Mist Over Pendle

by Robert Neill

  Roger evidently considered that he had done his duty when he led Margery in the Galliard. After that he left her to fend for herself; and she fended very well in a gay press of yeomen’s sons and daughters. She learnt the Brawl; she learnt their quick blunt repartee; she learnt the purpose of the sprigs of mistletoe that hid so coyly in the hanging evergreens. In no long time Margery was enjoying herself; this sort of Christmas seemed to her to have much to commend it, and when she Said as much to a red-haired young yeoman who was just then at her side, he laughed excitedly and told her that if she wanted to learn more she should hold tight to Old Ball’s tail; nor, as he swept her again into the Brawl, would he tell her what he meant by that odd remark.

  Then came supper, crowded, generous, and informal. Margery, in the middle of an excited group, found herself trying to keep up the talk while she dealt hungrily with a great basin of what looked like yellow cream and was, she learned, the traditional frumenty--wheat, boiled in milk and flavoured with cinnamon and sugar.

  With it was a queer oatmeal bread which she had not seen before; they told her it was called jannock, and that the proper thing to do was to dip it in the frumenty and then eat it while it dripped. Then came what they called mincepies, shaped like a .manger to tell them of a Birth, and stuffed with every kind of spice to tell them of Gifts that had come from the East. There was cold goose with wheaten bread; and nuts and sugar and plums; and mug after mug of the prime October to help it down. Then, when all was done and the hungriest stuffed to repletion, the clatter died and the talk sank to whispers; and without any order given, the company moved from the centre of the room and pressed themselves against the dark panels of the walls. Then a trumpet blared and drums banged noisily; the doors were flung wide, and into the room, tumbling in joyous somersaults, his motley a wild flurry of blue and yellow, came the man who meant Christmas--the crazy Lord of Misrule.

  He had a thunderous welcome, and pretended to be angered by it. He belaboured the nearest with his sceptre--an inflated bladder, swinging by a cord from a two-foot stick--and he roared lustily for silence. Since they were so insolent, he told them, they should do penance in proper form. He stalked fiercely round the room, pulling his painted face into grotesque frowns, and Margery, sitting cross-legged on the floor in the front of the throng, suddenly hiccoughed with excitement and amusement. She was promptly punished with the bladder, a great thundering slap that knocked her off her balance and sent her sprawling against her red-haired yeoman, while the room rocked in a gale of laughter. Again the Lord of Misrule waved his bladder for silence, and slowly the laughter died until he could be heard again. They should, he said, do penance by paying homage to his horse--a marvellous proper horse, he said, who was named Old Ball; and whatever more the Lord of Misrule may have meant to say was lost for ever in the stamping and cheering that greeted this.

  Again the doors were set wide; again the Lord of Misrule plied his bladder for silence; again the hush throbbed with expectancy. Then, cavorting through the doorway, neighing, kicking, and jumping clear from the floor, came the monstrous image of a horse. The stamping and cheering rose to madness, with shrieks and whistles and bangings of mugs. Margery took one look at Old Ball and then swayed helplessly against her neighbour, hurting her ribs with laughter. Old Ball was a huge horse’s head, crazily done in wood and canvas; the round bottoms of wine-bottles formed his eyes, and his teeth were painted wooden pegs; below, two stout sticks took the weight and pretended to be his front legs; a great sheet of canvas made his body, and concealed the man who was his hind legs and who worked his tail and jaws. For both moved; there was a great tail of red-bound rope, which flapped wildly; and there was a lower jaw which moved creakingly up and down; and from out of this fantastic mouth there stuck a great iron ladle, gaily hung with ribbons.

  The Lord of Misrule swung his bladder, and Old Ball came prancing obediently; and at a shouted command he went romping round the circle, rearing on his hind legs and whinneying noisily, while the applause came in deafening waves. Then, as the laughter began to die, Old Ball went snorting at a stout and bearded yeoman; the jaw moved with a creak, and the yeoman’s arm was seized by the painted teeth. He led the laughter himself, while he felt in his pouch; from it he produced two pennies, which he flung into the beribboned ladle. Old Ball promptly released him, and the ladle was suddenly withdrawn between the painted jaws; from somewhere within the beast there was a metallic clang as the pennies dropped, and then the ladle shot out again as Old Ball went snorting after his next victim. This was a portly gentleman in murrey velvet, who jovially produced a silver shilling; another yeoman paid his twopence; Roger was the next, and flung a whole crown into the ladle; a yeoman’s wife and somebody’s fair-haired daughter gave a penny each; the wife of an Esquire produced a florin; and Old Ball continued inexorably round the circle. But the crowd was growing restless, and began to stir. Someone flung a coin; another followed, and another; and soon coins were being flung at the ladle from all sides, and the Lord of Misrule was jumping wildly after those that fell. Then the climax came. The musicians who had played for the dancing suddenly struck up again, and Old Ball went stamping round the room to the thump of a marching tune. The staid and portly moved hurriedly aside, and the rest rushed wildly at the tail of red-wrapped rope; as many as could get a grip hung fiercely to it and the rest hung as fiercely to them; and soon three-quarters of the company were solemnly tramping a circle in tow of that crazy horse. Then the music came faster--and faster--and faster still. The solemn tramp became a jogging trot; the trot became an unsteady run; and soon there was a wild and whirling romp, till the man in the canvas horse stumbled and fell headlong. His followers sprawled on top of him, and their followers fell across them in a wild hooting chaos while the music ended abruptly in a screech of discord.

  Margery was gasping for breath. Her head was in someone’s back, and a laughing nut-brown girl was sprawling across her legs. At her side, the red-haired yeoman, one arm still round Margery, was disentangling himself from a plump girl in green. Across the room, Anne Heber, who had gone into it with the best of them, was being hauled to her feet by Roger. Everywhere fathers were grinning and blowing, while mothers looked anxiously at sons and reprovingly at daughters. And girls who had not yet extricated themselves were being given swift reminders that the mistletoe still hung in the greenery above.

  Then Tom Heber was on his feet, hot and happy, with a face like a Harvest Moon. He banged noisily with a mug, and the clamour fell away as the company ranged themselves against the walls once more. Tom saw it done, and then he walked, with what steadiness he could summon, to the hearth. In silence he laid on the stones a silver crown and a quart of ale, and Margery noticed that this space had been left clear; there was a press round every wall, but the space by the hearth was clear.

  The chatter died to expectancy again, and they stood and sat and shuffled, while breath was regained, kirtles smoothed, and doublets pulled into shape. Then, loud and brazen, the clock struck twelve, and the First Day of Christmas was come. There was the inevitable cheer, and then silence again. Evidently they were expecting something, and a quiet buzz of talk broke out as they waited.

  Margery, squatting on the floor next to the brown-faced girl, asked what was to come next. The girl abandoned a hopeless attempt to smooth her collar, and explained; they were waiting, she said, for the man who should first come in by the outer door and carry Christmas with him. The quality of this first-comer, she went on, was a matter of importance, for if he was a mean fellow it would be but a mean Christmas; everybody was therefore hoping that he would be a man of at least some quality. Margery nodded, and began to feel the excitement that was mounting again in the room, while the nut-brown girl went chattering on. There would not be long to wait, she said, for there were always some who went a-roving with this intent; but the thing was never contrived, and none could tell who it might be. But whoever it was he would have the crown and the quart of ale as his fee, and thereafter he would be t
he guest of honour in what---

  The nut-brown girl stopped short in her sentence and cocked an ear. Others did the like, and the buzz of talk died like a quenched candle. Unmistakably, through bolted door and shuttered window, the clop of horses could be heard. Surprise came into faces, and here and there a man came tensely to his feet. First-comers were wont to come on foot, and this might not be a reveller.

  The horses came on and then stopped. Boots crunched on the gravel, and then a thunderous knocking split the silence. Men looked at one another, and a great voice came booming through the oak.

  “Open,” it cried, “by the sainted Christopher! Here’s Christmas on a horse! Who’ll draw bolt for him?”

  That was better. Faces relaxed and smiles appeared. This was a jovial voice, a rich and hearty voice, clearly proclaiming that if its owner was not a reveller he soon would be. There was a buzz and stir from the company, and in it Roger’s voice came clearly across the room.

  “God’s Grace!” he was saying. “Of all the bawling rogues! It’s Tom Covell.”

  Then Tom Heber went rolling to the door, his Anne beside him, while the company stood, craning necks and stretching toes to see the better. Jointly, the Hebers drew the bolt and turned the latch, and the door swung open.

  “God ‘a’mercy!” said the jovial voice. “I was fearing you were drunk, or else abed.”

  He stepped through the arch, and he seemed to fill it as he came. He stopped on the threshold to pull his beaver off, and he stood there plain to view: a great mountain of a man, broad and corpulent; a man of perhaps fifty years, with a round, red face, a grizzled, brown beard, and deep brown eyes that rolled and twinkled merrily.

  Tom Heber did his best at a bow.

  “Master Covell?” he asked.

  “Now who else should it be, hey?” The man’s laugh came rolling out, as rich and hearty as his voice. “One look at me and I’m known for life. And I mind you from last year. You’re Tom Heber. And this your wife?”

  “Aye, but let that bide.” Anne Heber was answering him herself. “What signifies, Master Covell, is that you’re first-comer here. Your ale and crown he ready.”

  “First-comer, hey?” His laugh came rolling as he led boisterously to the hearth. “Did I not say I was Christmas on a horse?”

  Again his great laugh rolled out, and the company found it infectious. Margery felt it too, but her curiosity had roused now, and it quenched her laughter. She was asking herself what had brought this man to Marton at this strange hour--this man, she remembered, who ruled the gaol at Lancaster, and had stood sponsor to Frank Hilliard. “Whatever his purpose, he bore proof of a wet road and a wetter night; his cloak was black and soft with rain, and the wet mud was dripping from his boots as he took his stance on the hearth, his back to the fire and his red face beaming.

  He drained his quart at a single draught, and thereby established himself with this company; the yeoman had respect for a man who could do that. Then he blinked, and peered at the empty mug.

  “That’s a poor pot,” he growled, and beamed at them again.

  “How?” Anne Heber was smiling at his antics.

  “Thick-bottomed as a milk wench. Leaves no room for ale.”

  In the roar that followed this, Anne gestured to the hovering servants; and at that, Tom Covell set the silver crown spinning on his great hand.

  “If there’s to be more ale, I’ll part with the crown,” he said. “Some wench shall have it.”

  “Aye, to be sure.” Anne was laughing at him as she spoke. “But which wench?”

  “Why, the prettiest.”

  Her husband guffawed.

  “Aye, the prettiest. But which is that, hey?”

  “The one with the best legs.”

  The answer came with a grin, and suddenly Tom Covell sent the crown spinning across the floor, to be scampered for by all who cared to chase it. His laugh rolled out again as he saw the crush, and he watched it genially, swaying gently on the hearth, his hands behind his back and his legs planted apart. Margery stayed out of the rush and let the crown go by. She was considering this man, appraising him critically; a man who was friend to Roger and benefactor to Frank Hilliard might prove important in her affairs; and a man who held such places in the County must surely be more than the roisterer he seemed.

  A servant came hurrying with more ale, and that put Master Covell in mind of something else.

  “I’ve two horses on your gravel,” he told Tom Heber. “They were sweating, and soon they’ll be chilled. I’ve a servant too--of a sort. He’s chilled all the time.”

  “Pest take me! I’d forgot.” Tom Heber turned to the man who had brought the ale. “Wake those idle grooms and let them see to the horses. And yourself, take Master Covell’s servant and make the rogue drunk.”

  “That’s no labour,” said Master Covell helpfully. “He’s quicklime in his guts, and steams at the first quart.”

  He pulled at his second ale, and then beamed on the company again.

  “What’a plague do we stay for?” he asked. “Is there no music here?”

  The drums went thumping at his word, and in no time he had them all dancing again, and dancing now with an added zest, as if they had drawn new spirits from the exuberant fellow. The red-haired lad swooped on Margery and pulled her gaily into the dance. She went with a laugh, but under the laugh her thoughts were stirring; the feeling was growing in her that more than chance had brought this traveller by night; and as soon as the dance was ended she made apologies and slipped away. It was time, she thought, to have a word with Roger.

  But Roger had disappeared; and so had Tom Covell.

  Chapter 28: “TO DRIVE AWAY SORROW”

  Christmas Day was now a half-hour old, and the crowd was thinning as one after another made ready for journey home. Tom Heber was wandering about offering last mugs of ale and Anne was busy with the stirrup-cups of soup. Outside, there was noise and bustle as horses were led from the crowded stables; inside, there was talk and flurry as waiting husbands stamped impatiently and wives ran scolding after lagging daughters. Margery discovered her velvet gown, long since discarded in the heat, and slipped it on; she drew it tightly round her, and went strolling through the great door to see what might be seen.

  The rain had cleared, but the night was dark and raw. Lanterns had been set by the door, and the gravel seemed filled with horses. Everywhere men were mounting, some with ease and some with trouble; for the ale had been strong and the air was cold, and not every yeoman found his stirrup at the first attempt. But soon all were up, and wives and daughters were being helped up too, to sit pillion behind husbands and brothers. Servants were running with the lighted horse-lanterns, one to each rider, and soon the lanterns were in clusters as neighbours joined to ride in groups for their greater safety. There was shouting and laughter, calls of thanks and farewell, and then the Hebers were waving from the warmly lighted doorway. Margery went to join them there as the hoofbeats receded. Then the noise grew less, and soon the lanterns had dwindled to pin-points that jogged and danced. Anne Heber yawned and led the way in.

  Margery followed, undecided what to do. She was still wondering how Roger was occupied; he was surely with Tom Covell, and something was surely portended by this midnight arrival. Tom Covell, she remembered, was a Coroner and a Justice of the Peace and Quorum, as well as being Governor of the gaol at Lancaster; such a man would hardly ride through this, of all nights in the year, without a purpose.

  A snore disturbed her thoughts. Heat and ale had overcome Tom Heber at last; he sprawled, open-mouthed, in a chair, his legs stuck stiffly out and his red face twitching. Margery considered him thoughtfully, asking herself how she would have fared if Fate had sent her to a cousin cast in such a mould, instead of to her own Roger. She knew how easily it could have been so; for Tom Heber, not Roger Nowell, was the pattern of a country gentleman.

  She looked further. Anne Heber had disappeared and Margery guessed that she was seeing to it herself that the ch
ildren were safely in their beds; that would no doubt take a little time, and Margery’s eyes moved to the firmly shut door of a little parlour which had been given to Roger as his own; it was private to him while he was in this house, and Margery had little doubt that he and Tom Covell were in it now. For a moment she considered. Then she tossed her head wilfully and marched boldly at the door; at need, she told herself, she could show a proper surprise at seeing Master Covell within.

  She tapped politely and then walked straight in. By the little hearth, Roger was leaning in his favoured pose, and Tom Covell was filling the elbow-chair; he was something more than filling it, as was apparent when he began to heave himself out of it.

  “Don’t curtsey,” he told her cheerfully, as he saw her point her toe in preparation. “If you do, I’ll have to bow, and I’m a deal too fat for scrapings.”

  He was on his feet, rocking a little and breathing heavily, and his grin sent Margery into a smile.

  “We’ll give you absolution,” said Roger from the hearth. “But here’s the lass herself. And here’s Tom Covell, and you’ll have heard talk of him.”

  “Aye, sir.” Margery’s amusement was growing as she turned again to Master Covell.

  “Your servant, sir.” She said it formally, and she only just checked the curtsey that would have followed so naturally.

  “Servant!” he growled. “You should have let me say that. I say it to all the girls, and when they’re as pretty as you, I mean it.”

  He eased himself into the chair again, leaving her without an answer. Tom Covell was something new in Margery’s experience. Her mother’s circle had not included men like this, and the thought of him suddenly dropped among them came quickly to her, and sent her into gurgling laughter; then she recovered her manners and eyed Tom Covell anxiously. But he seemed delighted; his grin had broadened and he was sitting back, wheezing and chuckling.