by Robert Neill
Chapter 20: THE GENTLEMAN FROM LATHOM
Roger was flattering, for his first thought was for Margery. Not till he was assured that she had taken no hurt would he let her finish her tale, and even then he came back to it, seeking to know how she had fallen and how her breathing had so forcibly been put to rights. He heard her in detail, and then he nodded.
“The fellow has some understanding of things,” was his sage comment.
Margery suppressed the retort that the fellow seemed to have too much understanding of some things. Instead, she went on to say that Christopher Southworth must surely have got clear.
“Not a doubt of it,” said Roger. “He’ll know the ground, which these Lathom men will not. And as for you--if you had your deserts you’d be sent to Lathom in his stead.”
“Why?”
“You’re the slyest fox in Pendle, as I’ve for some time been supposing. It was chance, was it, that brought you blundering on the Seminary and his guard?”
Margery reddened. She had said nothing about motives, but Roger was another who sometimes knew too much. And then she saw his forehead crinkle.
“It’s well that we can see eye to eye,” he was saying. “All being said, it was craftily done, and I’ve liking enough for the Seminary to have no wish to see him gutted.” He looked her over with his eyebrows lifting in the familiar style. “Impudence in petticoats is what I’d call you, little cousin.”
Margery began to feel at ease. This was something she knew how to deal with, and her face took on solemnity.
“You call me sly sir? And impudent? Pray sir, whence should I have gleaned such qualities?”
“Our sainted great-uncle might have told you. He told me often enough. Now of this man from Lathom--a gentleman, you say?”
“By looks and speech, certainly.”
“Some description of him?”
Margery gave her mind to that, and then spoke slowly.
“He’s of a good stature, and something broad of shoulder. He holds erect, and his face is lean and brown. His hair of the same, and his eyes hazel. His nose a little out of shape, and when he smiles his teeth shine very white.”
“His age?”
“Young. Twenty perhaps, or a little more.”
“And his dress?”
“Murrey serge, with a cloak of green--likewise trimmed orange, as his beaver is too.”
Roger nodded.
“He seems to have had your best attention.”
She caught his dry tone, and she pouted at him as she saw his meaning; and all she got for that was an impish grin from a cousin who could be as sly as herself.
“I don’t recall the fellow,” he said. “Let us hope his memory does not match yours.”
He strolled to the window and stood with thumbs in girdle looking idly out at the darkening sky.
“Did the fellow ride a chestnut?” he asked suddenly. “With a white blaze on the head?”
“Just that.” Margery was surprised. “But do you know the beast, sir?”
She got no answer, but his steady gaze through the glass served instead, and Margery went running to his side to gape at what she saw. Coming quietly over the gravel were three horsemen, two servants and a gentleman in green.
“God’s Grace!” said Margery, and Roger hooted with laughter at her.
“He comes most happily,” he said, “and now we’ll hear his tale. We, I said,” he added as Margery made for the door. “You may stay by me and hear it too.”
“Not like this?”
“What vexes you?”
“Look at me!”
Her anguished tone set him laughing again. She had gone to him as soon as she had entered the house, and she was still as she had been--muddy and wet, her clothes spattered and her hair awry. She took a quick glance in the hanging mirror and was horrified. But before she could protest again, Tom Peyton was in to announce that Master Francis Hilliard desired speech with Master Nowell.
“In here,” said Roger briefly, and Tom disappeared. Margery shot a despairing glance at Roger and got another grin for her pains.
“The price of impudence,” he whispered cheerfully.
Then, before she could answer that, the latch had clicked again, and the Earl of Derby’s gentleman was bowing in the doorway.
“Master Nowell, sir?”
“The same, sir.”
“And a Justice of the Peace, sir?”
“I have that honour.”
“It’s my cause for intruding, sir. I serve the Earl of Derby and have need of help.”
“Which you shall surely have. However”--Roger’s formal tone eased--”you’ve some dust from the road, and a glass of wine may help you state your need. Come from the door, sir, and feel the fire. Master Hilliard is it?”
“Francis Hilliard, at your service, sir.”
He slipped easily into a smile as he came forward, and Margery, who had pressed into the shadows in the corner, watched approvingly. It was her first leisured view of him, and she noted now his easy carriage and firm step, the hint of humour and vitality in his face. Her first impression, she thought, had been correct. Master Hilliard had much to commend him. And when Roger spoke again her keen ears detected a shade of warmth in his tone, as if he too approved.
“Give me leave, sir,” he said, “to present you to my most cherished cousin, Mistress Margery Whitaker.”
That was handsomely said, and Margery had a quick glow of pleasure at it. She stepped from the shadows, and her first glance was for Roger.
“That’s gracious, sir,” she told him. “I trust I’m worth the cherishing?”
“You trust it: I believe it,” said Roger gallantly.
Margery turned happily to Master Hilliard. She had forgotten for the moment her dusty disarray, and there was colour in her cheeks and a sparkle in her eye as she faced him in the firelight.
“Your servant, sir,” she said formally; but she winged the words with a smile born of pleasure and excitement.
“Madam!”
Master Hilliard got no further than that. She saw his eyes widen and his jaw stiffen, and she guessed that he had not recognized her, had perhaps not even seen her, till she came from the shadows. Now she came quickly to his help.
“I’m in your debt, sir, for service rendered this day. I thank you.”
“And I also.” This was Roger in quick support -of her. “My cousin, sir, has told me of her fall, and I suppose it to be you who brought her to her feet. My thanks go with hers.”
“Aye sir. I brought her to her feet.”
Master Hilliard’s quick glance at Margery told her that he remembered also how he had brought her to her feet. “I trust, madam, that you came to no hurt?”
She saw the mischief in his eyes, and she chose to take it as a challenge.
“None that distresses me, sir. Yet I’ve something to repay when a time shall serve.”
He nodded as though he accepted that. Then his tone became more serious.
“I fear I used you but roughly, madam. And certainly I deserted you in haste and with exceeding ill manners. I must plead a pressing urgency.”
“I guessed it, sir. Pray make no apology for that.”
“You’re gracious.” He turned briskly to Roger. “It’s this, sir, that sets me in need of your help.”
“I’ll not hear of it till you’ve sunk your wine.” There was a firm friendliness in Roger’s voice now. “Pray be seated, sir.”
Master Hilliard obeyed with his eyes on Margery, and it was she who poured his wine and carried it to him. She kept her hand on the glass as he took it, and for a moment she stood gravely at his side.
“You’ll perceive from this,” she told him, “that I do not hold resentments.”
Their eyes met and she saw relief in his. Then she stepped back and was in haste to carry Roger’s wine. He took it courteously, and she had in return a smile that pleased her, and a glance of sardonic amusement which did not disconcert her. She was coming to know her Roger.
She lit the candles herself, for she was not minded to summon servants. Then she gave ear to Master Hilliard’s tale, and she and Roger listened gravely while he related what they could not well admit to knowing already. Margery’s distressing accident, he said, had so engrossed his own and his servants’ attention that the sly papist had seized his moment and made off; only on that account, said Master Hilliard, had he departed so abruptly and discourteously.
He turned aside from his tale to ask forgiveness for that. Apparently he was reassured, for he was soon at his tale again. He had ridden hard, he said, in pursuit of the rogue but had not so much as set eyes on him; and soon it had been plain that in such a country he would need local help if search were to succeed; he had therefore stopped at the first house he had come to, and had there inquired for the next Justice.
“Which, sir,” he ended, “is how I come to be here. And you’ll no doubt perceive what help it is I ask. This Southworth is a State prisoner, and of some importance.”
Roger did not answer directly. He walked thoughtfully to the window, where the light had almost gone and the glass was showing more of the room’s reflection than of the darkening sky beyond. For a moment he stood in thought, peering through the glass; then he swept the curtains across and turned to the room again.
“If you could find nothing of him by day,” he said, “we’d surely find as little by night. It must stay till morning. Meanwhile, sir, you are our guest. I’ll have your horses put up and your servants seen to. For your own comfort, my cousin here shall take order.”
Margery was on her feet at once in high approval of this. Nor did Master Hilliard say it nay, and in a very few minutes he had been conducted to a bedchamber while his own servants ran busily to open his bags and see to his comforts. Margery assured herself that all was in hand, and then began to think of her own needs. In the talk she had contrived to forget her untidiness, and the returning thought of it appalled her. She almost ran to the stair, and she was three steps up when Roger detained her. She turned, and stood looking down on him as he came to the foot of the stair.
“A pretty case we’re in,” he remarked pleasantly, and she knew the sardonic mood had him. “It has its dangers. Two things I count fortunate.”
“You relieve me, sir.” Her expression was matching his.. “These things being?”
“The one, that you seem in some manner to have acquired this young man’s goodwill. The other---“
“I’m all attention, sir---“
“Is a certain talent for deception that seems natural in you.”
She nodded, and her retort came crisply.
“It derives, no doubt, from our sainted great-uncle.”
She stayed for no more, but ran lightly up the stair. His delighted chuckle followed her.
She came to her bedchamber, looked at her reflection in the mirror, and shuddered; and thereafter she was at more than usual pains with her tiring. It was deplorable that this should have come upon her when the kirtle of flame-tint satin was but half made, but there was no help for that; she must do what she could with the black saye, and she did it with zest and care. It was, she told herself, not too bad; and if she herself had seen it too often, at least Master Hilliard had not. And there was some silver lace that graced it now, and some more on the sarcenet gown. Master Hilliard, perhaps, might have seen worse.
Apparently he had. Margery was down the stair the last of the three, and there was Roger brave in his wine-red velvet, languid in the glow from the fire; and there at his side was Master Hilliard, elegant now in scarlet velvet, laced with gold and slashed with yellow satin which matched the vivid starch in his slim collar. No country fellow, this Master Hilliard, and not a man to travel with half-filled bags; that was as Margery had foreseen.
She was not, it seemed, as he had foreseen. He turned politely as she entered; and then he checked and stood rigid, his eyes fast on her as she stood silent in the doorway.
“You keep your eyes upon me, sir?”
Her tone made it a question, and she thought to have him in confusion with it. But he had more composure than she had guessed, and he turned it deftly.
“Madam--if this were the Great Hall at Lathom, and there were three score of us within, I do assure you they’d all have eyes upon you. Madam, my compliments!”
It was bravely said, and Margery was excited as she sought a quick answer.
“I find a courtier, sir---“ It was the best she could devise. “I had not expected it, in Pendle. Sir, I return your compliments.”
He was quick to bow, and at once she took the chance of that and showed him the elegance of her curtsey. She stayed in it, knowing it to become her, and her sparkling eyes met his. From the fireside, Roger raised his glass.
“You make pretty play,” he said. “I’d add my own compliments if I thought they were wanted.”
They turned to him at once, both on the edge of speech. Each checked to give way to the other, and it was Roger himself who had the first word.
“Enough,” he said. “Just now there’s a greater need. Let’s to supper!”
It was a happy meal, even though the talk languished. They were hungry enough for that, and it did nothing to spoil their harmony; and afterwards, when they were settled at ease in the parlour, .the bright fire brought content and the wine lured them into talk. Master Hilliard showed an engaging interest. He wanted to know more of Margery, who she was, what things pleased her, and how she spent her days. She let him have the answers, for she was at least as curious about him, and she supposed that what she gave she might expect to have returned. So, while Roger sat in watchful silence, there was question and answer, thrust and parry, probe and evasion; and from the sum of it, Margery gleaned what she sought.
This Master Hilliard, she learned, was from Warwickshire, where his father was a gentleman of some substance. There was, however, an elder brother who would inherit the estate, so that this Francis had his way to make in the world. On his mother’s side he was kin to the Listers of Westby, and when he had had an invitation to visit them he had at once accepted it. He had spent last Christmas at Westby, and had found liking enough for the North Parts to tempt him to leave Warwickshire; he had found also the opportunity to do so, and he had seized it with the promptness that becomes a younger son. For while he was at Westby, hospitality for a night was sought by a gentleman returning to Lancaster, a Master Covell---
“Covell?” Roger cut sharply into the talk at that. “Tom Covell, would it be? Or Edmund?”
“Why sir, I did hear him called Tom. I know nothing of an Edmund.”
Roger laughed.
“You will, when you’ve cause to lodge at Lancaster. Know you Tom Covell’s work?”
“I understood him to be Governor of the Castle there.”
“God’s Grace, man!” Roger laughed uproariously. “That’s Tom Covell to the last inch. He’d laugh himself to jelly if he heard it.”
Master Hilliard began to look grave.
“Do I learn, sir, that I have been cozened?”
“Not so much as that, and there’s no cause for heat. Tom Covell’s the County’s jester. Besides, there’s colour in that tale. Lancaster Castle has the gaol in it, and Tom governs that. Not precisely the Castle, you understand, but the Castle gaol. The old rogue!”
“Rogue, sir?”
Again Roger laughed.
“Take not that to heart either, for I’ve salted what I’ve said. Tom Covell’s of the best, and he orders that gaol as none has ever done before him. He’s rogue only when it comes to costs. He must be waxing fat, he and his precious brother Edmund. Edmund is host of the George and Tom sends him his custom. And when Master Sheriff has to feed the judges and their crew at the Assizes, Tom will see to it--with Edmund’s help and at a price! Rogue, did I say? I was Sheriff of this County last year, and Tom Covell had some eighty pounds from me for it.”
“Eighty pounds?” Margery sounded appalled. “Eighty pounds, sir? And for what, if you please
?”
“Meat for lawyers and hay for horses. Or would it be the other way? But we’re losing this tale. Tom Covell was at Westby, you say?”
“Aye sir. At Christmas.” Master Hilliard took up his tale again. He had liked Master Covell. They had all liked Master Covell, and he had been pressed to lengthen his stay. One consequence of that had been a letter in his own hand, commending Master Francis Hilliard to the Earl of Derby as a gentleman worthy of employment. Master Hilliard, scenting advancement in this, had forthwith hastened to Lathom and presented the letter; and His Lordship had read it with respect.
“He would,” said Roger. “Covell’s no fool. And he’s of some weight in the County. Besides the gaol, he’s a Coroner and a Justice of both Peace and Quorum. A letter from him would be needed by any man. And what followed?”
What followed had been the appointment of Master Hilliard as a Gentleman of His Lordship’s Household, and it had been in that capacity that he had been sent to Marton to escort the papist Southworth.
“Whom you seem to have lost,” said Roger dryly. “I doubt if it will please milord.”
But Master Hilliard was not perturbed.
“That’s as may be,” he answered easily. “There was naught else I could have done.”
But Roger remained dry.
“Which is to say,” he commented, “that you found more interest in Margery here than in your Seminary.”
“Am I then in fault for that?”
“I did not say you were. But then I know Margery and milord does not. He might see it differently.”
“His Lordship must surely---“
“Must does not apply to His Lordship. I’m not unfriendly in this, but I advise you to show some zeal. Precisely what help did you suppose I could give?”
“I had thought, sir, that you were best placed to order search and inquiry. I do not know this Pendle.”
“Who does? But as to search, that’s to waste time if you mean by it no more than to ride at large and hope to sight the fellow. Inquiry I’ll put in train. It’s best done in shadow. As for knowing Pendle---“
Roger paused, a half smile on his lips.
