manor. Is it not a sweet evening?’
‘Perfect! Coming over from Halborough it was bright as day …’ Her voice softened as she turned her head, a movement that, dissolving the shadow of the atrocious bonnet, disclosed a pure and even profile. ‘Wasn’t it beautiful, Stephen?’
He had been standing in silence, a constraint from which he now seemed to rouse himself by an effort.
‘It was a nice drive.’ Then, as though he felt he had not said enough, forcing a levity quite foreign to him: ‘But at one point I thought we might have to get out and push.’
‘On Ambry Hill,’ Claire laughed. ‘I’m not very expert with the gears.’ Her smile lingered for a moment in the darkness of the porch. ‘ I must not keep you. Good night. Come to us soon … tomorrow, if possible. And do be careful of your cold, Caroline.’
When she had gone, Bertram put his arm about his son’s shoulders, led him into the house.
‘It’s good to have you home, Stephen. You don’t know … Ah, well … How did you leave Oxford? And how are you? Famished, I’m sure. Run up and see your mother. Then come to dinner.’
And while Caroline, her eyes and nose reddened by the night air, heaved in a bag of books which had been left, forgotten, on the porch, he stood while Stephen ascended the stairs, looking upwards with an expression that, in its unguarded fondness, was almost rapt.
Chapter Two
After their excellent dinner, well served by the two table-maids whom, from their pristine village rawness, Caroline had trained so admirably, the Rector, mellowed, led Stephen to the study, where the drugget curtains were drawn and a fine sea-coal fire burned. The heating of the Rectory might not be modern but the hearths were ample, fuel abundant. And this was a companionable room despite the ornate mouldings, with a cosy, sporting flavour to offset the vaguely parochial air, confirmed by a roll-top desk bearing Pusey’s sermons, the Ecclesiastical Ca
lendar, and a folded purple stole. A pair of worn brown leather easy-chairs flanked the hearthstone, against one wall there stood a glass-fronted gun cabinet, upon another a case of Saxon coins, product of the Rector’s archaeological researches, and above the Adam mantel, two bone-handled hunting-crops were crossed beneath a mounted fox mask.
Earlier that afternoon, in preparation, Bertram had traversed the passages beneath the house to visit the cellar, and now, with a slightly conscious air, he took up a dusty bottle which lay cradled, whitewash splash upwards, upon the desk, and having inexpertly drawn the crumbling cork, poured out two glasses of port. He was a temperate man who touched alcohol only rarely and, for that matter, never used tobacco, but this occasion demanded to be marked in the true family tradition.
‘Your grandfather laid this down,’ he remarked, holding the dark purplish wine to the light with an assumed critical air. ‘It’s a Graham … 1876.’
Stephen, who detested port, made a murmur of appreciation from his arm-chair as he raised the glass to his lips. He assumed, like an actor, the part expected of him.
‘It seems very sound, sir.’
The word pleased the Rector.
‘Yes, your grandfather knew what he was doing. It was he who put in these remarkable tile-bins downstairs. They drained South Meadow, you know, in eighteen-seventy-eight, and had half a load of short tile pipe ends left. The old man saw that each would hold a bottle snugly, and had them mortared into the cellar, a perfect honeycomb.… Of course, he was not a great drinker. But he liked his pint of claret after a good day with the hounds. He went out, you know, until his seventieth year.’
‘He must have been a great character.’
‘He was a good man, Stephen. A true English country gentleman.’ The Rector sighed. ‘ One could wish no finer epitaph.’
‘My grandmother, too,’ Stephen prompted dutifully, for on the journey from Oxford, brooding nervously as the train rocked past meadows, orchards, and winding reaches, he had resolved to be unreservedly filial. ‘She was not far behind him. Mould has told me many stories of her.’