The Master of Winterbourne

by Louise Allen

  The tenth of September saw the last corn gathered in. Henrietta, dressed in her oldest gown, went out to the fields to help with the final wagonloads, part of Winterbourne's long harvest-home tradition.

  She waited for Alice, concerned to see that her friend sat quietly in the shade when they reached the field and did not tire herself walking among the chattering, laughing harvesters. Matthew and Robert had gone on ahead and she glimpsed her husband's tall figure, jerkin discarded, sleeves rolled up, as he worked with the others to toss the heavy stooks on to the wagons.

  Her heart contracted with love for him, and hope. Things were still not perfect, her secret still hung unspoken between them, yet they had attained some measure of peace and trust.

  The older boys were employed on top of the loads, spreading the corn evenly, treading it down. As the wagon trundled slowly down the shorn field from stook to stook a lad occasionally tumbled to the ground to be hoisted back up again, bruised but laughing.

  The sun was high overhead when Robert called them in for dinner. The womenfolk had spread cloths on the ground beneath the shade of the high hawthorn hedge and set out bread, cheese, onions and ale. Baskets of red apples waited for anyone with room to spare after they had eaten their fill of the coarse bread.

  Some of the women sat a little apart, nursing the babies the little girls had been minding while their mothers worked. Henrietta went over to admire the new son of one of the grooms, sucking lustily at the breast. A wave of longing hit her at the sight of the small downy head nestled against his mother and she reached down to stroke his cheek before returning to where Alice was presiding over their open-air meal.

  Henrietta was aware of Matthew's eyes keen on her face as she took her place on the rug beside him, accepting a cup of ale from him with a murmur of thanks.

  ‘How does it go, Robert’ He leaned on one elbow, chewing the end of a grass stem. ‘I confess this is the first time I have ever been harvesting – will it all be in today?’

  ‘Easily, sir, easily.’ Robert swallowed a draught of cider, then shaded his eyes, assessing what remained to be done. ‘Two more loads should do it, and we'll have most of that stacked in the rick yards by tomorrow's end.’ Alice handed him a thick slice of bread, liberally spread with butter. ‘Thank you, my love.’

  ‘I hope you have been marking my prowess with the pitchfork, Henrietta.’ She looked up, warmed by the friendly, bantering note in Matthew’s voice. He was grinning broadly, his teeth very white against his tanned face. Country life suited him, the already muscular body was honed by long hours in the saddle or walking about the estate.

  She smiled back hesitantly, her heart missing a beat with love for him. Was he falling in love with her? Or was it simply that he was content and at ease with the whole world, his troublesome wife included?

  Emboldened, she took his hands in hers, turning them palm up. ‘You were doing very well for a beginner, Husband, but I see signs of blisters coming, you are not used to this manual labour. A linseed poultice will stop the blisters swelling.’

  ‘I would rather have the blisters than smell like a horse with saddle-sores,’ he teased.

  Robert was on his feet again. ‘Well, sir, shall I set them on again?’

  ‘Sit down, Master Weldon; it is too hot for speed and you said yourself we have time in hand. Let them rest for an hour.’

  ‘Thank you, sir, the people will be glad of it. They are good workers and it does no harm to acknowledge it now and again.’ He strode round the field, waving each group back to take their ease.

  ‘Come walk with me, Henrietta.’ Matthew stood and pulled her to her feet, taking her hand to lead her away from the cornfield into the neighbouring hayfield.

  ‘Matthew, you must not walk on the hay – they will be cutting in a week! Will we ever make a countryman of you? Where are we going?’

  ‘Need we be going anywhere? I want to walk with my wife a while.’ His voice was warm and his hand now slid round her waist, drawing her close to his side as he made his way to the banks of the River Bourne.

  ‘You are in great beauty, Henrietta.’ They were the words he had used at their betrothal and the colour flooded her face, yet she was still uncertain of his feelings for her. Was it only desire, or the beginnings of something more?

  ‘In this gown?’ She gestured at her old linen skirts, stained here and there with fruit juice from bottling.

  ‘You do not need silks and lace to be beautiful. Today you look like a simple village maiden, and very desirable.’ He drew her down the shelving bank, out of sight of the cornfield. ‘May I claim a kiss?’

  ‘Do you ask that of all the village maidens, sir?’ Henrietta asked with mock coyness.

  ‘Only the ones with big brown eyes and straw in their hair.’ He picked a piece out of the simple snood into which she had bundled her hair. ‘Oh, yes, and they must answer to the name of Henrietta, of course. No one else will do.’

  Henrietta found she was leaning against the rough trunk of a poplar. Still uncertain, she glanced up through her lashes at her husband whose face was now so close to her own, his lips seeking hers. ‘Very well, sir,’ she managed to whisper. ‘Take your kiss, and anything else you desire.’

  The soft turf under her, the sunlight filtering through the whispering leaves of the poplar on to her closed lids and the weight of Matthew's arm resting across her waist were all she was aware of, all she wanted to know.

  *

  Henrietta sighed, snuggling contentedly against Matthew’s bare shoulder, wondering how long he would sleep, what he would say when he woke. There had been something new in his lovemaking, something that went beyond tenderness.

  ‘Sir Matthew! Sir Matthew!’ Sim's reedy treble reached them from across the hayfield. ‘Where are you, Master?’

  ‘Damnation!’ Matthew sat up, dragging his shirt over his head. ‘What is it now?’

  Sim continued to call, but more urgently now. With another curse Matthew got to his feet, tucking his shirt into his breeches and retrieving his jerkin. ‘I'm coming!’ He raised his voice to a shout, then softened it again. ‘I had better go and see what the trouble is. Can you make your own way back, my love?’

  Henrietta nodded dumbly, the impact of the endearment hitting her only as she watched him break into a run up the bank and out of her sight.

  My love. He had never used those words to her before. Was that the explanation of his sudden tenderness? Could he have discovered that he loved her and therefore would forgive whatever she might have done?

  Hastily she scrambled to her feet, filled with delight as she smoothed down her rumpled skirts and bundled her hair back into its confining snood.

  In a daze of happiness she wandered back through the hayfield, swinging her sunhat, humming a little tune under her breath. There was no sign of him when she reached the cornfield.

  ‘Where did Matthew go?’ she asked Alice, plumping down beside her.

  ‘Back to the house – a messenger had come for him.’ Alice looked at her and clicked her tongue chidingly. ‘Turn round, Henrietta and let me re-lace your bodice, it is coming loose.’

  ‘Thank you Alice,’ Henrietta responded with a sly smile. It was all very well for Mistress Weldon to look prim, but she had a good idea where Alice's courting had been done.

  How tiresome that business from London had intruded on this idyll. The workers were laughing and happy despite the hot sun and their labours, a nursery of babies were asleep under the shady trees while the little girls played cat's-cradle and rhyming games and the boys chased harvest mice among the few remaining stooks.

  At last all was gathered in except one lonely stook in the middle of the field.

  ‘Mistress! This one's for you,’ they called and, smiling, Henrietta kilted up her skirts and took the proffered pitchfork. Old Tom gave her a hand and the last sheaf was safe delivered onto the wagon.

  Strong arms lifted her up to stand on to the tail-gate and voices called for silence. ‘You have all done
well. Robert tells me this is the best harvest Winterbourne has ever known. You have worked hard this summer, and now it is time to play: harvest supper awaits us in the yard as soon as this load is home.’

  There were loud cheers and the cart creaked off to the accompaniment of robust singing. Henrietta sat down on the tail-gate with an undignified thump as Alice was handed up beside her. The labourers straggled along in front and behind and one of the older boys tapped Henrietta on the shoulder. ‘I've made you a corn dolly, Mistress. Didn't think you needed one, Alice,’ he added cheekily.

  ‘You mind your manners, Cousin Harry. It's Mistress Weldon to you.’ But she was grinning all the same. ‘Pin it to your gown,’ she whispered to Henrietta. ‘I know it's heathen superstition, but they do say it helps with the getting of a child.’

  Henrietta did as she was bid. She was feeling so happy and contented that she was quite willing to believe in Alice's white magic.

  The ricks cast long shadows as the happy procession wound its way into the yard. The women left their menfolk and walked off chattering towards the house to help the kitchen servants set out the harvest supper of cold meats and cool ale, the best meal of the whole year.

  The heavy horses were unhitched and led away. The last wagon would be left loaded until the morrow when the stacks would be finished and thatched. Willing hands lifted Henrietta and Alice down, all formality forgotten as she mingled with her people in her patched old gown.

  ‘I must see where the master is,’ she said to Alice. ‘Make him put aside whatever tiresome legal business has been brought to him from London and join our celebration. He must not miss his first harvest supper at Winterbourne.’

  The quickest way back to the house was through the stableyard. As she stepped under the archway she saw to her amazement the big grey horse, Matthew in the saddle, his cloak strapped behind. He was dressed for travel, booted and spurred with his long sword hanging by his side.

  ‘Matthew!’ Henrietta started forward as a groom carrying saddle-bags and leading a second horse emerged from the stables. ‘Where are you going? What is wrong?’

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘Henrietta.’ He was looking down at her, his face darkened with emotion. Henrietta recognised anger there, although not with her, she sensed. Behind it was something more: anxiety, apprehension. It was as if he had glimpsed something terrible approaching and was steeling himself to meet it face to face.

  She took hold of his stirrup leather in both hands as though her gesture could hold him there until she had her answer. ‘Matthew, you must tell me What is wrong? Where are you going?’

  His face was blurred in the twilight. His gloved hand reached out as if to caress her cheek then turned instead and unclasped her fingers from the leathers. ‘I must not linger, Henrietta. I have a long and hard ride tonight if I am to reach London by tomorrow morning.’

  Her hands were still caught in his, but at the mention of London her fingers jerked convulsively. ‘London?’ Her bewilderment deepened. ‘Why must you go to London now? It grows dark. And our people are expecting us at the harvest supper.’

  Matthew hesitated, and for a moment she thought the yearning in her voice had swayed him. His horse shifted restlessly between his knees, recalling him to his duty. ‘Goodbye, Wife. I have no time for explanations. Nathaniel will tell you what is afoot.’

  The big grey snorted and plunged forward as Matthew spurred him under the archway. The groom, taken by surprise, ran forward and scrambled into the saddle, kicking his own mount after his master, the pack-horse cantering behind. The beat of hoofs on the hard track carried for a long time on the still air.

  Henrietta stood in the dim light of the yard staring blankly at the empty archway, her thoughts in turmoil. What could have occurred to send her husband from Winterbourne to London with such urgency? And what was the cause of his scarcely veiled apprehension? She turned to hurry into the house in the hope of finding some clue

  A patch of shadow detached itself from a corner of the stable yard and Nathaniel Cobham barred her way. ‘You are in some haste, Mistress.’

  His sudden appearance made her heart beat wildly with shock. ‘Cobham! There you are. What are you doing lurking in the shadows?’ Henrietta swept her skirts away from the crabbed figure, making no effort to disguise her distaste.

  ‘But I thought you would desire to know where the master had gone.’ His very servility was a calculated insult.

  ‘He is gone to London. Why do you imagine that I, his wife, would not know that? If you have been spying in that corner for the past few minutes you would have heard him tell me.’ Perversely she could not bring herself to ask this man she disliked for the information she so desperately wanted.

  ‘I do not spy, Mistress,’ the clerk responded calmly. ‘I attend to my master's business, and have done so since he was a boy. I have his full confidence.’

  And I do not. Henrietta fumed inwardly, recognising the gibe.

  ‘Now, would you like to know his purpose in London?’ He was deliberately taunting her, tormenting her with his superior knowledge, but Henrietta's need to know, her love for Matthew, was greater than her pride. ‘Thank you, Cobham,’ she said with an outward show of civility. She could not afford to let him see his power over her. ‘I should like to know the details. My husband was in some haste, as you saw.’

  Now he had the upper hand Cobham allowed himself a thin, superior smile. ‘He has gone to fight.’

  ‘Fight? Fight what? Cobham, stop tormenting me and tell me all.’

  Any other man would have been moved by the distress in her voice and on her face. But not Cobham, a man who, she was certain, believed firmly that all women were the agents of the Devil and a barely necessary evil and that she was a Royalist strumpet with her low-cut gowns and her wanton curls.

  ‘Do you tell me you have not heard that the country is at arms once more? Did you not know that traitor Charles Stuart has brought down the Scottish barbarians on our heads?’

  ‘War? We are at war again? How can this be? I had heard rumours, of course, but there have been rumours abounding these last two years, we have learned to discount them.’

  ‘This is no rumour. A great battle was fought at Worcester seven days past. The news has just reached us from London.’ Cobham was peering at her face in the gathering twilight like a cat watching a mouse hole.

  ‘What happened? Who are the victors?’ It was incredible, she could hardly comprehend it. The King returned, with Scottish troops, it seemed, and enough force to engage the Parliamentary army in battle. ‘I asked you, man, who has won this battle?’

  Cobham smiled again, this time with a triumph that gave her the answer. ‘The forces of evil were overcome and cast down! The Scottish hordes he had brought down like wolves on the innocent flocks of the righteous were slaughtered by the strong arm of God and General Cromwell.’ He could have been preaching to a Puritan congregation, his voice rising in exhortation.

  ‘The King?’ Henrietta demanded, ignoring the feeling of faintness that gripped her.’ What of him?’

  ‘The traitor Charles Stuart, son of that man of blood, fled the field of battle,’ Cobham's lip curled in disgust. ‘His capture cannot be far off, then he will be dealt with as was his father. So perish all traitors!’

  So, the King was alive, had escaped. The fighting was over. Relief flooded through her. Surely the network of loyal subjects would see Charles got safe out of the country. And Matthew, her Matthew, would not have to fight. Why then had he left so precipitately?

  ‘Why has my husband left Winterbourne if the fighting is over?’ she demanded. ‘What have you not told me?’

  ‘Over? I did not say it was over. The battle of Worcester is won, but armed insurgents roam the countryside and their generals, if determined, could rally them again. God knows when we shall see peace in this benighted land once more.’ He shook his grizzled head sorrowfully, the evangelical fervour gone from his voice, an elderly and almost pathetic figure.r />
  ‘But Matthew – why does he go to London?’

  ‘To be where he is most needed. Parliament requires men such as he at this time of peril.’

  ‘Then he will fight?’ Henrietta persisted, her head suddenly swimming. The yard was swirling, filled with the noise and clamour of battle, horses screaming, the clash of steel, the smell of smoke and blood.

  *

  ‘Mistress, Henrietta… Oh, Robert, I do not think she can hear me. She must have struck her head as she fell.’

  The smell of smoke was still rank in Henrietta's nostrils. She jerked her head away, a sharp pain lanced through her temples and she was aware of smooth, cool linen under her cheek.

  ‘The Lord be praised!’ Alice said tearfully. ‘She is alive. Robert, pass me more burning feathers to rouse her.’

  ‘No…’ Henrietta struggled to open her eyes. The room was blurred, as were the pale faces hovering above her. She recognised Alice and Robert but the rest were indistinct. ‘Alice, where am I? Is the battle over?’

  ‘Battle, Mistress?’ Alice turned to Robert. ‘She has addled her brain. We must send for a surgeon. Send Dick to Aylesbury.’

  ‘She is just confused,’ Robert said soothingly, taking Henrietta's hands in his. ‘It is all right, the battle is long over and Sir Matthew gone but an hour. He is quite safe. Now, lie still and drink this.’ He took a cup from his wife's hand and held it to Henrietta's lips, his arm round her shoulders to support her.

  Obediently Henrietta sipped the fragrant, mint-scented cordial. The room was coming back into focus and she could discern the anxiety on the face of the servants gathered round the bed. Robert gently laid her back on the pillows, but even so she cried out in pain as her head touched the linen.

  ‘Let me see her!’ Mistress Clifford pushed aside the group around the bed in her haste. Henrietta realised she must be at the Home Farm, for her aunt was panting with the speed with which she had come to her side. ‘Beloved child, my sweet Henrietta – why, you are as pale as the pillow!’ Gently she probed the thick hair to find the lump where Henrietta's head had struck the cobbles of the yard.