Love and Money

by Phyllis Bentley

  “If my father had been clad in such armour as this you would never have slain him!”

  At this moment Lockwood’s second arrow took him clean through the head, and he fell on his back dead in the trickling water. Quarmby’s shaft, flying rather less accurately than his companions’, hit Sir John’s little son between shoulder and neck as the child stood gaping up at the mill in stupefied horror, and he too staggered and fell.

  Then came uproar. The men shouted, the women screamed; Sir John’s servants came out of their daze and shot at the murderers; the noise reached the townsfolk going into church, who came running to help their lord. The three young men slipped away out of the mill while the Elland folk were busy carrying the dead father and the dying son into Elland Hall, but soon the whole town was roused, and came after them, some bearing bows and arrows and some whatever weapons—old staffs and rusty billhooks—they could find. They came within bowshot of the murderers, who had perforce taken back ways through the town, at the foot of the Ainleys hill; the young men turned and stood their ground, and the arrows flew through the air. Having driven their pursuers back some way by their good shooting, the murderers, when their arrows were all spent, got away into the Ainleys wood and hurried up the hill, scrambling breathlessly over the rough steep rocky ground. Unlike his usual graceful self, Quarmby seemed slow, and twice he stumbled.

  “Hasten, cousin, hasten!” said Lockwood impatiently.

  He seized Quarmby’s arm to pull him up and found it soaked in blood. He looked down in alarm; his cousin’s face was drawn and pale. One of the townsfolk’s arrows had caught him in the side; he had pulled it out but the wound was deep and wide.

  “I can go no more, Wilkin,” he murmured.

  For answer Lockwood threw off his bow, and with Beaumont’s help contrived to lift the wounded man up on his back, clasping Quarmby’s hands about his neck. The shouts and calls of their pursuers had drawn much nearer even in this brief pause, and Lockwood and Beaumont tried to quicken their pace. But it was not easy. The wounded man’s grip slackened and parted, his head lolled limply on Lock-wood’s shoulder; it was all Beaumont could do to hold him in place. At last with a heavy sigh Quarmby slipped sideways and fell to the ground. He lay on his back where he had fallen between two lichened stones and gazed up at his cousins despairingly; his left side was soaked in blood, his mouth drooped open, his golden hair seemed to have lost its lustre. Both Lockwood and Beaumont knew, as they looked down at him, that he was dying.

  “Leave me,” panted Quarmby in a whisper. “Leave me with speed.” His fingers groped, he pulled out of the pouch at his belt a purse and held it weakly up to them. “Take this gold—it would grieve me if my enemies had it. Remember me in your times of mirth,” he added, trying to force his pale lips into a smile.

  Lockwood looked around; a couple of Elland townsfolk came into sight downhill through the trees, fortunately proceeding in the wrong direction. He turned to Beaumont, mutely consulting him. Beaumont nodded.

  They took Quarmby up between them and laid him carefully beneath a low-growing oak where the grass was thick. His eyes were closed, he murmured faintly: “Fare you well.”

  “Farewell, Hugh,” said Beaumont gruffly.

  “We will come for you at nightfall,” said Lockwood.

  Quarmby made no reply. They made the sign of the cross over him and left him.

  Without his weight it seemed that they could double their pace; they rushed up the steep hill, topped the Ainleys, and ran in easy strides down the long slopes towards Huddersfield. Here they were on their own lord’s ground and felt safe and among friends. They swung off to the right to avoid the town, then pulled up sharply and swerved again, not wishing to go near the home of the Quarmbys. Was it fancy, or did Lockwood really hear at this moment a long high scream of agony from beyond the hill? Certainly the Elland townsfolk, having failed to catch Lockwood and Beaumont on their own side of the Ainleys, turned back through the wood and, guided by the chattering of crows and magpies about the tree where he lay hid, found Quarmby in his green bower and slew him out of hand.

  5

  It is a commentary on the lawlessness of the age that Lockwood and Beaumont were never brought to trial, though some half-dozen unlucky wretches were thrown into prison in the following years for having sheltered them after they had feloniously murdered Sir John Elland. All these persons—amongst whom, by the way, we find one called Thomas Litster, a name which shows that he was a dyer of cloth—were acquitted and released. This, I suppose, reveals what the Yorkshire justices thought of the Elland feud; I gather that, though in their opinion murderers must be found and dealt with, they did not care very much for the older Sir John Elland. Certainly somebody must have given shelter to Lockwood and Beaumont while the Sheriff’s men sought for them, for a period of time seems to have elapsed before the next scene of the story, which took place on the last day of Lockwood’s life. In the interim the poor Elland child died, and the name of Elland died with him. In default of male heir all the Elland estates fell to his sister (or perhaps she was a female cousin) who presently married and took the estates with her into another family. This family, by the way, holds the Elland estates to this day, six hundred years after they thus acquired them.

  A month or two after the murder by the mill, then, Lock-wood steps out of a thicket on to a bridge, some five miles away from his home, at the foot of a steep hill on the far side of Huddersfield. He walks right into a couple of young ladies, relatives of his on the distaff side, who at once seize upon him in a flutter. Where is he going? Why has he not visited them lately? Why doesn’t he join Adam Beaumont who has found a good hiding-place in the upper reaches of the Holme valley, and is enjoying himself hunting the red deer in a safe and carefree fashion? Why won’t Lockwood accompany them now to Adam Beaumont instead of hanging around in places which are well known as his haunts to the Sheriff’s men?

  Lockwood puts all these questions aside with his usual sombre politeness. There is a reason why he does not wish to leave this neighbourhood, but it is not one of which he wishes to speak to the young lady cousins. They, however, know it, for it is common gossip, and the prettier of the two, pouting and tossing her head—for Wilkin is a handsome young man and she always has a slightly wistful feeling about him—cries daringly:

  “ Proceed no further to your women, but come back with us now to Adam Beaumont!”

  She says women so as not to be too particular, for she is a little afraid of her haughty cousin, but she knows very well it is only one woman whose society Lockwood frequents. Lockwood sees that she knows, and an angry frown darkens still further his sombre face. His politeness becomes icy; he assures them, in a cold tone, that he will join Adam Beaumont almost at once, indeed before he next eats and drinks. Meanwhile, however, he is engaged on pressing business and must beg leave to be excused. He bows and goes; the prettier cousin falls silent, and walks along with tears in her eyes. If only Wilkin could have settled down and forgotten all this Elland affair! Such nonsense, really! Now he is sure to be caught and thrown into prison, in danger of his life.

  “That woman will betray him,” she remarks viciously at length, biting her underlip.

  The plainer cousin, the rather short girl with nutbrown hair, says nothing, but she disagrees. If William Lockwood had condescended to love her, she would not betray him for anything in life.

  The truth was that during the first weeks after the mill-dam murder, when the pursuit of the law was very hot after him, Lockwood had hidden himself with the tenant of Cannel Hall, a small place some ten miles over hill and dale from his own home, and while there had come to love his host’s young daughter.

  It was not love at first, perhaps; just the pleasantly sensual feeling one gets when stroking and playfully teasing a pretty kitten. The soft fur, the half-frightened, half-delighted eyes, the quick graceful movements, the harmless bites from pretty teeth, presently the loving purr, the gentle caress, the adoring look—these were the kind of ple
asures Lockwood enjoyed at first from Aline, who was very fair, small and gentle, with large grey eyes. Lockwood had to keep close while the search for him was keen, so he perforce spent long hours about the house with nothing to do save polish the handle of his dagger. This lack of occupation did not suit his impatient nature and he was unhappy; besides, he had lived for a long time with one burning ambition, to wipe out the family of Elland, and now that was accomplished, there seemed nothing left to do; his life was ashes. He felt a keen regret for Quarmby—he had not realised before how much that gay debonair lad had meant to him—and he missed, though less acutely, the sturdy cheerfulness of Beaumont. His host, a social inferior and an irresolute, uneasy man who had owed Lockwood’s father money, was nervous about keeping him at Cannel, and his hostess, an obstinate pug-faced woman, was always nagging her husband to send him away. (We are never told this man’s name; let us call him Cannel after his hall.) Only that Cannel was even more afraid of Lock-wood’s haughty temper and ready dagger than of his wife’s tongue, he would have turned his embarrassing guest out gladly, and he often let drop hints about the doings of the Sheriff’s men and the dangers of the neighbourhood, which Lockwood did not take, answering them only with a full ironic gaze straight into the man’s watery eyes. So Lockwood felt friendless, weary, dull; if a kitten offered itself, why not play with it to while away the time?

  So it was at first; but when he held her trembling young body in his arms, when he coaxed her to murmur words of love which he had first to teach her, when he gazed into her wonderfully starry eyes, his feeling changed. He spoke to her of the deep troubles of his soul—of his father’s death and Quarmby’s, of his present lassitude—at first tentatively, then with a full gush of expression, for she seemed to understand. Her beautiful eyes reflected something of his own anguish; she wound her charming young arms about his neck and gently stroked his crisp dark hair. He had never confided in anyone like this before; the release, the relief, were quite astonishing. Also, though he had had women before, he had never enjoyed possessing any as he enjoyed his sweet and loving Aline. All the tenderness, the chivalry, of his strong manly nature was called into play by her youth and innocence. He resented on her behalf the rough speech and careless manners of Cannel Hall, the perpetual loud scoldings of her mother; he wished to take her away and place her in surroundings more suitable to her delicate beauty. But as he was a hunted murderer that was at present impossible. All they could do was to seek a few moments of solitude together. They formed the habit of slipping away separately from the house and meeting at a hollow oak tree in the park of a larger hall nearby.

  What Aline’s feelings were in all this we shall perhaps presently discover.

  The first written account of the Elland Feud which is still in existence dates from the sixteenth century, a couple of hundred years later than the events, and there is a certain Shakespearean ring in these meetings by a hollow oak, and their discovery by the park-keeper. Whether there were parks and keepers of parks in 1351 I really do not know, but somebody, whether a park-keeper or a forest-keeper or what not, saw from a distance Lockwood and Aline meet once or twice, contrived to approach near enough to recognise them, and spread the news around. So presently with a very sour face Cannel told Lockwood that he had been seen in the park with his daughter, that his present abode and habit of meeting her at the oak were widely known and had reached the Sheriff’s ears, and that if he valued his life he had better remove himself forthwith from the neighbourhood and stay away. There was nothing for it but to go at once, and Lock-wood left the hall, catching only a glimpse of a pale little face round the edge of a door, as he did so.

  He hid himself elsewhere, no doubt with one or other of the men later indicted for harbouring him. But after a week or two he could no longer endure to be without a sight of Aline. By back lanes, woods, unfrequented moors, he made his way towards Cannel, and so met his two young lady cousins at the bridge.

  It is a failing in haughty natures which know themselves to have some nobility, to despise people of commoner views and yet not calculate where those commoner views will lead their owners. Lockwood despised his former host at Cannel most heartily, but it never occurred to him that Cannel might betray him. In point of fact Cannel seems to have put up more resistance in the matter than might have been expected.

  He held Cannel, house and land, as a tenant from a man named Bosville, and at this juncture Bosville was Deputy Sheriff of Yorkshire. When Bosville heard the gossip about Lockwood and Aline, he had sent for Cannel and told him roundly that if Cannel harboured Lockwood without informing him, he would put him out of his tenancy; on the other hand, if Cannel would send word when Lockwood next visited the neighbourhood, Bosville would make him a handsome present. Cannel, most uncomfortably conscious that Lockwood was at that moment sitting eating his dinner in Cannel Hall, swore a great many oaths that he would do his best endeavours in the matter. He might, of course, have betrayed the young man at once and taken the present, but in spite of all his wife said he could not make up his mind to do so. Old Lockwood had been good to him about the money, which was still unpaid—his murder had been shocking—when all was said and done Wilkin was a fine handsome lad—Aline liked him. The Ellands’ overlord was on top at present, it was true, but these matters were always uncertain, the Beaumonts’ lord might rise in the King’s favour soon and then Lockwood would be pardoned and powerful again. Besides—and this was the crux of the matter—young sprigs such as Lockwood, kinsmen to knights, were dangerous; they would out with their daggers if a puff of wind ventured to cross them. Cannel had no desire for bloodshed, especially his own. He therefore held his tongue about Lockwood’s whereabouts, then went quickly home and cleared him out of the house in a hurry, as has been related.

  He was therefore simply horrified when, only a fortnight or so later, as he was out on his land arguing with Bosville’s steward about a matter of strayed sheep, he saw Lockwood, his bow on his back, slipping down the hill through the trees towards Cannel Hall. For a moment he did not know what to do, but stood still, perplexed and gaping. Fortunately— from his point of view—he said nothing, for Bosville’s steward turned quickly and gave him a keen suspicious look and asked him outright if that was not the murderer Lock-wood.

  “It is he of a certainty,” admitted Cannel unhappily, trying to put a show of eagerness into face and voice. “Now we must consider how to give the Deputy Sheriff due knowledge thereof.”

  “We will go together,” said the steward grimly.

  They went off at once, and as it chanced met the Deputy Sheriff and his men no great distance away—the lady cousins had talked about the meeting by the bridge, and it had reached the ears of enemies who were haunting the neighbourhood in the hope of trapping the felon.

  Meanwhile Lockwood had reached the hall. Cannel’s wife was busy with some roasting of fowls for the steward’s entertainment. Lockwood slipped in unnoticed through the bustle, and there in a corner he found Aline, whose pale sad face took on a look of mingled fear and ecstasy when she saw him. She put her finger on her lip to command silence and drew him into a more private place, and there the lovers fell into each other’s arms, clasping each other as if they could never be near enough however close, and kissing and embracing with all the passion which had mounted in their hearts during their absence from each other’s company. Aline’s eyes, in which Lockwood saw himself mirrored as she lay in his arms, had that strange look of anguish which sometimes wrung his heart and even a little perplexed him with its reflection of his own misery, but she clung to him as though she would never let go, and rained kisses upon his face and neck.

  Then suddenly Lockwood started and raised his head. He listened, and then sprang up and looked out. Bosville’s men were gathering about the house.

  We do not know what Cannel Hall was like in those far-off days, nor whether this room in which Lockwood was trapped was an upper chamber, a solar with a window perhaps at each end giving a view of the back and front ap
proaches to the house, or whether it was some kind of barn at the other end of the hall. If the place was the solar, the drawing-room of the day, perhaps a piece of tapestry which Aline was embroidering lay there, with all the tools necessary for the work; if it was a barn, tools hung on the wall. Whichever it was, if it had a door we can imagine Lockwood hastily barricading it with bench or table; that it had windows—though not of course glassed—large enough to shoot an arrow through, we can be sure. Bosville himself, a round, red-faced man with an appearance of bonhomie belied by his greedy little eyes, had now joined his men; he called out for Lockwood, who answered boldly:

  “I am here.”

  “We are Sheriff’s men. Yield yourself in the King’s name,” shouted Bosville.

  “Never while I have life,” cried Lockwood firmly.

  He bent his bow and began to shoot with his usual cool accuracy and strength. Several men were hit, and the whole band fell into some disorder, and seemed disposed to retire. In vain did Bosville remind them that Lockwood would come to an end of his arrows presently; it was not a comforting thought that another half-dozen of them would have to fall before this happened.

  “Bring me a brand from the fire—we’ll burn the house over his head,” shouted Bosville.

  Lockwood laughed defiantly, and fitting another arrow to his bow, sighted along it to take aim at Bosville.

  At this moment Aline cut his bowstring with a knife.