The question released the tongues of the others.
“Yes, Sir Richard — that’s wot we wants to know — It’s our bread, you know, sir — we’ve children to think of—”
Children! They had nothing but children swarming into the world for him to feed! The bitter injustice of it, that these British men could beget their British sons while he was childless — had always been childless, in reality, for how could a man in his position acknowledge a moment’s madness when he was a mere boy — sixteen, to be exact. He stopped the memory, but not before a face appeared in his mind, a pretty, face, a simple girlish face. He dismissed it instantly as he always did, angry that memory could be so relentless. His wife was his love, his only love, and yet when they argued as they had only the other morning, as to which was responsible for their childlessness, he saw that face, Elsie’s face, and he sent it away. No, he could never reveal his secret. He could never retort to his wife, “I know I could have begotten a son—” Nor had Elsie herself ever made a sign to anyone, even to him, that there was a secret, nor had Wells reminded him in all these years, though he must know — everything. Wells had been young then — older than himself by twenty years, at that. Wells had simply announced one day that he and Elsie had been married the day before.
“At my request and for adequate compensation,” his father had said sternly and refusing further explanation, had sent Richard off to Oxford.
“You have far too many children,” he told Banks now.
The men burst into angry clamor. He lifted his hand to silence them and they stepped back.
“We have decided nothing,” he said curtly.
He stared at them an instant, recognizing them one by one. James Dunn, whom he had hunted ferrets with as a boy, old Bumsley who had to be watched against poaching, Lester and Hunt and Frame, three of his best stalwart workers. His voice softened somewhat as he went on. “There’s a great deal to be considered. We are mindful of you and your families. Lady Mary is as attached to the place as you could be. We know our position and you may be assured that we will look after your welfare. We are aware of your troubles. Banks, we know your roof wants thatching—”
There was an outcry.
“ ’Tain’t Banks alone, Sir Richard—”
“We’ve not had a new thatch since my grandfather’s time.”
“Thatch — who wants thatch nowadays? A good slate roof on every cottage, I say—”
“And septic tanks—”
The horse, startled at the noise, danced left and right and rose to its hind legs. Sir Richard reined it in sternly.
“We are aware of all these matters. We have large plans for the future. You will know of them in due time.”
The men fell back as they always fell back when he wore his kingly air.
“Thank you. Sir Richard — we know your hardships, sir. Times is bad for us all. But with our families and all — the women complaining about the leaks when it rains — the children’s beds have to be moved — damp runnin’ down the walls.”
The broken chorus went on again until he stopped it.
“We know,” he repeated grimly.
Banks put out his right hand.
“No ’ard feelin’s!”
Sir Richard put out his left hand. Upon the forefinger was his great seal ring. He did not wear it always, but sometimes, as today, when he rode over his lands, he put it on. The sight of it on his well-shaped hand was a secret comfort, an invitation to dream. Nothing, no hardship or confusion, could change the fact that he was born Sir Richard Sedgeley of Starborough Castle.
Banks held the hand a moment. “A fine ring, Sir Richard!”
“It was given to my ancestor, William Sedgeley, by the king, five hundred years ago, when Starborough Castle became ours. Castle and ring have belonged by right to every Sedgeley heir since that time.”
There was a moment’s silence. He knew what they were thinking. To whom would the castle go, and the ring, when there was no heir? Banks bent his head as though he were about to kiss the ring, and then dropped Sir Richard’s hand. Did they know the secret? He’d wager they did. They knew everything, with their low cunning. It was part of their power over their rulers, to find out the secrets, the weaknesses, the youthful sins, the private follies, and use them when the time came.
He pressed his horse into a gallop and left the men staring after him. When he was out of their sight he pulled the ring from his forefinger and put it into the pocket of his coat. Then he reined his horse into a quiet trot again, and felt his lips tremble. Where could he find strength to sustain him, where gain wisdom to guide him? He was alone and lonely as only the rulers can be — must be, for how could he demean himself to ask from anyone the help he needed? There was no one his equal or, for that matter, his superior — no one living. Only his ancestors could give him courage, and to them he now turned.
He followed the road to Starborough village and to the church that had been built long ago for the devotions of a sovereign and his court. In it lay the dust of all the Sedgeleys since the day they had been given the right to lie there. He knew already where his own dust would lie — in that far corner to the east, where a shaft of sun fell through the prism of the rose window.
He dismounted, tied his horse to the hitching post and walked into the shadowy quiet of the church. It was empty and he strode up the aisle. Then he saw that it was not empty. The old vicar was standing before the altar, working at one of the tall silver candlesticks. He turned, startled, and put out his hand.
“Sir Richard, this is unexpected, but pleasant. I am just mending a bit of the candle here. One of the choirboys knocked it off during choir practice last night, but the candle’s quite good if I can just … they are shockingly dear, these large altar candles …”
“Let me help you,” Sir Richard said.
“Ah, don’t trouble yourself,” the vicar said. “Though I could do with a bit of help if you would just hold the candlestick … while I …”
Sir Richard grasped the heavy candlestick with both hands while the vicar lit a taper and held it to the candle to melt the wax enough to insert the broken bit. Sir Richard looked at the kind old face so near his own. He could remember the days when he was a boy and the vicar had come as a young man to Starborough village.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, “I came here hoping for help for myself — not expecting you, of course — but just to — perhaps meditate a bit, near the graves of my ancestors. I am in great trouble.”
The vicar did not look up. “Are you? I’m sorry to hear that, Sir Richard. Somehow I don’t associate you with trouble. You’ve always been a good man.”
“It’s not that kind of trouble,” Sir Richard said. “Nothing I’ve made for myself.”
Nothing he had made for himself? Yes, it was hardly fair to call that brief episode on a languid summer’s day, when he had met Elsie in the forest gathering wild strawberries, that hasty moment of physical excitement in a boy’s body, a trouble that he had made for himself.
“Your seed is valuable — don’t waste it,” his father had said bluntly. “You’re not only my son and heir. You’re the son and heir of a noble line.”
If his father had not been so crippled by war wounds, if he had been able to have other sons, how differently might he have spoken! But there was only himself, precious as the crown prince, his father’s one hope of immortality. And had his father not pressed his ambition so heavily upon him, might not he, Richard, have been a different youth, less rebellious in heart, his repressed emotions less violent?
“Whatever your trouble is,” the vicar was saying, “if I can help I’ll be glad … There — I think that’ll hold. Set it down carefully, if you please, and we’ll let the wax harden. Sit here in the choir stalls, Sir Richard, and tell me …”