This dance is now in prime,
And chiefly used this time,
And lately put in rhyme.
Let no man grieve
To hear this merry jesting tale,
The which is called Watkin’s Ale:
It is not long since it was made;
The finest flower will soon fade.
‘Watkin’s Ale’
Popular ballad
‘Grandfather François?’
‘Yes, Elie?’
‘I know that a gentleman doesn’t ask personal questions, but…’
‘But you’d like to ask me one. Dear Elie, you proceed so delicately that I’ve already forgiven you. Ask your question.’
We are riding along the Talent at a leisurely pace. For a little while now, I have been giving Elie fencing lessons in an unfrequented grove of trees. This exercise has transformed him. Gone is the young whelp whose attitude and bearing amused me so, not that long ago. He is tall and muscled for his thirteen years, his face has lengthened and his eyes are deeper set. There is an air of distinction about him, like that of a young lord. One wouldn’t recognise him.
‘Well, sir, this question?’
‘Grandfather François, how is it you’ve changed so much this past year?’
This boy would surprise me always. He is saying of me what I was just thinking of him.
‘What mean you by changed, my young friend?’
‘You’ve shaved off your beard, you’ve begun exercising again, you have an eye to your garments. People were saying after church that you’d fallen in love, for your appearance has returned to that you had as a young man.’
At this I smile.
‘The parishioners of Echallens never knew me as a young man, for I was over forty when I arrived here. It’s true that I’ve never looked my age. At ten I appeared twenty, and at fifty I appeared thirty.’
We ride on in silence. I recall a line from Montaigne: In painting myself for others, I have painted truer colours within myself.
‘It’s not easy to answer your question, Elie. I believe the act of writing my life’s story has transformed me. When I began it, little was I aware that I would be forced to revisit all of my actions, and that this would oblige me to revalue and reconsider them. The great Montaigne wrote: I hunger to make myself known, but I care not to what extent, so long as I am known for my true self. I made this maxim my own, although I’m incapable of writing like him. I find myself wondering why I have continued to guard the secret of my origins so closely – not that it’s anyone’s business. And I am sure I was right to have said nothing to those English travellers who came this way last year and whose passage spurred me to write. But you are different.’
‘You have my word, Grandfather: I will never tell.’
‘Thank you, Elie. You see, a year ago, if you had asked me to teach you to fence, I would never have revealed to you that I’m quite skilled with a sword, and that I have practised fencing my whole life, openly or in secret. I was careful not to teach fencing to your uncle David, my most diligent pupil before you. Twenty years ago I decided that I would cease to be the man I once was. I’ve used any number of false identities and that seemed to be the solution yet again when I arrived here. Indeed, it may even have saved my life at the time. But now…’
‘You’re no longer in danger, sir?’
‘If the man who desired my death had found me, he might very well have killed me. But he got what he sought in the meantime, and, anyway, he has no doubt passed on. I’ve had a very full life; suddenly I no longer feel the need to hide. That’s why I’ve recovered my old self, why I shaved and why I had a new tabard made for me.’
‘But Grandfather, if I may be allowed one further question, how do you practise in secret? I have seen how formidable you are with a sword. But I only ever knew you pacing slowly about like some great sage, wrapped in those long coats of yours.’
‘Well you see, Elie, dissemblance has become second nature to me. You would never imagine that I consort with brigands, would you?’
‘You, Grandfather?’
‘And yet…’
‘Tell me, Grandfather. I swear that… mum’s the word.’
So I tell him about my dealings with the brigands.
I was new to the region when they set upon me – I was travelling to Lausanne one day on behalf of Benoît Dallinges. They made a misreckoning. Had they known I was local, they would never have approached me. They enjoy a certain impunity by sparing us and only attacking passing strangers. Four of them attacked me, the poor devils. I was quite the warrior at the time, young and lusty. And Giuliano, the best master of arms I had in my youth, had taught me how not to be taken unawares. With a weapon in each hand, I wounded two of them and stunned the other two in hand-to-hand. I tied them to a tree and cuffed them back to their senses. They were astounded. These scoundrels were used to meeting with little resistance. As a rule, they would knock a traveller out before he had time to react.
I laugh, recalling the expressions on their faces. Elie listens open-mouthed, which makes me merrier still.
‘I told them: “I could kill all four of you, could I not? It’s what you would do if you were me. I could also hand you over to the bailiff.” They stared at me in silence. “But I won’t, for it is not my pleasure. When you see your chief, tell him it’s better to have François Cousin with you than against you. I am but a poor instrument builder, with no money. But I know how to defend myself. Extort one penny or harm one hair on the head of anybody in my family, and I swear you’ll live to regret it, if you live long enough.”’
We halt in a grove of trees and dismount.
‘And then?’ asks Elie, agog with excitement.
‘A few days later, a man came to see me at the Crossing of the Ways. I had only recently taken to going there, and not regularly. He must have been watching out for me…’
He was stocky, dark and hairy, with a scarlet kerchief around his neck, such as you sometimes see worn by Italian masons at work on the churches around here.
‘Are you François Cousin?’
‘At your service.’ Deep in my pocket, I clutched the dagger I always kept about me.
‘Were you a mercenary?’
‘How is that any of your business?’
‘You put four of my best men out of action. I received your message. What is it you desire?’
‘Me? Nothing. Or rather, yes, one thing. I desire to be left in peace. I desire that my family and I may travel freely without fear of being despoiled. Rob the rich as much as you like or are able. But if I have four pennies, it’s to buy wood, tin or strings for my instruments. Or paper for my writing.’
He was of quite ordinary appearance, just a few extravagant touches in his clothing: the red kerchief; a silk belt, old and worn but embroidered; an earring. He had a smouldering gaze, eyes ever darting about.
‘Will you make us one of your instruments?’
‘Why not, if you pay me for it?’
And believe it or not, I did make them one of ‘François’s spinets’, as everyone calls them round here. As they had no desire to make trouble with the people of Echallens, they did me the honour of taking me to their den in the woods. Their chief, Aristide, is a remarkable man, more civilised than ordinary robbers and very quick-witted. He asked me to teach him first the principles of music, then how to play the spinet. I got so caught up in telling him about major thirds and perfect fourths, counterpoint, prima and seconda pratica, that the idea of betraying his band to the law never crossed my mind. There are intelligent men among them, hotheads who may once have committed the sort of foolish act that would earn them a hanging if they did not go into hiding, but who were not genuinely ill-intentioned. There are some bands here in the Jorat region where men are brigands from father to son, but they tend to exercise their terror over towards Chalet-à-Gobet or Moudon. Aristide’s band is a little different. Still. I’ve often said to myself that Thomas Morley must be laughing aloud from up on high to see these killers, robbers and outlaws listening piously to an In Nomine by John Bull, or else delicately tripping over the bone keys of a spinet to play Now, O Now I Needs Must Part.
‘And you see,’ I conclude, ‘this was a good thing, for nothing ever happened to me, nor to any of the Dallinges.’
‘But did you see them again?’
‘My dear Elie, it is thanks to them that I have been able to keep in shape. I have some old companions-in-arms among them. I will take you to meet Petit-Claude one of these days. He stands over six feet tall, fast and slippery as an eel. If you’re able to cross swords with him for two minutes without receiving a single hit, you may esteem yourself a fine fencer. It’s true that most of them use the quarterstaff. Gentlemanly duels are of no interest to them.’
‘Do my father and mother know all this?’
‘No, my dear lad, neither your father nor your mother, nor your uncles and aunts. Your grandfather Benoît knew and I am sure that your grandmother Madeleine is well aware, but we have never spoken of it.’
A look of surprise that turns to disapproval passes across his face. I smile.
‘Come, Elie, you must quit thinking how could my darling grandfather have…’
‘But indeed, Grandfather, how could you… ?’
‘Firstly, I conceitedly fancy that some of these wretches have softened their ways thanks to me. I know from experience what it is to pay for a momentary error one’s whole life long. Our justice seeks to fight wrong with wrong, that is to say by punishment. He who has acted wrongly is forever wrong: such is God’s will, and punishment must serve as a lesson to others. I thought I might see whether certain kinds of wrong might be overcome with intelligence. This simple idea is blasphemy to most theologians of whatever creed. Keep this to yourself, I pray. But God is also forgiveness, after all. I have even had some success with my method. It is unlawful to have dealings with the Jorat brigands, so I have told no one. But think a moment: did I not tell you that the men I fled from in England would have killed me had they found me?’
‘Yes.’ His face lights up. ‘Oh! I understand!’
‘You see. You’d have done the same. Not forgetting that, at first, I lived in fear of being tracked down and murdered by certain cut-throats whose clutches I escaped, not far from here. I was a witness to their savage deeds, and might have identified them. Once I was Aristide’s friend, I explained my situation to him and he assured me that I could sleep soundly. Which is what I did. At worst, I had my sword.’
‘I take it all back, Grandfather. You are very shrewd.’
‘I may have become so, at last. But I needed protection because I was originally an arrant fool.’
At seventy-five it is easy, of course, to judge the things I did at thirty-five. It is easy to decide now that what I did then was indefensible. At the time, things were not so clear.
I was gripped, quite literally, by Hamlet’s madness.
Hamlet would never admit it, but he knew very well that he should not have given in to his mother’s blandishments. Just as I knew I should never have obeyed my father. Like Hamlet, I knew in my heart of hearts that I should never have trusted Salisbury (Laertes!). I sensed some kind of underhand trick in progress. I should never have had dealings with such people.
As for King James I, that ridiculous, dangerous Fortinbras, how could England ever have imagined he would bring prosperity? Or felicity? We knew everything about him before he became our king. We knew he cared for nothing and no one but himself. Yet I threw myself into that wolf’s maw – with some apprehension, it’s true, but also with hope, though everything that befell me was quite foreseeable.
It was not as if I had rushed to England on the news of our great monarch Elizabeth’s death. Three years had passed, by which time everyone understood that James had promised what was asked of him in order to win the succession. He gathered up the English throne without so much as a pause to stoop; and, once he was certain of his preference over Arabella or one of the three daughters of the late Ferdinando Stanley, he acted with complete disregard for the promises he had made. An ordinary gentleman must stand by his word. A king need not.
I had but one excuse: my innocence of the affairs of men. For too long I had been part of a system that operated chiefly on the initiative of others: Sir John, Giuliano, Jan. True, I was a peerless salesman for Jan and Giuliano, worth thousands of florins a year, as they frequently told me. But it is not true to say that I was of any value on my own, for it was Jan and Giuliano who impelled me. If I was effective, it was thanks solely to them.
Cornwall was my country, the land of my ancestors, but these were fond, foolish thoughts and the reality was otherwise. I had left Cornwall when I was five years old. I was a stranger there, I knew no one, and my influence was curtailed further still by my Catholic faith – and my reappearance shortly after the Gunpowder Plot.
But enough of regrets. As an Italian proverb says: the ditches abound with wisdom in retrospect.
I returned to Cornwall.
It seemed, at this time in my life, as though there were two men within me, each acting without taking counsel from the other.
There was Francis Tregian, eldest son of a recusant, subject to his duties of birthright, seeking, with little conviction, to redeem his family estates. And I had my Horatios, begging me to desist. But theirs were distant voices.
Jack told me repeatedly:
‘This is madness, sir. We would be much better off in Amsterdam. Why subject us to such an ordeal?’
Phillips also ventured, in his own discreet way, to suggest the obstacles were perhaps too great.
Yet there was a weakness in me, incapable of remaining indifferent to my father’s voice, swelled by the chorus of my mother, my brother Charles, my sisters and their respective families. I hardly saw them, but they made certain I heard their message. My mother made her position quite clear, in shrill tones, punctuated by sighs of despair, during a discussion in London. She and my younger sisters still lived at my uncle Lord Stourton’s house in Clerkenwell, where I had spent part of my childhood. I made the acquaintance of a sister, Philippa, whose existence had always passed me by. She was married to one James Plunkett, an Irishman, who waylaid me one fine day and delivered a homily on my duty to protect the family estates, not only for myself but also for my sisters. Mary’s husband, Thomas Yates, came – the first time I had ever laid eyes on him. Citing my sister’s lack of a dowry, he insisted it was only fair that he get his share. One might have supposed that after fifteen years of marriage, other considerations would have taken precedence. But no. Poor Mary!
And then, I imagined myself the victim of a plot. The offer made by Lady Carey, George Carey’s widow, was perhaps a lure to be rid of me. It was a sound notion: the Careys’ steward, Ezekiel Grosse, had urged Lady Elizabeth to rid herself of Golden. He would then be master of it, while I, as a Catholic, would not dare show my face. This was undoubtedly the calculation he had made. By the time I understood his intentions, it was too late: having come from nothing, he wished to buy himself some importance by acquiring Golden, and he would stop at nothing to be rid of me.
The objections of those around me seemed of secondary importance at the time, for I was too busy rediscovering Cornwall, its customs, its people and its music. If I had not declared my interest in the family estates, nobody would have paid me any attention. The tenant farmers and even the parish notables showed unfailing discretion. It must be said that George Carey proved to be a harsh, capricious and rapacious lord, served by a wily steward who inspired fear rather than affection. But the people were quite well disposed towards me: the youngest among them because they were heedless of the past and the oldest because they retained fond memories of my grandfather John.
‘He could be harsh. But he was a fair and kind man,’ I was told on several occasions.
Giuliano and Jan exhorted me constantly to return to Amsterdam. It had been five years since the plague, but they had not recovered their former prosperity. Still, they remained hopeful. Kees arrived with urgent messages: ‘You have no need of Golden. Cloth has a promising future, particularly our own, which is highly prized. A little patience is all. Soon, we will have finished paying back all the loans we secured to start the business afresh.’
I turned a deaf ear. In my inexperience of matters of land and property, I turned to a local man whose family had remained openly friendly with my own, though they were Protestants. So, at first, George Spry represented my interests. For far too long, I was completely unaware that this man was, perhaps quite unwittingly, a puppet in Grosse’s hands.
Lady Carey returned the use of our lands to me – for six thousand, five hundred pounds. I was paying to recover estates that belonged to me by right: strange, but such was the practice. At the time, I was not even shocked.
I had two thousand pounds. My father assured me he would send another two thousand pounds from Lisbon, where he now lived. Charles and Margaret thought they could give me another thousand. There remained just one thousand, five hundred pounds to be found. I sold some land in Devon. George Spry lent me a thousand pounds, which I thought I’d easily pay back with the revenues, and he advanced me the three thousand pounds I was to receive from my father and my sister.
Phillips offered to keep an eye on the estates; his family lived in his wife’s house in Kent, but he was of old Cornish stock like us: his father had been one of the Arundells’ stewards. He would no doubt have left the Tregians’ service long before, had it not been for the arrest of my father as well as his own. His family was well known in the region. I accepted gratefully.
To the best of my knowledge, my affairs were perfectly in order. I could devote myself to the activities I truly loved.
Alongside the obedient son, there was another Francis Tregian – the only one who counted for me at the time. His days were filled with discoveries, music, pleasant dalliances, and comings and goings between St Ewe and London.
The discovery of Cornwall held a particular charm for me: all around I saw things that evoked the echo of old memories, buried deep within me and apparently forgotten. Apparently, for my heart trembled constantly, as when reunited with a dear friend.
I had no desire to live in Golden, the house where I was born. I felt as if it had lost its soul; my family had no home there now. I walked through the buildings, but the distant voices of my first years had gone. They rang out no more, either there or at the old manor. The kitchen was a sad place, compared to my memories of it; without Old Thomas the charm was broken.
What’s more, the manor was rented and the tenant had no desire to leave: I reassured him.
When I was in Cornwall, I preferred to lie low at my house in Tregarrick, near St Ewe. I believe I passed unnoticed for so long due to the great number of names in the region beginning with ‘Tre’ – the word means ‘homestead’ in Cornish. The locals called me Tregarrick quicker than I’d been called Tréville. And those who sensed the truth kept quiet.
In the eyes of the Tregarrick tenant farmers, I was the spiritual son of Old Thomas, whom they had revered. I enjoyed the same esteem in which he had been held, and they were all the more devoted to me for my never having been a particularly demanding master. I had no need for that: they never stole from me and the property was kept in perfect order. My initial esteem reflected that still held for my grandfather John (in the case of some) and his steward Thomas Tregarrick (in the case of others); later, I earned their trust by helping with work on the estate and by taking an interest in local customs and ceremonies. My interest was chiefly dictated by my curiosity on technical matters and by my love for music; the tenant farmers, however, read into this a concern for individuals that I perhaps didn’t truly feel, at least not at first.
It began with the harvest. It is customary in many countries to celebrate its conclusion, and I had been a more or less attentive witness to harvest festivities in France, Italy and Holland.
The end of the harvest in Cornwall is marked by a ceremony called ‘Crying the neck’. To explain it, I must recount the entire ceremony.
The ‘neck’ is the name given in Cornwall and Devon to the last sheaf of the harvest. In appearance, it is no different to the others – a clutch of ears of wheat bound together for ease of transport. The last sheaf acquires a sacred character, and Geneva and Rome together would quake at the veneration of it by Protestants and Catholics alike, echoing the rites of their forefathers in ancient times, no doubt. For the last sheaf is the very spirit of the grain made flesh; it becomes the neck of a mythical creature whose favour must be courted so that the coming year’s harvest will be as good as, or better than, the previous one – just as we pray to God to keep us safe and protect us.
I was struck by the form of the prayer uttered at this ceremony, held in the tranquil calm of a summer’s evening. A group of men would gather on one side, a group of women on the other. ‘The neck!’ they cry in unison, as the last sheaf is cut.
‘We hav’et! We hav’et! We hav’et!’ the men chant.
‘What hav’ee? What hav’ee? What hav’ee?’ the women answer.
‘A neck! A neck! A neck!’ The closest group chants in the key of C; a little further off, another group in another field echoes them in the key of F. And further away another, and another and another still. There may be as many as ten or twenty choirs chanting the canon to each other in the twilight without a single false note, around and around, in waves. Nature is quiet at this time of evening, so they may be heard from very far off, two or three leagues away, even. For a moment they strike a chord, in four, six or eight parts. Then silence. Suddenly, the chanting starts over again and, as if by chance, invisible in the twilit fields, voices call out, responding, entreating, each in their own way: counterpoint in its most natural and perfect form. The essential chant is everywhere the same, dictated by age-old custom. But the variations are infinite, like Master Byrd’s The Bells, which I have recently copied: the voices converse, call out, overlay and reprise one another. The tune also reminds me of Byrd. He gathered it with an infallible ear in his Peascod Time, and I know now why I plucked the piece eagerly from among my scores: it evoked this forgotten melody of my childhood.
Until then, I had always shared Messire de Montaigne’s opinion: I am no glutton for the sweet delights of the country of my birth. Acquaintance and knowledge that are wholly new, and wholly mine, seem to me quite as a worthy as the common acquaintance and knowledge that come with accidental, neighbourly proximity. But Montaigne did not foresee my own situation: my ‘wholly new’ acquaintance and knowledge, here in Cornwall, were also the deepest roots of my person. Later, I saw the truth of his opinion once more, but for the time being, I was bound to the land of my birth.
All together, the harvesters would lift their sickles. One of them – the oldest man, as custom dictates – brings his down, a last glint of metal in the encroaching dark. He cuts the sheaf and raises it in the half-light. Immediately, the melodious chant breaks into confused cries of joy, the sheaf is unbound and each person takes two, three or four ears of wheat, wrapping them with garlands and calling out: ‘A neck! A neck! A neck! We yen! We yen! We yen!’ – the latter meaning ‘We’ve finished!’ Whereupon everyone bursts into shouts and laughter; headgear is thrown into the air; boys take advantage of the confusion to kiss the girls. Miniature corn-ricks are fashioned and decorated with flowers and ribbons.
A procession then forms for the return home. The ‘neck’ is solemnly suspended from a kitchen beam, where it shall remain until the next harvest. Hugh and Mary, my tenant farmers, prepare the traditional meal for the harvesters. This is called Gol Deis in Cornish, meaning ‘the Feast of the Ricks’. Everyone sits down to eat and a huge pot of boiled pork and turnips is brought out, followed by an apple pie covered in very thick cream. I have never eaten this ‘clouted’ cream, made by a process of scalding, anywhere other than in the land of my childhood. All this is washed down with quantities of cider, beer and aqua-vitae in a great clamour of laughter, jests and bawdy insinuations that might ordinarily cause offence, but which on this occasion nobody minds at all.
That evening binds me closer to the land of my birth than all my father’s preaching. I feel as if in communion with heaven, consorting with the whole wide world: this is one day when the universal prayer for ‘our daily bread’ – uttered by Protestants and Catholics alike – can take on its full significance.
A few days later, I even go and lie down in the arrish, the stubble field, to rekindle the sense of my first steps as a little child, the music of Jane’s voice and the plenitude of a time when my life was full of certitude and intent.
In these first days of innocent happiness, my mind turns to practical matters and it suddenly occurs to me that I could combine the agreeable with the useful: what if we were to raise the sheep whose wool Jan coveted?
I discuss it with some of the country people and immediately they are interested. Armed with all that my brother has taught me, I explain to the interested breeders what the necessary qualities are. We need sheep similar to those of Shetland to obtain the incredibly fine wool of which Jan has become a specialist. One of the tenant farmers from Creed whose land runs along the banks of the Fal, on the Golden estate, asks me one day if he might create the necessary pasture by clearing silt from the riverbank to improve the flow and so drain his fields. I willingly give him permission to do so.
The better to know how to proceed, I go back to Amsterdam, where Jan gives me precise instructions accompanied by drawings showing me how the wool should be shorn, carded, spun and woven.
‘Tell them that if they achieve the quality I seek, I will pay well,’ he assures me with a wide smile. ‘I shall derive even greater pleasure from working a wool that comes from the lands of my forefathers.’
I discover that there are ancient tin workings on the outskirts of our lands, too, especially towards St Austell. I think to look for them the same day I fall to wondering what it was the Romans had sought to defend with the fort of Voliba. I go to find the Reverend James Hitch, the vicar of Creed.
‘Here’s our great heretic,’ he says cheerfully by way of a greeting. ‘Have you thought better of it?’
‘Better of what, sir?’
‘I mean: have you come to conform?’
I look at him without replying. I don’t know what he reads in my eyes, but he blushes and lays a hand on my arm:
‘Forgive me; the jest was unseemly. What can I do for you?’
‘I was wondering if you had a history of the region. I’d like to know why the Romans built a fort here.’
‘To protect the tin route,’ he replies without hesitation or looking in a single book. ‘The rivers and streams were full of it at the time.’
‘And today?’
‘It is less accessible now. But there is still some around St Austell. And quite a few people are busy looking for it.’
‘Who?’
He gives me a litany of unfamiliar names.
‘First see if any of your land is rich in tin, then, if it is, you must apply to the Stannary Court for a licence to mine.’
The pastor has very pale grey eyes, a slim pointed face and milky white skin. I find his stare quite frightening. A vague feeling of unease prompts me to declare:
‘I ask but one thing: to be allowed to live my life in peace. I shall not convert, despite my very great disagreement with my father, and even if the Jesuits are, in my opinion, quite wrong.’ I am startled by my own audacity.
There is a silence.
‘I have heard that you are an excellent musician,’ he says.
I have no desire to discuss music, but I force myself. We exchange several remarks. He has learned the viol – and mastered it, judging by the tune I hear him play. In the corner is a virginal, which his wife once played.
‘I lost her nearly two years ago,’ he explains in a sad voice. ‘Since then, the virginal has stood quiet.’
I bend over the poor instrument, too long abandoned, and set to work with the penknife I always carry on me for such a purpose, together with the tools I find in the instrument’s drawer. First I trim the plectrums – the quills are in a very poor state. Then I tighten the strings. I feel as if the souls of Mistress Hitch and Françoise are floating about us. Having restored the instrument’s melodious voice, I play a tune by Morley that Françoise particularly liked.
The Reverend brightens when I tell him I was one of Master Morley’s pupils. The ice is thawed, the discussion springs to life, and our polite affability turns to warm affection when I casually tell him that I attended the Merchant Taylors’ and am on good terms with Richard Mulcaster, who is still headmaster of St Paul’s School in London. It is in this friendly mood that he decides finally to make the observation that he has doubtless been impatient to make since the beginning of our meeting.
‘Master Tregian, I fear that you may offend the interests of people who would use your religion to malign you, thwart your schemes, even banish you.’
‘What do you advise?’
‘I hardly know what to advise you: your only safe refuge is the Church of England. Do not protest – I know that you will not conform out of expedience, which is all to your honour. Unfortunately, I have no other counsel on the matter.’
It is my turn to stare at him in silence.
‘I think you have need of a guardian angel,’ he says. We are already on the doorstep.
I gesture to Jack, who holds the bridle of my horse.
‘I have an excellent one.’
‘No doubt, but you require an angel of another kind, too. I will see what I can do for you.’
I am in the saddle now, and feel apt to dismount and embrace him, but his strange gaze dissuades me.
I gathered a few tenant farmers and some miners who had come up from around Penzance. We set out and found some tin near St Ewe. I learned to begin by studying the ground, the colour of the soil and the nature of the stones. Often, pebbles of tin ore look quite unremarkable; they must be picked up and weighed in the hand to determine whether they contain any metal. Next you must see where they lie and follow the trail, climbing to the higher ground from where they have been washed down; you dig, and if there’s a vein of tin, it will lie six or seven feet deep. We found a promising site, at last, and I petitioned the mining authorities to obtain a licence.
‘In what capacity have you come here?’ the judge asked me.
‘I own the land. I intend to invest in the mining gear. I have a right to a fee for the land, as well as a share of its revenues.’
‘Quite so. Or rather it would be so if you were really the owner of the land.’
‘I can show you the titles to the property. I redeemed my usage of it.’
‘Your lands have been subjected to praemunire and your father still lives. You have no right to redeem them.’
He leaned forward. He had an affable face with greying hair and red cheeks.
‘Master Tregian, I have no desire to prevent you from going about your business. It has always been my view that your family was treated with disproportionate severity. I am simply a judge of the Stannary Court. I mean you no harm. I merely point out a fact – and I wonder if someone has not tricked you, in the basest possible way. Anyone who wished you harm could take back your lands tomorrow. Only your father himself can redeem them. After his death, however, they will be returned to you by law, and you will have nothing to pay. Then, you can only be stripped of them by praemunire, and the sentence of praemunire cannot be passed without concrete proof. Do you harbour priests?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Is Mass said at your house?’
‘No, sir. Indeed, I travel quite far to attend it.’
‘Are you a partisan of the Jesuits?’
‘I am a loyal subject of His Majesty, sir. My sword and my life are at his disposition.’
‘Do you pay your Catholic fines?’
‘Absolutely.’
A silence.
‘I have studied the law and tell you this with full knowledge of the facts; seeing the look on your face, I am surprised to find nobody warned you sooner.’
‘I am grateful for your counsel, sir.’ I was startled to hear my voice shaking; for the first time, I was aware of how unsafe my situation was.
‘Is there a man you can trust?’
‘There may be.’
‘Sell him the land where you wish to dig, if it is not in mortgage. And do it quickly. As for your estates, I wouldn’t count on them. Unfortunately, I can do nothing for you. My jurisdiction only extends to mines.’
I returned to St Ewe in a sorry state.
I pursued my plans for the sheep breeding and the tin mine, over the weeks that followed. I ‘sold’ my share in the mine to Jack. But I had woken from a beautiful dream. I felt as if a barrel of gunpowder had been placed beneath my bed and someone might light the match at any moment. That someone was surely Ezekiel Grosse, though nobody uttered his name. Phillips went to request the estate accounts from him and was not satisfied:
‘He’s been lining his own pocket, stealing as much as he can from Sir George Carey; that’s my view. He knows I suspect him. There are but two possibilities. Either he’ll step aside, or he has something unpleasant in store for you. But he’s not the type of man to step aside. The rumours I hear are alarming.’
‘What rumours?’
‘Of a deal between Lord Robert Cecil, Lady Elizabeth Carey and Grosse. It seems Cecil forced them to restore your lands in return for payment of a sum of money on your part, but this is not entirely lawful as long as your father lives.’
‘And so?’
‘Cecil might just as well have signed, or got the King to sign, a decree of restitution. It’s true that you bear a discreditable name, but you are also a grandson and nephew of several Catholic peers of England who sit in the House of Lords.’
‘What are you trying to tell me, my dear Phillips?’
‘I am trying to tell you that rather than ensure the restitution of your properties as promised, the Lord Treasurer has handed Carey and Grosse an opportunity to carry on stealing from you. It will cost Grosse dearly in bribes, but he’ll get what he desires in the end, as far as I can see. He is wily while you are not, in the slightest.’
Phillips had thoroughly alarmed me. I reflected that I was in mortal danger, that Grosse might be contemplating having me killed. Rarely has an intuition of mine been so exact, though I dismissed the thought at the time. What would be the point? I argued. I had a son, though Grosse was ignorant of his existence, and besides him, I had a brother, a bevy of sisters and a dozen nephews. No, Grosse had nothing to gain by ridding himself of me that way.
I could not foresee that he might create a situation whereby my death would guarantee his uncontested ownership of my lands. And when I did, it was too late.