Grope for the door; there seemed only hinges. The wounded man was crawling down the stairs. I turned into the next room, this was all there was to the house. The shutters were poor here; they fell apart; I jumped into the yard. After the dark of the house the night was clear. On a bin, I pulled myself over the wall.
A lane. Away from the town; away too, it must be at first, from Arwenack. Panting like a hound at the end of a chase, I went up the hill, leaping from cobble to cobble and slipping and sliding in the muddy pools.
At the top I stayed long enough to swallow and look back. Three were coming. I ran on then, making for the mill where Katherine Footmarker had lived; but before I got there they had lost me.
CHAPTER TWO
Soon after this my father left for London. His affair with Mistress Margaret Jolly had prospered, and, so prospering, had come to die a natural death. His visit to London was to be a routine one to see his friends and to attend at Court. So he said. But in fact everyone knew that he was to meet a Sir George Fermor of Northampton, and that Sir George, an army man, had a daughter called Jane. Jane was 15 and an heiress. John, my halfbrother, was now 15.
By the time Mr Killigrew left the scratches on my face were forming scabs, and by the time he returned they had healed. But after all these years there is still a white mark where finger nails went deep.
The man I had wounded was Sibylla’s father, Otho. There was much whispered talk about it all, but the justices were not invoked. The Kendalls were not people to go to law, being too cautious to risk a case against one of the great landlords. They would have their own revenge in their own way and in their own time.
We never saw Sibylla again. We heard she was beaten with a wooden rod until she bled, then was packed off to an aunt in St Austell, and very soon we heard she was wed to a cousin there. It was the safest way for them of covering up the scandal.
I took all the blame and notoriety, Belemus none. He was amused, and although he bore Sibylla’s loss ill for a few days he soon re-won his spirits. He had not been so deeply involved.
My father said to me: “Well, boy, we all have our rigs and sprees, and I’m the last one to be stopping you in your youthful pastimes; but you could have chosen a better place to play the turkey than Penryn and among those Kendalls. Awkward rogues, every one of them. Lucky to escape as you did.”
I muttered something.
“And watch your step when away from this estate. All Penryn men have long memories. I don’t want more trouble just at the present they have ways of running to Westminster and telling tales behind my back. Were you a party to this prank in the church too?”
“Sheep are always straying where they don’t belong, sir.”
“Yes, well, you’ve done enough now. What was the girl like? “
I looked up and saw him watching me with a speculative, envious gaze. I felt myself flushing. “Why … like most girls, father.”
“God’s breath, you’ve had so many that you lump ‘em all together? You must have been active in Spain!”
“No, I “
“Well, I see, it’s just an evasion. I agree she was a pretty little sweetmeat. I saw her or I think it was she with the nets when they were being mended after the Easter gales. I thought to myself: there’s a catch forename fisherman; but I never thought to think it would be youl You hadn’t thoughts of marriage, I hope?”
“No, father.”
“I should think not. You’re only half a Killigrew. but a half of one should look for something better than a SibyHa Kendall. Before ever you went away Mrs Killigrew said you had thoughts for the Farnaby girl. Is that true?”
“She’s wed now. To a man called Reskymer, who’s rector of Paul.”
“What, Philip Reskymer? That tall thin man with the sad yellow face? If that’s so he’s a kidnapper, for he must be fifty if he’s a day. She’s gone for a safe place no doubt the Farnabys were ever a shiftless timid lot and Philip Reskymer has lands and money in a small insignificant way.”
“They say he was married before,” I said, turning the knife.
“Oh, yes, twice I believe. The flowers sicken quickly when planted in his bed.”
My father waited until he had seen all the corn, such as it was, stocked and dried and gathered in. The week the thrashing began he left, and Thomas Rosewarne rode with him. This left three who might give orders in the house: Lady Killigrew, Henry Knyvett, and Mrs Killigrew. But Lady Killigrew was still confined to her chamber with bronchitis; Henry Knyvett, having come to some temporary remission with his wife, was at Rosemerryn when sober and unsober when at Arwenack; and Mrs Killigrew although not at the moment sick with her usual complaint, was much concerned for her two youngest who ailed often.
That left me. Mr Killigrew had said nothing but he had implied much by the confidences he had reposed in me over the last two months. After all, Belemus was not of the family, and John, however valuable as a pawn on the marriage board, was still too young for authority. I would soon be seventeen …
I liked thrashing, and this year it fitted with my wild restless mood. All the time we were doing it the rain came down. The great barn where we worked was open at one end, but when the gales grew too strong the doors were closed and we thrashed in semi-darkness. We used handstaffs of pliable ash about five feet long so that we could work standing up. Tied to the end of the handstaffs with leather thongs were the short clubs which struck the corn. We worked, twenty of us at a time, standing over the corn spread on the floor, worked to a regular rhythm, a blow, a pause and then a blow. Sometimes we sang songs together. We sang ‘Over the mountains. And over the waves, Under the fountains And under the graves’. And ‘Why does your sword so drip with blood, Edward, Edward?’
We laughed and joked and told tales. Dick Stable told the story of the miser of Market Jew who met the devil and was granted three privileges: to sit in his own light, to sit next to the parson, and if he saw a pig in a gutter he might turn it out and take its place. Dick was always one for comic stories, but I did not think his new wife Meg laughed so heartily as the rest.
When enough of the grain had been beaten the straw was raked away; but the gale outside persisted so high that we could not let it do the winnowing: if we had opened the doors it would have taken the roof off. So we made our own draught with goose wings on long poles and then gathered up the corn into baskets before carrying it to store.
I worked for a time beside Meg, and thought she went at the corn much as I did, as if it served to work off an inner hurt. Out of the corner of my eyes I watched her movements as she swung her staff: her slight yet comely figure, the breasts raised under her grogram shirt each time she lifted her freckled arms; what caught my eye most was the slimness of her stomach and waist. Now and then her dark auburn hair would fall over her brow and she would shake it back impatiently; it was hot working in the closed barn, and there was a dampness of sweat on her forehead and on her upper lip. The sight of her was something I could not ignore.
The gales abated as the thrashing was completed but it stayed dark weather with flurries of rain, and clouds hanging low on the river. The autumn killing of cattle began, and the salting of the beef to see us through the long winter months. We ate our fill at this time for there would be no more fresh meat until the spring.
Having been helping with the cutting up and salting of a carcase, I washed my hands and arms at the pump outside and went through the house to my room. On the stairs I met Katherine Footmarker.