William de Greenwode and Thomas de Askrode, men of like age, had always been friends, though their social position was somewhat different, Thomas living on his rents and being Constable of Askworth, and William earning his livelihood as an ordinary cloth-maker. Moreover, an unlucky fall from his horse a few years ago—in 1430 to be exact—had left William with a limp and a slightly distorted arm, which made his weaving slower; sometimes indeed for days together he could not weave at all, for the pain in his arm. He had no son to help him, so his circumstances were rather diminished from what they had been in his youth, while Thomas’s had flourished.
For though the two had married quite suitably in the same year, William had married for love and Thomas for interest. At the time of the weddings, Thomas thought William’s wife Agnes a pretty, silly little piece, always in a flutter and though a goodish cook having no sense about money, and he had seen no reason to change his opinion in the past twenty years, during which several childbirths—the children all died but two—and a few miscarriages had faded Agnes’s golden hair and drawn lines on her fair foolish face. On the other hand, William at the time of the weddings thought Thomas’s wife Joanna a shrewd capable woman but hard and pompous and plain as a piedish, and he had seen no reason to change his opinion in the past twenty years, during which her scanty hair became scantier, her plain face plainer, and her liking for the last pennyworth out of every penny and her high view of her own dignity, more and more notorious. Each man knew the other’s opinion about his wife, though they never referred to it; both occasionally gave a rueful chuckle in admission of its correctness, but concluded that on the whole they were each pretty well satisfied.
The results of their matrimony were in William’s case a strangely beautiful girl named Sybille and another girl, Elfride, and in Thomas’s case one child only, a handsome, lively, carefree, rather dashing son, good at all manly sports, the darling of his mother and indeed of the whole neighbourhood, called Richard.
“I would pay you for her board, Will,” said Thomas.
The two men leaned on the wall—Thomas’s gold chain clinked against the stone—and gazed at William’s oats, which were ripening nicely.
William flushed.
“Are you trying to do me a charity?” he said.
“No, no,” said Thomas. His denial was so calm that his friend believed it. “I am asking you for a service. Where she is now she is not well at her ease, you understand. It is not suitable for one of her birth, now that her mother is dead.”
“She is a bastard, you said,” observed William.
“Aye, that is so. But she is my cousin’s child, after all. I ever liked my cousin Richard well, you remember.”
“You called your son after him,” said William.
“I did. Perhaps that was not very wise. I should be unwilling that my son should take after my cousin,” said Thomas. His tone was perhaps slightly interrogative.
“Richard is a good lad and will settle in good time,” said William firmly.
“I am indeed in hopes of it,” said Thomas. “But meanwhile, he is wild at times. His mother spoils him.”
“And my wife too.”
This exchange meant, on Thomas’s part, “It were well for you to look to your daughter,” and on William’s, “I have an eye to the matter.” Both men nodded, understanding each other and satisfied with what they understood.
“This girl—I have forgot her name—”
“Emmott.”
“This Emmott—is she coarsely nurtured?”
“No, no! She is a gentle, well-mannered girl.”
“Comely?”
“Well, yes and no. Not plain, you understand. Pleasant. Of a fair complexion, with brown hair, mild in speech. She governs herself well. But no beauty. Later we can find a match for her, some decent honest poor man. I will dower her.”
“But, Tom, why do you not take her into your own house? You have more room there than I at Greenwode, it would cost you less, and the girl would be useful to wait on your wife.”
“My wife will not have her,” said Thomas with a grimace.
“Ah,” said Will, acknowledging the efficacy of this obstacle. “But why?”
His mind’s eye went back over the years and he saw himself and Joanna and Thomas and Thomas’s cousin Richard in the days of their youth, before cousin Richard went off soldiering to France and got himself killed there. It came to his mind that in those days Thomas’s handsome dissolute cousin had almost laughed Thomas out of his proposed marriage with Joanna. “She cannot bear to house her enemy’s daughter,” he thought. “Such wounds never heal.” He wished he had not asked: “Why?” But Thomas was already in his reply.
“She says folk will say the girl is my bastard, if we house her.”
“They are more like to say that if you put her with us here.”
“I do not mean that anyone shall know aught of the matter, or who put her here. I had thought, Will,” said Thomas, looking aside, “that she might be known by the name of Greenwodes You can call her cousin.”
“Humph!” said Will with a grin. “My wife will think she is my bastard.”
“Nay, Will, she knows you too well.”
“Thomas, you are acting unwisely in this affair. The girl is your cousin’s bastard; say so frankly and have done. Folk will respect you if you take her into Askrode; they will make endles guesses if you put her here.”
“But my wife—there is Richard, you see,” said Thomas. “A young girl always about the house—you know, Will, how opportunity can give rise to error. Our serving maids are always chosen to be elderly.” He chuckled in spite of himself, then checked into a sober tone. “My wife will not have this Emmott, and that is that.”
“And what about my wife? I must tell her the truth, Thomas, and her tongue is not always well guarded.”
“I will pay you handsomely for the girl’s board, Will, and if her fatherhood becomes known in the neighbourhood, I will move her. Discretion should, therefore, still your wife’s tongue.”
William exclaimed angrily and struck the wall with his hand.
“Money does not buy everything, as you believe, Thomas,” he said. He looked his friend straight in the eye. “Tell me, Thomas, tell me true. Is the girl your child?”
“No, no,” said Thomas wearily. “By Our Lady, on my soul, Will, she is my cousin’s.”
“Well—I will take her. When will she be here?”
“She is in York. I desire you should fetch her. I will pay for all, of course.”
“I must do it, I suppose. But, Thomas, I warn you, no good will come of this.”
“On my head be the evil,” said Thomas soberly.
“Nay, Tom, in truth it is on your wife’s.”
“I think it is on my cousin Richard’s,” said Thomas Askrode with distaste.
Meanwhile Sybille and Richard were having a teasing match in the barn.
Sybille was supposed to be looking for eggs laid “out” by a hen which had lately developed this tiresome habit, but in reality she was merely stooping about here and there in graceful attitudes. Richard leaned against the open door watching her, his fair good-humoured face sparkling with laughter. He was not unconscious of the agreeable figure he made in his best figured houppelande, fashionably short, belted in blue to match his hose, with the wrists of his blue doublet showing just an inch or two below his huge hanging sleeves, furred with martin. He had donned this finery for Sybille’s benefit, but was more interested in Sybille’s appearance than his own.
He could never quite make up his mind whether Sybille was truly beautiful or no. Her slender body was certainly very shapely; he was well aware, thought Richard, grinning cheerfully, that all this stooping and stretching was done to reveal its shapeliness to him—but her colouring was odd. Sometimes her thick smooth hair seemed a glorious dark red-gold, like the sun on a misty morning, but sometimes it merely appeared a rusty red. Her eyes were undeniably green, but beneath her thick long red-gold eyelashes, had a strange fire; her cheek, oval, not plump, was golden in hue and a miracle of smoothness. Richard desired greatly to touch this cheek if he could do so, as he expressed it to himself, without putting the wrong thoughts into the girl’s head. But perhaps they were the right thoughts? Richard was not sure, and an honourable man owed it to himself to be scrupulous.
Sybille on the other hand was entirely sure. The thoughts that it would be good to marry Richard de Askrode, good because of his handsome person, better because of his good lands and substantial rent-roll, had been firmly established in her sharp little mind for some time.
“You are not very successful in your search, I fear, Mistress Sybille,” said Richard in a teasing tone. “After all this searching, only one egg to reward you.”
“Those who do not help should not carp,” replied Sybille, pouting.
“You refused my assistance when I offered it.”
“Should the heir of Askrode hunt eggs?”
“You know how I dislike to hear such words,” said Richard, colouring.
“From everyone or only from me?”
“From you most of all,” returned Richard with his best air of gallantry.
“Alas, you do not mean what you say.”
“Now you accuse me of falsehood?”
“I did not mean to wound you, Richard,” said Sybille, very soft and serious of a sudden.
She looked up at him meekly, her green eyes shining. Richard took a step into the barn. It was dark and warm within; and through the air floated sweet-smelling motes from last year’s hay.
“I am sorry if I gave you pain,” said Sybille. She put a hint of a sob into her voice, and as she had hoped, this drew him nearer.
“Do not think of it again, do not think of it at all,” said Richard, alarmed and ashamed that he should have brought her to tears. “I was jesting merely. Do not think of it, Sybille.”
“Ah!” breathed Sybille on a note of relief. “Thank you, Richard.”
She looked up at him again and gave him a very sweet smile, then lowered her glance modestly. Richard stepped close and laid one hand on her arm.
“He will kiss me,” thought Sybille, and she felt triumph, mingled with a kind of contempt for his open boyish face, now so near to hers. He was easy prey. “Still—he will kiss me.”
And this indeed might have happened, but for a sudden giggle by the door. Sybille, furious, started back from Richard’s arm; her sister Elfride’s long pale face was there, her pale smooth hair dripping over her shoulders, her eyes merry, her mouth gaping with laughter.
“What are you doing there, you half-wit?” cried Sybille, bounding forward. “Spying on me! Be off with you!”
She struck her sister a sharp blow on the ear; Elfride squealed and gazed at her from astonished, not-understanding eyes, like a scolded animal. She put a hand to her ear and vanished. Scarlet and breathless, Sybille turned back to Richard, who, she saw, wore a look of some distaste.
“I’m sorry, Richard,” she said. “That stupid oaf!”
“She didn’t mean any harm, Sybille,” said Richard soothingly. (He thought privately that Mistress Agnes had probably sent her.) “She doesn’t quite understand, you know. She’s not quite, not quite—”
“You mean she is a half-wit.”
“Well, yes. It is not her fault. I have heard my mother say that her birth was difficult.”
“If you knew what I have to suffer from her, Richard,” said Sybille, weeping. “She spoils things for me.”
“Well, that is how things are,” said Richard vaguely, moving towards the door of the barn. “Forgive me, Sybille, I must take my leave. I have an errand to make for my father in town.”
Sybille saw that her striking Elfride had vexed him, though he did not himself know this as clear as she did.
“Poor Elfride!” she said kindly, smiling through her tears.
“Aye—poor indeed. ’Tis pity for her,” said Richard, untying his horse’s rein from the ring in the wall.
He mounted, bowed to Sybille over the saddle-bow and rode away.
Now that he was out of reach she felt no more contempt, but only longing—to be his wife, to leave the clack of the loom and the smell of wool and her father’s pain and her mother’s chatter and Elfride’s foolish laugh. Across the valley, high up on the hill, the cluster of black and white gables that was the house of Askrode beckoned to her. Dame Joanna was, of course, a hard nut to crack, but Sybille was cleverer than Dame Joanna. Easy to soothe her by small services and gracious subservience—till old Thomas Askrode was dead. And then, rule!
There would be time to change her gown when her father appeared at the foot of the valley, thought Sybille; it was a long hard pull up to Greenwode, and he would probably dismount and walk, leaving Emmott on the pillion seat. Sybille was much perplexed what to wear. Should it be her green velvet or just the murrey wool? Useless to ask her mother, who would agree by turns with everything Sybille suggested. Sybille brushed Elfride’s hair and made her dip her face in water, but still hesitated about her own attire. York was a large city, and Emmott would be well versed in all its ways; this remote hillside would no doubt seem barbarous and rude to city eyes. Would it appear vulgar to Emmott to wear velvet on a mere Wednesday afternoon? Or on the other hand would it appear mean to greet a guest in everyday woollen?
Sybille’s feelings in general towards the coming of this stranger were as doubtful as her hesitation about her dress. It might be that Emmott would be a true companion and friend to her, someone who would help her in those small manoeuvres necessary to bring a slow suitor to speaking point, someone to whom she could confide all her joys and woes. Or Emmott might be so superior, so refined, so beautiful and courtly, that Sybille’s own small efforts towards elegance would be quite eclipsed. Or of course she might be just an ordinary girl, homely in her views, devoted to housewifery, a good help to Sybille’s mother, tedious in talk.
But this could hardly be, for the sum to be paid for her board by her relations, whoever they might be, was handsome—Sybille’s mother had blabbed this sum to her as they sat sewing, and then covered her mouth quickly with her hand.
“Come, Syb,” called Agnes—Sybille hated to be called Syb—“your father is at the turn of the lane.”
“So near? I did not see him in the valley,” cried Sybille.
“You were dreaming, love,” said her mother fondly, giving a twitch to the murrey wool. “You were dreaming. You often dream. I’ve often said to your father, how Sybille dreams! You were dreaming, you know, Sybille.”
“I meant to change my gown,” said Sybille, looking about her in a flutter.
“You look lovely in everything, Syb,” said her mother fondly. “Come, let us go out and welcome them. Now, Elfride, you stay quietly by the fire. There is no reason for you to be afraid.”
Sybille’s father led the horse into the yard, with Emmott seated on it, as Sybille had known he would; as Emmott slid down into his arms Sybille gave her a long searching look.
Beneath an old grey cloak showed a dark stuff gown with a plain black belt and no ornaments. Since she was still unmarried, she wore her hair loose beneath her hood as Sybille and Elfride did; it appeared brown and thick but was not of any exciting curl or hue. Her eyes were probably the best of her, thought Sybille, large and brown and lustrous, but their lids reddened now as if by weeping. A round face, rather sad and pale now from the fatigue of the journey but usually rosy, Sybille guessed. Her eyebrows were not plucked, her bosom was rather full; her gloves were mended, her shoes patched, she had no fur on gown or hood.
“She is nothing,” said Sybille impatiently, turning away.
Sybille had always rather despised her mother; her foolish good nature, her repetitive prattle, her headdress always slightly awry, did not inspire respect. But of course she had always taken her mother’s love for herself for granted. It was irritating now to find Agnes always lavishing praise on Emmott—thank you, dear; yes, that’s just what I wanted, Emmott; Emmott’s pastry is always light; Emmott’s put a footstool for me, how kind; Emmott’s mended my gown, Emmott will sew the button on for you, Elfride, so don’t cry. That a great many household duties accordingly slipped from Sybille’s shoulders and fell on Emmott’s, Sybille observed with sardonic satisfaction, feeling that it served Emmott right; but her pleasure was somewhat marred by the discovery that Emmott also seemed to enjoy the situation. When asked to run up and fetch Agnes’s thimble, or sweep the hearth, or help the maid to wash the dishes or put the meat on the spit or season a stew, Emmott gave a quiet smile and went off at once cheerfully about the errand.
“Why do you smile so often, Emmott?” said Sybille, rather peevishly, it must be owned, while Emmott painstakingly set right the heel of a stocking which Elfride had muddled.
Emmott looked startled, but considered gravely.
“I am happy here,” she said at length.
The maddening part of it was that she spoke truly; her mild round face was always bright.
“It is easy to smile when you are always praised,” thought Sybille with resentment.
Elfride too, silly girl, quite doted on Emmott. Elfride had never been able to card wool properly—she always contrived to catch her fingers on the teeth of the cards and tear them, when she would cry. Sybille thought it foolish of her to keep on trying, and answered impatiently when Elfride begged her for some wool. But Emmott, who could not only card well but spin evenly, managed to teach Elfride how to card.
“Put your hands this way, Elfride,” she said, and she guided Elfride’s hands and laid wool on the cards for her, and drew the cards slowly back and forth, and when at last Elfride caught the knack of it and produced a fine smooth even tissue ready for spinning, Emmott showed it to William, who smiled and praised Elfride and pinched her cheek playfully, and said quietly to Emmott: “Thank you, my dear.”
A spark of jealousy flashed sharply in Sybille’s heart, for if she loved anybody at all beside herself she loved her father. Not wishing to appear meanly before her father, however, she spoke kindly to Emmott, thanking her for teaching Elfride so well.
“I could never get her to learn it,” she said in a meant-to-be generous tone. “But you seem to know everything about wool and cloth, Emmott.”
“My mother earned our living as a weaver,” said Emmott simply.
Sybille coloured with shame for her, for she had never heard of a woman as a weaver, but she noticed that William and Agnes seemed to take it calmly, so she held her tongue.
The next thing was that Emmott began to teach Elfride to make a woollen ball. It was a simple matter really: you cut a circle of wood and pierced a large hole in the centre and then wound wool through the centre and over the edge, round and round, very thick; then you threaded a piece of wool under the threads at the centre, and pulled it tight and tied its ends; and then you cut the wool round the edge of the circle and took out the wood, and the wool threads all sprang together and you had a nice soft ball. Elfride was delighted; and next time William went to market in Hudley he brought back some lengths of different coloured wool yarns that he had begged there from clothiers, friends of his, the lengths being too short to be of any value. Elfride clapped her hands for joy and made a really fine wool ball, the different colours among the white giving it a bright appearance.
As it chanced, the day after this ball was finished—Elfride had hardly ceased to play with it, throwing it up and catching it again—Sybille saw Richard riding up the lane.
“Keep Elfride out of the way, Emmott,” she said hastily. “I do not wish her to annoy our guest.”
Emmott inclined her head and took Elfride upstairs on ome pretended errand, and Sybille smoothed her hair and went out to the gate to meet Richard, hoping for a few words alone with him before she brought him into the house under her mother’s eye.
“Not looking for strayed eggs today?” said Richard, smiling as he dismounted.
“Not today,” said Sybille, casting down her eyes. “Are you riding to Hudley, Richard?”
Richard hesitated. “Possibly,” he said.
He said this because he did not like to lie and he was not on his way to Hudley. Sybille perceived this and rejoiced.
“He has come only to see me,” she thought.
She raised her eyes, and smiling at him invited him into the house to taste her mother’s fresh-baked pasty. But just at that moment that tiresome woollen ball came flying through the air from an upper window, straight at Richard. He put out one hand and caught it neatly, and looking to see whence it came, perceived Elfride leaning out of the window and laughing at him.
“Thanks, Elfride,” called Richard, and looking at the wool ball was taken with it, and threw it up and down with some enjoyment, and cried: “Come down and play, Elfride!”
Then of course Elfride came charging down and out into the yard, and ran up to Richard, and they began throwing the ball between them.
“Emmott! Emmott!” cried Sybille impatiently. She had much ado not to stamp her foot, but controlled her impulse, not wishing to show temper in front of Richard. “Come down, Emmott!”
Emmott came out looking flushed and sorry, and touched Elfride on the arm and tried to draw her away, but Elfride would not be drawn; she enjoyed playing with Richard.
“Emmott helped me to make this ball,” she said.
Her speech had improved lately, she slobbered less and spoke in less of a rush; her words could now be heard and understood without too much difficulty. So of course Richard turned towards Emmott, and Sybille had to present her.
“Emmott is living with us now,” she said. “She is the daughter of an old friend of my father’s.”
Richard bowed politely. Emmott gave her gentle smile but did not speak to him.
“Come, Elfride,” she said, drawing the girl aside.
Elfride turned round suddenly and handed the ball to Richard.
“For you,” she said.
“What? Is it a gift, Elfrid?” said Richard, laughing kindly.
“Yes—a gift!” shouted Elfride, delighted.
“Be not so foolish, Elfride,” said Sybille impatiently. “What could Richard do with a woollen ball?”
Elfride’s mouth turned down at the corners and tears came into her eyes.
“I want Richard to have my ball. He played with me,” she wailed.
“I am honoured, Mistress Elfride,” said Richard quickly in a serious tone. He bowed. “We shall exchange gifts, shall we not?”
“Yes,” said Elfride, laughing. (She often passed thus in a moment from one emotion to another.) “You will bring me a gift, Richard?”
“Assuredly,” said Richard, buttoning the wool ball into his pouch.
“When? When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“You are too kind, Richard,” said Sybille.
At last Emmott got Elfride away into the house. Sybille turned to Richard, but he had already turned to his horse.
“Well, I must be off about my business,” he said, mounting.
“And what is your business today, Richard?” said Sybille in a tender tone.
Richard laughed. “To find a gift for Elfride,” he said. “What else?”
He saluted her with his whip and rode away.
In her disappointment Sybille spoke sharply to Emmott as they all sat at meat.
“If you cannot compass such a simple matter as to keep Elfride out of my guest’s way,” she said, “It is a pity, Emmott.”
“I am truly sorry, Sybille,” said Emmott, colouring. “I tried my best, I did indeed. Elfride—” she checked herself and bit her lip. “I am sorry.”
Nobody knew better than Sybille how stubborn Elfride could be when she had a mind. Besides, Sybille thought her father’s mild grey eyes were fixed on her in some disapproval. So she said: “Well, never mind,” in a tone as kind as she could manage, and felt pleased with herself for her own good temper.
Afterwards, as the two girls sat together at the embroidery frame, Agnes being absent for a moment, an impulse overcame her and she said quietly:
“What do you think of Richard Askrode, Emmott?”
Emmott smiled.
“He hath a very warm heart. You are of good fortune in him, Sybille.”
Just for a moment Sybille’s own heart warmed, and it seemed as if she could be truly fond of Emmott. All day they spoke in friendly fashion together, Sybille telling the other about Thomas de Askrode, and Dame Joanna and her dominion over her husband, and the great Askrode mansion, and Richard’s horses and his skill in the saddle, and what he had said at this time and that, to Sybille. (A little exaggeration here, perhaps.) Emmott was a good listener, and her brown eyes were kind and friendly. When they went to bed Sybille was happier than she had been since Emmott’s coming.
But next day all this was spoiled. For Richard came in the evening as they were all sitting together round the hearth, and brought a handsome piece of white lace for Elfride, and a black piece for Emmott.
“I thought black for your cousin, as she is in mourning,” he said.
“Emmott is not my cousin. Her mother was a weaver,” shrilled Sybille in a fury, her slight bosom heaving.
Richard looked taken aback.
“Since she helped Elfride to make the wool ball,” he said, “I thought—that was all, Sybille. If I have done wrong—if I should have brought you some lace—I shall be most happy to repair my omission.”
“You speak like a fool, Richard,” stormed Sybille. She held the black lace up to Emmott’s shoulder. “It does not suit her,” she said brutally. “Her complexion is too dull for black.”
Richard turned rather pale.
“I regret that I have offended,” he said stiffly. “Mistress Agnes, I commend me to you and so farewell.”
He bowed himself out without further word.
No sooner was the door closed behind him than Emmott turned to Sybille and thrust the black lace into her hands.
“Take it. He meant it for you,” she said.
Her voice was hoarse, her pleasant face distorted. Suddenly she gave a deep, heart-rending sob and fled up the stairs.
“Take your filthy lace—I won’t touch it!” cried Sybille.
She threw down the black lace and stamped on it and kicked it aside. Elfride, who was crouched by her father, spreading her white lace over his knee, gave a shrill scream as her sister trampled over her to the stairs.
In her room Sybille paced backwards and forwards in uncontrollable rage—not that she tried to control it; she revelled in it, re-enacting the scene with Richard over and over again and exclaiming aloud in fury. Every thread of the pattern of that hateful lace was stamped indelibly on her mind. The light had faded, but her anger was still hot, when her mother came in carrying a candle.
“Your father is displeased with you, Sybille,” she said in an uneasy tone, setting the candlestick down on the kist.
“Is he indeed?” said Sybille grimly, her anger now swelled by grief.
“Yes. Emmott is alone in the world, she has no father or mother, you should be kind to her, your father takes it ill that you are not.”
“No father or mother!” raged Sybille. “Nobody would think so who saw her here. She is treated as the daughter of the house, it seems to me, while I—” A slight change, a flicker of expression, in her mother’s timid face suddenly set every thought in her head jangling. “Is that how it goes?” she whispered hoarsely. “She is my father’s bastard, is she not?”
“How dare you!” cried Agnes. “How dare you so insult your father! He is a good man. You are a wicked girl, Sybille.”
Her thin voice was strong with anger, she held her head up, her faded face and her stringy throat showed patches of angry red. Sybille was as astounded to see her weak mother in such a rage as to see a lamb daring a bull. Her anger fled at once, replaced by fear.
“She is someone’s bastard, however,” she snivelled. “Do not deny it, mother.”
“That is nought to do with us,” said her mother firmly. “We at Greenwode are decent God-fearing folk. Look to your Richard’s kin whom you think so much of, if you want to know.”
“She is Thomas Askrode’s child—Richard’s half-sister?” cried Sybille with glee.
“No, no. Thomas Askrode’s cousin’s.”
“Then why is she consigned to us?” demanded Sybille sulkily.
“It is Dame Joanna’s wish and we are glad of the money. It is not Emmott’s fault, Sybille. Bethink you, you have father and mother and a good dower and much beauty. Emmott hath none of these. Pity her, then.”
“If she hath my father’s affection,” began Sybille—in her heart she added, “and Richard’s,” but could not for shame speak it aloud. “If she hath my father’s affection and yours,” she said instead, allowing her voice to shake a little as if with emotion, “she hath all that I desire.”
“You are our very dear daughter,” said Agnes, weeping. “That is why we grieve so when you conduct yourself ill.” She enfolded her daughter in her arms. Sybille submitted and managed a sob or two which sounded very convincing.
On Sunday as they came out from Mass Sybille contrived to walk beside Richard.
“I wished to walk with you, Richard,” she began with a great air of frankness: “I wished to tell you my regrets for my misgovernment the other evening. I do not know what demon hovered over me—had you not every right to make a gift to your cousin?”
“Cousin?” said Richard, perplexed.
“I understand that Emmott is distant kin of your father,” purred Sybille.
“It is the first I have heard of it,” said Richard bluntly.
“Why,” said Sybille, looking modestly down: “She is—she is—on the wrong side of the blanket, as they say. But Askrode kin.”
“You are mistaken, I think,” said Richard coolly, looking back over his shoulder to where Emmott walked with Elfride, who was babbling to her.
“It was my mother who told me,” said Sybille. “So we should be very kind to her on account of her misfortune.”
“Indeed you are right,” said Richard.
His tone was rather dry, but Sybille was not dissatisfied. The barb was planted.
“Father,” said Richard.
“Yes, my boy,” said Thomas. It was vexing to be disturbed when he was busy with his accounts, but (rather to his surprise) he found he loved his son better than his rents, so he put a finger on his place in the column of figures and looked up. Richard was leaning forward with his arms on the back of a chair facing his father. “Yes, my boy,” repeated Thomas.
“I am told that Emmott de Greenwode is some bastard kin of ours.”
“Who told you that?” said Thomas, frowning.
“Sybille.”
“It is an ill matter for a young maid to know, and much more ill for her to speak of it to a young man.”
“Mistress Agnes is not the wisest of mothers, I trow,” said Richard shrugging.
“That is so.”
“Then it is true?”
“Aye, it is true.”
“Whose child is she?” said Richard sharply.
“My cousin Richard’s. Her father was killed in France. Her mother died lately.”
“Why is she not here with us at Askrode? It is a shame to us that she is not in our household.”
Thomas hesitated. He did not wish to be disloyal to his wife, but could not bear his young son to think ill of him.
“It was your mother’s wish,” he said at last.
Richard frowned.
“She is not well at ease where she is,” he said. “Emmott, I mean. Can you not persuade my mother to change her mind?”
Thomas considered. “Not in this matter, I fear,” he said. “Be content, Richard.”
Richard exclaimed and left him.
“You avoid me, Emmott,” said Richard.
It was Christmastide, and there were many guests at Askrode. Down in the great hall there was dancing; up in a corner of the musicians’ gallery Emmott and Elfride sat and watched.
“Elfride and I like to watch the dancing,” said Emmott.
“Do you not like to dance yourself?”
Emmott hesitated, and Elfride said with a giggle:
“She is afraid to vex Sybille.”
“I am not afraid, Elfride,” said Emmott quietly.
“Sybille dances beautifully,” said Elfride on a wistful note.
“Sybille is very beautiful in every way,” said Emmott with sincerity.
“That is so. And yet, I do not wish her to stand at my side all my life,” said Richard.
His voice was low, and he bent to Emmott’s ear that she alone might hear him. Emmott looked up at him, her great brown eyes wide with astonishment and some other feeling. For a moment they gazed at each other. Then Richard spoke.
“Do you lack courage to dance with me, Emmott?” he said.
“No!” said Emmott.
“Then come,” said Richard.
He offered her his wrist; very quietly she laid her fingers on it—they were slender, well-formed fingers, Richard noted with satisfaction. He led her down to the hall. Elfride, leaning over the balustrade, giggled happily.
“But it is absurd, it is ridiculous, Richard,” said Dame Joanna. “You who might marry anyone in the county! You, an Askrode, to marry some little bastard in rags. Come, son, it is beyond belief. You will be the laughing-stock of the neighbourhood.”
Richard, who stood before his parents in an easy attitude with his arms folded, laughed cheerfully and said nothing.
“Why should you want to marry this Emmott?” said his mother crossly.
“She is my fancy, mother,” said Richard.
“I do not admire your taste.”
“You do not know Emmott, mother.”
“I have seen her in church. If she resembles that little vixen Sybille!”
“She does not resemble Sybille in the least,” said Richard impatiently. “Why should she? She is an Askrode, mother; do you remember?”
Joanna looked aside.
“If there is love between them, wife,” murmured Thomas.
“You are too soft-hearted, husband,” said Dame Joanna sharply.
But she felt a moisture in her eyes. She had always loved Thomas and he had never loved her; though Thomas was a kind and courteous husband she knew what it was to experience wedded life without love. It seemed perhaps he knew what it was, too.
“Have you said aught to the girl, Richard?” she asked.
“Yes and no,” said Richard cheerfully. “I have not mentioned marriage, but I think she knows my meaning.”
“You think!” said his mother in scorn.
“She knows,” said Richard, colouring.
“She will have no dower,” lamented Thomas.
“I did not know Askrode was so poor, sir,” said Richard easily.
“We do not know her well enough, Richard,” said his mother, gazing at him fondly. How could any girl resist a youth so fresh, so fair, so well-spoken!
“But you can easily come to know her, mother,” said Richard eagerly. “She is a good embroidress; you can invite her to visit us, to help fill in the background of that altar cloth about which you are always complaining.”
“You have arranged it all between you,” snapped Dame Joanna.
“No; it was my own thought,” said Richard.
“Leave it a while, Richard, and we will give it consideration,” said Thomas.
“Oh, father!” said Richard impatiently.
“Meanwhile I will ask the girl for a day or two to help me with the altar cloth,” said Dame Joanna.
“My thanks, madam!” cried Richard, jubilant. He bounded forward and kissed his mother’s hand, then bounded out of the door. His pleasant young voice could be heard outside the windows, whistling cheerfully as he crossed towards the stables.
“Well, at least it will not be that ill-governed little vixen Sybille,” said Thomas. “But it is disappointing.”
“He may change his mind after a day or two in the house with her,” said his wife grimly.
“There are so many other marriages in the neighbourhood, more suitable,” said Thomas, beginning to enumerate them.
“I am disappointed in you, Richard,” said Sybille, in a haughty disapproving tone.
Richard coloured. Agnes, looking daunted and perplexed, had gone to seek Emmott to make Dame Joanna’s invitation known to her, and Elfride having trailed after her mother, Richard and Sybille were left alone. He had expected to receive coldness from Sybille, reflected Richard, swearing silently to himself, but an open attack like this was awful. However, he had flirted with her perhaps a little more than was entirely decorous, so he must take what she chose to give him, as best he could. He bowed, and feeling truly sorry for the girl if she had laid any hopes on him, blurted out with all the sincerity of his warm heart:
“I regret it most truly if I have caused you vexation, Sybille.”
“Oh, there is no vexation to me,” said Sybille. “It is no concern of mine. But you do wrong, Richard, to court a girl you cannot marry. It is not fair to Emmott.”
“And why can I not marry Emmott?” He spoke calmly, but he was furious.
“She is your cousin. You are within the fourth degree of relationship—indeed I almost think you are within the third. Marriage within such relationship is forbidden by the Church.”
There was a long pause.
Richard stood motionless. But his face changed before her eyes. His jaw set, his lips tightened, his cheek paled, his eyes lost their laughter, a frown appeared across his brow. He held himself more stiffly. The lively careless boy had grown into a man. Sybille gazed at him, appalled.
“How did you discover this, pray?” he said at last.
“I thought of it—and asked Sir John,” faltered Sybille, using the customary formal title for a parish priest. As Richard said nothing, she regained a little courage, and continued: “It does not matter whether the paternity is legitimate or not. You are still blood kin.”
“You know all the words,” said Richard.
“It was in confession,” panted Sybille. Suddenly she threw all discretion to the winds, and screamed: “Your children would be illegitimate!”
There was another long pause.
“I am infinitely grateful to you for this information, Mistress Sybille,” said Richard at length. His voice was harsh and cold. “Much distress has thereby been avoided. Now, if you will excuse me, I will escort Mistress Emmott to my mother.”
“That is what Sir John says. So you see we shall have to obtain a dispensation,” said Richard. “It has been a rule these two hundred years, and before that the rule was even stricter.”
“What is a dispensation?” asked Dame Joanna.
“Permission to set aside our impediment of blood kinship and marry, from the Pope.”
“From the Pope? In Rome?” cried Dame Joanna, aghast.
“Even so.”
“Richard, you should give up this marriage,” said Thomas soberly. “It is not that we would not welcome you, Emmott. You have become dear to myself and my wife. Is it not so, Joanna?”
Dame Joanna snorted but did not say nay; Richard gave a rather grim smile.
“It is not fair to Emmott,” said Dame Joanna. “To obtain a dispensation from Rome will, I am sure, require months, perhaps years.”
“Will you wait for me, Emmott?” said Richard, looking directly at the girl.
“Yes.”
“And it will be very costly,” said Thomas, shaking his head. “I remember meeting a man in Hudley once who knew a man who obtained a dispensation from Rome to release him from a mere betrothal, and this man said his proctor in Rome asked for a thousand ducats.”
“A thousand ducats! What is a proctor?” wailed Dame Joanna.
“A kind of ecclesiastical lawyer, I suppose.”
“Nonsense. He would take two hundred in gold,” said Richard.
“Richard, am I worth all this to you? We are not betrothed, you lie under no obligation to me. As far as I am concerned,” said Emmott, steadying her voice: “You are as free as air.”
“Emmott, we shall marry,” said Richard. He turned to his father. “Sir John says my application must go through the Archbishop of York. Sir John will help me to put it in the proper shape. Father, please tell me the exact kinship between Emmott’s father and yourself. Was he your father’s brother’s son?”
“I reckon he was my father’s cousin’s son,” said Thomas thoughtfully. “A branch of our family lived in York. There was plague there, and this young man, Emmott’s father, was sent to us to be out of the way of it. His folk all died of the plague, and he went soldiering in France. A restless lad, but I loved him, you remember, Joanna.”
He looked at Joanna, who was silent. She remembered all too well.
“Emmott and I are only of the fourth degree of consanguinity, then,” said Richard. “That is good. Well, now that I have your permission, I will ride to Sir John and put the matter in motion.”
“We have not given our permission, Richard,” began his father, but Richard was gone.
Emmott rose and asked permission to return to her embroidery. Dame Joanna gave it: with a sigh.
“Will he give it up, think you?” said Thomas when he was alone with his wife.
“No.”
“But why? The girl is a good girl, but there are others, and the difficulties are great.”
“He hath a stubborn disposition,” said Dame Joanna. “And the girl loves him.”
Richard rode to Hudley to ask the Askrodes’ man of law to draw up his petition.
Richard rode to Hudley to ask Sir John to confer with the man of law.
Richard rode to Hudley to sign the petition.
Richard rode to York to hand the petition to the appropriate official at the Archbishop’s palace.
Richard rode to York to pay the requisite fee.
Richard rode to York to ask for news of the petition.
Richard rode to York again for news of the petition.
By this time his errand had become well known in the West Riding. Folk who met him on the road to York said jestingly to him:
“Bound for York, Richard?”
“Aye, York,” said Richard.
Folk who met him on the road from York said soberly to him:
“Any answer yet?’
“Not yet,” said Richard.
“’Tis a long road from York to Rome, think on, Richard.”
“Aye, so ’tis,” said Richard. “And the same distance back again.”
“True.” Happen he’s soft, happen he’s hard, they thought. “Why not give it up, lad?”
“Why, I desire a full conclusion of the matter,” said Richard.
Some folk now laughed at Richard, others shook their heads and said ’twas pity—such a fine lad too. Such an ado over a woman, and no great beauty, either. ’Twas time Thomas Askrode had an heir.
Suddenly one day Sybille decided that Richard was a fool and she could wait no longer for him. There was an old, gouty, cross-patch merchant some few miles away who first came to Greenwode to ask William to weave some special cloth for him to send across the sea. He was much enamoured of Sybille’s beauty and had pressed his suit for some time. Now suddenly she yielded and married him. (She soon became a wealthy childless widow of rather ill repute.) After her sister’s departure Elfride improved so much in mind and body that she was able to marry one of her father’s apprentices. (She presently produced a large number of sweet if rather silly children, a great happiness to their grandparents.)
Richard rode to York to ask for news of his petition.
He came back with a document in his pouch.
“Translate the Latin for me, Father John,” he said.
“After all my teaching can you not do that for yourself,” said Sir John reproachfully.
“Read it, father, I pray you,” said Richard. “I must be sure.”
The old priest began in a vexed tone, but soon, pleased to show his skill, read sonorously, with enjoyment.
“The Dispensation of Richard Askrode and Emmott Greenwode, related in the 4th degree of consanguinity.”
“It begins well,”’ said Richard.
“To all it may concern, greetings.”
“Pray skip over all that, Father,” said Richard.
“Very well. We have received the following letter from the venerable father and lord in Christ, the Lord Jordanus, by the grace of God, bishop of Sabina”
“What has a bishop of Sabina to do with us here in Yorkshire?”
“The Cardinal Bishop of Sabina is head of the appropriate department of the Vatican,” Sir John rebuked him.
“I beg his pardon.”
“The ever-watchful providence of the Apostolic See is always mindful to temper with mercy the rigour of the law, and to allow, out of the grace of her kindness, that which is forbidden by the sacred canons, in so far as she recognizes that this may be truly salutary, taking into account, as she does, both personal circumstances and the conditions of the times. Now the petition presented to us from Richard de Askrode, layman, and Emmott de Greenwode, a woman of your diocese, indicated that for certain reasonable causes they desire to be joined in lawful wedlock, but that being related in the fourth degree of consanguinity, they are unable to fulfil their desire, unless an Apostolic dispensation from the impediment is obtained. Wherefore, they made humble supplication—”
“Father, have mercy on me,” said Richard.
The old priest, raising his eyes, saw that sweat stood thick on Richard’s forehead. He continued hurriedly:
“We have perused, received and understood this letter, and have ascertained, through our strict enquiry into the matter, that each and every fact contained in this same letter is true, and that the said Emmott was not purposefully abducted by any person. We therefore grant and permit, by the above-mentioned authority, the aforesaid Richard and Emmott to be freely joined in wedlock—their impediment of consanguinity notwithstanding—and, once joined, to remain together lawfully; we decree too that any offspring of this marriage is to be recognised as legitimate.”
“Aye, thank Him indeed. Down on your knees and thank him.”
“But, Father! ‘Certain reasonable causes’. ‘Not purposefully abducted.’ It sounds as though they thought Emmott and I had been living together as man and wife, and that is not so, Father!”
“Be content, my son,” said the priest.
“I am content, Father,” said Richard.
Within a month Richard and Emmott were joined in holy matrimony.
They produced two sons and several daughters, and lived together for many years in great happiness and prosperity. In her old, widowed, ailing days, Dame Joanna often said to Emmott that it had been a good thing for Askrode when Emmott was born. For after the day when Emmott told Richard she made no claim upon him, there was never any disagreement between Dame Joanna and Emmott.
At times, of course, a slight storm would arise between Dame Joanna and her son, especially after his father’s death, when Richard became master of Askrode. On these occasions Richard always won the fight, and his mother would then say excusingly to Emmott:
“Richard had always a stubborn disposition.”
To this Emmott never failed to reply staunchly:
“Richard is a man faithful and true.”
“He is as obstinate as a stone wall, like all West Riding men, if that’s what you mean,” agreed Dame Joanna comfortably, chuckling.