I had been standing against the old kitchen dresser, but there was no dresser behind me now, only the stone wall, and the kitchen itself had become the living-quarters of the original house, with the hearth at one end and the ladder leading to the sleeping-room beside it. The girl I had seen kneeling by the hearth that first day came running down the ladder at the sound of the men’s footsteps, and at sight of her Roger shouted, “Go back out of it! What we have to say and do does not concern you.”
She hesitated, and the boy, the brother, was there too, looking over her shoulder. “Out of it,” shouted Roger, “the pair of you,” and they backed away again, up the ladder, but from where I stood I could see them crouching there, out of sight of the group of men, who entered the kitchen behind the steward.
Roger set his flare upon a bench, lighting the room, and I recognized the boy he was holding—it was the young novice I had seen on my first visit to the Priory, the lad who had been forced to run round the stableyard to make sport for his fellow-monks, and later had wept at his prayers in the Priory chapel.
“I’ll make him talk,” said Roger, “if the rest of you cannot. It will loosen his tongue to have a taste of Purgatory to come.”
Slowly he rolled up his sleeves, taking his time, his eyes upon the novice all the while, and the boy backed away from the bench, seeking shelter among the other men, who thrust him forward, laughing. He had grown taller since I had seen him last, but it was the same lad, there was no mistaking him, and the look of terror in his eyes suggested that the rough handling he dreaded this time was not sport.
Roger seized him by his habit and pushed him onto his knees beside the bench. “Tell us all you know,” he said, “or I’ll singe the hair off your head.”
“I know nothing,” cried the novice. “I swear by the Mother of God…”
“No blasphemy,” said Roger, “or I’ll set fire to your habit too. You’ve played spy long enough, and we want the truth.”
He took hold of the flare and brought it within an inch or so of the boy’s head. The boy crouched lower and began to scream. Roger hit him across the mouth. “Come on, out with it,” he said.
The girl and her brother were staring from the ladder, fascinated, and the five men drew nearer to the bench, one of them touching the boy’s ear with his knife. “Shall I prick him and draw blood,” he suggested, “then singe his pate afterwards where the flesh is tender?”
The novice held up his hands for mercy. “I’ll tell all I know,” he cried, “but it’s nothing, nothing… only what I overheard Master Bloyou, the Bishop’s emissary, say to the Prior.”
Roger withdrew the flare, and set it back upon the bench. “And what did he say?”
The terrified novice glanced first at Roger and then at his companions. “That the Bishop was displeased with the conduct of some of the brethren, Brother Jean in particular. That he, with others, acts against the Prior’s will, and squanders the property of the monastery in dissolute living. That they are a scandal to the whole Order, and a pernicious example to many outside it. And that the Bishop cannot close his eyes to the situation any longer, and has given Master Bloyou all power to enforce the canon law, with the aid of Sir John Carminowe.”
He paused for breath, seeking reassurance in their faces, and one of the men, not the fellow with the knife, moved away from the group.
“By the faith, it’s true,” he muttered, “and who are we to deny it? We know well enough that the Priory, and all within it, are a scandal. If the French monks went back where they belong, we’d be well rid of them.”
A murmur of agreement rose from the others, and the man with the knife, a great hulking chap, losing interest in the novice, turned to Roger.
“Trefrengy has a point,” he said sullenly. “It stands to reason we valley men this side of Tywardreath would stand to gain if the Priory closed its doors. We’d have a claim to the surrounding land, on which they grow fat, instead of being pushed to graze our cattle among reeds.”
Roger folded his arms, spurning the still frightened novice with his foot. “Who speaks of closing the Priory doors?” he asked. “Not the Bishop up in Exeter, he speaks for the Diocese only, and can recommend the Prior to discipline the monks, but nothing further. The King is overlord, as you are perfectly aware, and every one of us who are tenants under Champernoune has had fair treatment, and received benefits from the Priory into the bargain. More than that. None of you have held back from trading with the French ships when they cast anchor in the bay. Is there anyone among you who has not had his cellars filled because of them?”
Nobody answered. The novice, believing himself safe, began to crawl away, but Roger caught at him once again and held him.
“Not so fast,” he said, “I haven’t finished with you. What else did Master Henry Bloyou tell the Prior?”
“No more than I have said,” stammered the boy.
“Nothing concerning the safety of the realm itself?”
Roger made as though to seize the flare from the bench, and the novice, trembling, put up his hands in self-defense.
“He spoke of rumors from the north,” he faltered, “that trouble is still brewing between the King and his mother Queen Isabella, and might break out into open strife before long. If so, he wondered who in the west would be loyal to the young King, and who would declare for the Queen and her lover Mortimer.”
“I thought as much,” said Roger. “Now crawl into a corner and stay mute. If you blab a word of this outside these walls I’ll slit your tongue for you.”
He turned and faced the five men, who stared back at him uncertainly, this latest information having shocked them into silence.
“Well?” asked Roger. “What do you make of it? Are you all dumb?”
The fellow called Trefrengy shook his head. “It’s none of our business,” he said. “The King can quarrel with his mother if he wants. It does not concern us.”
“You think not?” queried Roger. “Not even if the Queen and Mortimer should keep the power within their own hands still? I know of some in these parts who would prefer it so, and would be recompensed for declaring for the Queen when the battle was done. Yes, and pay liberally if others would do the same.”
“Not young Champernoune,” said the man with the knife. “He’s under-age and tied to his mother’s apron-strings. As for you, Roger, you’d never risk rebellion against a crowned king—not holding your position.”
He laughed derisively and the others joined in, but the steward, looking at each in turn, remained unmoved.
“Victory is assured if action is swift and power seized overnight,” he said. “If that is what the Queen and Mortimer intend, we shall all of us be on the winning side if we keep sweet with their friends. There could be some division of manor lands, who knows? And instead of grazing your cattle among reeds, Geoffrey Lampetho, you might have the advantage of the hills above.”
The man with the knife shrugged his shoulders. “Easy said,” he observed, “but who are these friends, so ready with their promises? I know of none.”
“Sir Otto Bodrugan, for one,” said Roger quietly.
A murmur rose among the men, the name Bodrugan was repeated, and Henry Trefrengy, who had spoken against the French monks, shook his head once more.
“He’s a fine man, none better,” he said, “but the last time he rebelled against the Crown, in 1322, he lost, and was fined a thousand marks for his pains.”
“He was recompensed four years later when the Queen made him Governor of Lundy island,” replied Roger. “The lea of Lundy makes good anchorage for vessels carrying arms, and men as well, who can lie in safety there until they’re needed on the mainland. Bodrugan is no fool. What is easier for him, holding lands in Cornwall and in Devon, and Governor of Lundy into the bargain, than to raise the men and ships that the Queen needs?”
His argument, smooth, persuasive, seemed to make impact, especially upon Lampetho. “If there’s profit in it for us I’d wish him well,” he said, “and rally to his side when the deed is done. But I won’t cross the Tamar for any man, Bodrugan or another, and you can tell him so.”
“You may tell him yourself,” said Roger. “His vessel lies below, and he knows I await him here. I tell you, friends, Queen Isabella will show her gratitude to him, and to others, who knew which side to favor.”
He went to the foot of the ladder. “Come down, Robbie,” he called. “Take a light across the field and see if Sir Otto is on his way,” and turning to the others, “I’m ready to strike a blow for him if you are not.”
His brother came down the ladder, and, seizing one of the flares, ran out into the yard beyond the kitchen.
Henry Trefrengy, more cautions than his companions, stroked his chin. “What lies in it for you, Roger, by siding with Bodrugan? Will the lady Joanna join forces with her brother against the King?”
“My lady has no part in any of it,” replied Roger shortly. “She is away from home, at her other property of Trelawn, with her own children and Bodrugan’s wife and family. None of them have any knowledge of what is at stake.”
“She won’t thank you when she hears of it,” replied Trefrengy, “nor Sir John Carminowe either. It is common knowledge they only wait for Sir John’s lady to die so that they can marry.”
“Sir John’s lady is healthy and likely to continue so,” answered Roger, “and when the Queen makes Bodrugan Keeper of Restormel Castle and overseer of all the Duchy lands, my lady may lose her interest in Sir John and look upon her brother with more affection than she does now. I don’t doubt I shall be recompensed by Bodrugan, and forgiven by my lady.” He smiled, and scratched his ear.
“By the faith,” said Lampetho, “we all know you lay your plans to suit yourself. Whoever wins the day will find you at his elbow. Bodrugan or Sir John at Restormel Castle, and you will be standing at the drawbridge, holding a well-lined purse.”
“I don’t deny it,” said Roger, smiling still. “If you possessed the same ability for thought you would do likewise.”
Footsteps sounded from the yard beyond, and he crossed to the door and flung it open. Otto Bodrugan stood on the threshold, with young Robbie behind him.
“Enter, sir, and welcome. We are all friends,” said Roger, and Bodrugan came into the kitchen, looking sharply about him, surprised, I think, to see the little group of men who, embarrassed by his sudden arrival, drew back against the wall. His tunic was laced to the throat, with a padded leather jerkin over all, belted with purse and dagger, and a traveling cloak, fur-trimmed, hung from his shoulders. He made a contrast to the others in their homespun cloth and hoods, and it was evident from his air of confidence that he was used to commanding men.
“I am very glad to see you,” he said at once, advancing to each in turn. “Henry Trefrengy, isn’t it? And Martin Penhelek. John Beddyng I know too—your uncle rode north with me in ’22. The others I have not met before.”
“Geoffrey Lampetho, sir, and his brother Philip,” said Roger. “They farm the valley adjoining Julian Polpey’s land, beneath the Priory manor.”
“Is Julian not here, then?”
“He awaits us at Polpey.”
Bodrugan’s eye fell upon the novice, still crouching beside the bench. “What is the monk doing here among you?”
“He brought us information, sir,” said Roger. “There has been some trouble at the Priory, a matter of discipline in the house among the brothers, of no concern to us, but disturbing in that the Bishop has lately sent Master Bloyou from Exeter to inquire into the business.”
“Henry Bloyou? A close friend to Sir John Carminowe and Sir William Ferrers. Is he still at the Priory?”
The novice, anxious to please, touched Bodrugan’s knee. “No, sir, he has gone. He left yesterday for Exeter, but promised to return shortly.”
“Well, get to your feet, lad, no harm shall come to you.” Bodrugan turned to the steward. “Have you been threatening him?”
“Not a hair of his head,” protested Roger. “He is only frightened that the Prior might learn of his presence here, despite my promise to the contrary.”
Roger signaled to Robbie to take the novice to the upper room, and the pair of them disappeared up the ladder, the novice in as much hurry to be gone as a kicked dog. When the two had gone Bodrugan, standing before the hearth, his hands on his belt, looked keenly at each one of the men.
“What Roger has been telling you about our chances I do not know,” he said, “but I can promise you a better life when the King is in custody.” No one answered. “Has Roger informed you that most of the country will declare for Queen Isabella in a few days’ time?” he asked them.
Henry Trefrengy, who seemed to be spokesman, was bold enough to speak. “He has told us so, yes,” he said, “but little detail of it.”
“It is a question of the timing,” replied Bodrugan. “Parliament now sits at Nottingham, and it is planned to seize the King—with all care for his safety, naturally—until he comes of age. In the meantime Queen Isabella will continue as Regent, with Mortimer to aid her. He may lack popularity with some, but he is a strong man, and capable, and a very good friend of many Cornishmen. I am proud to count myself among them.”
Silence again. Then Geoffrey Lampetho stepped forward. “What would you have us do?” he asked.
“Come north with me, if you will,” answered Bodrugan, “but if not, and God knows I cannot make you, then promise to swear allegiance to Queen Isabella when word comes from Nottingham that we hold the King.”
“That’s spoken fairly,” said Roger. “For my part I say yes, and gladly, and will ride with you.”
“And so will I,” said another, the man called Penhelek.
“And I too,” cried the third, John Beddyng.
Only the Lampetho brothers and Trefrengy were reluctant.
“We’ll swear allegiance when the moment comes,” said Geoffrey Lampetho, “but we’ll swear it at home, not across the Tamar.”
“Also fairly spoken,” said Bodrugan. “If the King had the power himself we should be at war with France within ten years, fighting across the Channel. By supporting the Queen now we strike a blow for peace. I have the promise of at least a hundred men from my own lands, from Bodrugan, from Tregrehan and further west, and from Devon too. Shall we go and see how Julian Polpey stands?”
There was a general stir among the men as they made towards the door.
“The tide is flooding across the ford,” said Roger. “We must cross the valley by Trefrengy and Lampetho. I have a pony for you, sir. Robbie?” He called his brother from the room above. “Have you the pony saddled for Sir Otto? And mine as well? Make haste, then…” And as the boy came down the ladder he whispered in his ear, “Brother Jean will send for the novice later. Keep him until then. As for myself, I cannot say when I shall return.”
We found ourselves in the stableyard, a huddle of ponies and men, and I knew I must go too, for Roger was mounting his pony beside Bodrugan, and wherever he went I was compelled to follow. The clouds were racing across the sky, the wind was blowing, and the stamping of ponies and the jingle of harness rang in my ear. Never before, neither in my own world nor on the previous occasions when I had strayed into the other, had I felt such a sense of unity. I was one of them, and they did not know it. I belonged among them, and they did not know it. This, I think, was the essence of what it meant to me. To be bound, yet free; to be alone, yet in their company; to be born in my own time yet living, unknown, in theirs.
They rode up the track through the little copse bordering Kilmarth, and at the top of the hill, instead of following the route of the modern road I knew, they struck across the summit and then plunged steeply towards the valley. The track was rough, making the ponies stumble from time to time, and twisting too. The descent seemed almost as sharp as a cliff-face, but, disembodied as I felt myself to be, I was no judge of height or depth, and my only guides were the men upon their ponies. Then, through the darkness, I saw the gleam of water, and presently we plumbed the valley’s depth and reached a wooden bridge bordering a stream, across which the ponies walked dry-shod in single file, and the path wound to the left, following the water’s course, until the stream itself widened to a broad creek that opened out in the far distance to the sea itself. I knew I must be on the opposite side of the valley from Polmear hill, but because I was abroad in their world and it was night, the judging of distance was impossible; I could only follow the ponies, my eyes firmly fixed on Roger and Bodrugan.
The path led us past farm-buildings, where the Lampetho brothers dismounted, the elder, Geoffrey, shouting that he would follow later, and we went on again, the track rising to higher ground but still bordering the creek. There were further farm-buildings ahead above the sand-dunes where the river met the sea; even in the darkness I could see the gleam of the white rollers as they broke in the distance and then ran upon the shore. Someone came to meet us, there were barking dogs and flares, and we were in yet another stableyard, similar to the one at Kilmarth, with outbuildings surrounding it. As the men dismounted from their ponies the door of the main building opened, and I recognized the man who came forward to greet us. It was Roger’s companion on the day of the Bishop’s reception at the Priory, the same who had walked with him afterwards on the village green.
Roger, the first to dismount, was the first at his friend’s side, and even in the dim light of the lantern by the house door I could see his expression change as the man whispered hurriedly in his ear, pointing to the further side of the farm-buildings.
Bodrugan saw this too, for jumping off his pony he called out, “What’s amiss, Julian? Has your opinion changed since I saw you last?”
Roger turned swiftly. “Bad tidings, sir. For your ear only.”
Bodrugan hesitated for a moment, then quickly said, “As you will,” and put out his hand to the owner of the house. “I had hoped,” he said, “we would muster arms and men at Polpey, Julian. My ship is anchored below Kylmerth, you must have seen her. There are several aboard, ready to disembark.”
Julian Polpey shook his head. “I am sorry, Sir Otto, they will not be needed, nor yourself either. Word came not ten minutes ago that the whole scheme has been defeated before it took final shape. A very special messenger has brought you the news herself, disregarding, if I may say so, her own safety.”
I could hear Roger, over my shoulder, telling the men to mount their ponies and ride back to Lampetho, where he would presently join them. Then, handing his pony’s reins to the servant standing by, he joined Polpey and Bodrugan as they made their way past the outbuildings to the further side of the house.
“It is Lady Carminowe,” said Bodrugan to Roger, his glad confidence vanished, his face sharp with anxiety. “She has brought bad news.”
“Lady Carminowe?” exclaimed Roger, incredulous, then with sudden understanding, and lowering his voice, “you mean the lady Isolda?”
“She is on her way to Carminowe,” said Bodrugan, “and, guessing my movements, has broken her journey here at Polpey.”
We came to the other side of the house, which fronted upon the lane leading to Tywardreath. A covered vehicle was drawn up outside the gate, similar to the wagonettes I had seen at the Priory at Martinmas, but this was smaller, drawn by two horses only.
As we approached the curtain was held aside from the small window, and Isolda leaned from it, the dark hood that covered her head falling back upon her shoulders.
“Thank God I am in time,” she said. “I come straight from Bockenod. Both John and Oliver are there, and believe me halfway to Carminowe to rejoin the children. The worst has happened for your cause, and what I feared. News came before I left that the Queen and Mortimer have been seized at Nottingham Castle and are prisoners. The King is in full command, and Mortimer is to be taken to London for trial. Here is an end, Otto, to all your dreams.”
Roger exchanged a glance with Julian Polpey, and as the latter, from discretion, moved away into the shadows I could see the conflict of emotion on Roger’s face. I guessed what he was thinking. Ambition had led him astray, and he had backed a losing cause. It now remained for him to urge Bodrugan to return to his ship, disband his men and speed Isolda on her journey, while he himself, having explained his volte-face to Lampetho, Trefrengy and the rest as best he could, reinstated himself as Joanna Champernoune’s trusted steward.
“You have risked discovery in coming here,” said Bodrugan to Isolda. Nothing in his face betrayed how much he had lost.
“If I have done so,” she replied, “you know the reason why.”
I saw her look at him, and he at her. We were the only witnesses, Roger and I. Bodrugan bent forward to kiss her hand, and as he did so I heard the sound of wheels from the lane, and I thought, “She came too late to warn him after all. Oliver, the husband, and Sir John have followed her.”
I wondered that neither of them heard the wheels, and then I saw they were not with me any longer. The wagonette had gone, and the mail van from Par had come up the lane and stopped beside the gate.
It was morning. I was standing inside the drive leading to a small house across the valley from Polmear hill. I tried to hide myself in the bushes bordering the drive, but the postman had already got out of his van and was opening the gate. His stare combined recognition and astonishment, and I followed the direction of his eyes down to my legs. I was soaking wet from crutch to foot: I must have waded through bog and marsh. My shoes were water-logged and both trouser legs were torn. I summoned a painful smile.
He looked embarrassed. “You’re in a proper mess,” he said. “It’s the gentleman living up Kilmarth, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Well, this is Polpey, Mr. Graham’s house. But I doubt if they’re up yet, it’s only just turned seven. Were you intending to call on Mr. Graham?”
“Good heavens, no! I got up early, went for a walk, and somehow lost my way.”
It was a thumping lie, and sounded like one. He seemed to accept it, though.
“I have to deliver these letters, and then I’ll be going up the hill to your place,” he said. “Would you care to get in the van? It would save you a walk.”
“Thanks a lot,” I said. “I’d be most grateful.”
He disappeared down the drive and I climbed into his van. I looked at my watch. He was right, it was five past seven. Mrs. Collins was not due for at least another hour and a half, and I should have plenty of time for a bath and a change.
I tried to think where I had been. I must have crossed the main road at the top of the hill, then walked downhill across country and through the marshy ground at the bottom of the valley. I had not even known that this house was called Polpey.
No nausea, though, thank God, no vertigo. As I sat there, waiting for him to return, I realized that the rest of me was wet as well, jacket, head, for it was raining—it had probably been raining when I left Kilmarth almost an hour and a half ago. I wondered whether I should enlarge upon my story to the postman or let it go. Better let it go…
He came back and climbed into the van. “Not much of a morning for your walk. It’s been raining hard since midnight.”
I remembered then that it had been the rain which woke me up originally, blowing the curtain at the bedroom window.
“I don’t mind the rain,” I told him. “I get short of exercise in London.”
“Same as me,” he said cheerfully, “driving this van. But I’d rather be snug in my bed this weather than take a walk across the marsh. Still, there it is, it wouldn’t do if we were all the same.”
He called at the Ship Inn at the bottom of the hill and at one of the cottages nearby, and as the van raced up the main road I looked leftward over my shoulder to the valley, but the high hedge hid it from view. God only knew what swampy meadowland and marsh I must have traversed. My shoes were oozing water on the floor of the van.
We left the main road and turned right down the drive to Kilmarth.
“You’re not the only early bird,” he said as the sweep in front of the house came into sight. “Either Mrs. Collins has had a lift up from Polkerris or you have visitors.”
I saw the large open boot of the Buick packed tight with luggage. The horn was blowing continuously, and the two children, with macs held over their heads to protect them from the rain, were running up the steps through the front garden to the house.
The shock of disbelief turned to the dull certainty of impending doom.
“It’s not Mrs. Collins,” I said, “it’s my wife and family. They must have driven down from London through the night.”