Land and Power

Jos felt the horse hump its back and he swayed. The stallion ducked his head. Thrusting with his hocks, he snapped a wicked fly-jump, back arched like an arrow, hooves drumming the ground in anger. Feeling his rider’s solidity the horse changed tactics. He bored with open mouth, oblivious to the snaffle bit, the animal shot forward in a wild gallop and hurtled down the grass.

Jos swore angrily, aware he was the subject of many interested and highly amused looks. He pulled on the reins, dropped a hand and tried to turn the horse. Mulishly the animal ignored the pain in his mouth. He charged straight for the fence. Jos felt the sweat break out on his forehead. He gripped tightly, held his breath, then the horse was lifting. Great muscular quarters and powerful hocks drove man and beast through the air. Jos caught a glimpse of the thick hedge underneath then the ground came up, hard and fast, for a drop landing.

Jos swung his weight backwards. The horse pecked a little at the landing and, quickly working both hands, Jos pulled the black’s head up, rammed with his heels and regained control. The black snorted wildly, bounced in a ragged canter then sullenly stopped.

He turned the animal and drove him back at the fence. With pricked ears the stallion hesitated a second, felt the ram of spurred boots in his flank and took off again. They jumped back into the field where the hounds and people had paused.

Two black-habited ladies, riding side-saddle, nodded to each other in approval. As rider and black horse passaged through them there was admiration in the eyes of the top-hatted, long-coated men. Joe Howard deserved his name with horses. A name legion among many great ones in Leicestershire.

Deciding he’d had enough for one day, and with nods to people he knew, Jos turned.

It seemed so long ago since he had stepped off the Leicester coach. He had then been a green, gangling youth without much future and no home. Now he was a man of 23 years with an established reputation. He earned very good money—and all because of horses.

From talking himself into a job as a humble stable boy Jos had soon graduated to nagsman. His ability to ride a rough horse had spread. He was in great demand from the gentry whenever they had a horse beyond their control or when the ladies’ mounts wanted gentling.

Jos thought back as he rode. He now had a nice cottage, two rooms downstairs and two good bedrooms above. A change from the crowded bothy where he had first been thankful to lodge and eat. His stomach was always full and his purse never empty. The gentry could be generous and Jos was canny with his money.

‘If ever a marriage is a disaster, then mine is,’ Jos thought ruefully, ‘but what can I do about it?’

He was a married man with a son to show for the alliance too. A fine healthy boy of a year who took after his father more than any child had a right to. As for Ann—his heart quailed as he thought of his wife.

Jos was honest enough to admit that he was more than half to blame. He had married Ann Tate on a complete rebound. He had been infatuated with a pair of wild, black eyes, black hair and a lush figure—now he was suffering the consequences of utter foolishness. He had jumped into her bed with the wild abandon of blighted youth. He had washed the self-pity from his system with the fullness of a young male’s lust. Now he was both wed and a father. He was still not quite sure how it had all happened, and he was thoroughly miserable.

What could he do? Ann was a shrew of the highest order and, Jos suspected, she had a different side for other men. What she denied to him she was not impartial about distributing elsewhere. As time had passed Jos had realized he couldn’t care less. He had considered leaving her more than once but had always hesitated at the irrevocable final step.

In his eyes she had become coarse and abandoned in both speech and gesture whereas Jos had changed in the opposite direction. He had watched the gentry, listened to them, noted how they acted towards each other and those in the lower classes. He had painfully schooled himself in both manners and speech until he knew he could pass as real gentry if he wished.

It was good that he had such wild and dangerous work. Jos was the type of man to vegetate under a woman’s scorn and biting tongue. Though he might be a genius with horses where women were concerned he was a helpless fool. He admitted this.

‘If only I could take Peter and go back to Sarah’s!’ he mused. He could then be happy again but who would welcome him there? And what could he do to earn his living with his reputation in Mayo’s territory? And Ann was the child’s mother! She certainly wouldn’t allow herself to go to the wilds of Gloucestershire when here, in Leicestershire, she was meshed in the activity of a big stable with its attendant comings and goings of notables.

He received snatches of news from home. Verbal messages were passed to him from coachmen. Rarely he received a note written in Sarah’s shaky hand. She was still well, though crippled with rheumatism and inclined to be bad-tempered in her old age. She was living out of her old age under the Squire’s wing and watched over, at a discreet distance, by his grandfather.

Maud had married her George. They had managed to produce a son called Jon. A boy the same age as Peter.

‘It’s odd that me and my enemy should both have boys in the same year. Is this an ominous sign?’ he asked himself. How did the feud stand now?

George had changed, his gossips told him. Deprived of his good looks from their last encounter so had also disappeared any good nature he might have had. George drank heavily, was obese, foul-mouthed and, so ’twas said, was the disgust of old James Mayo.

The old man, now feeble, was ready to die at any time. Jos didn’t know whom he pitied the most. His disappointed grandfather or one-time girl. What a bed Maud had made for herself. She had the land and riches but what she must be suffering for them!

As he rode into the yard he sighed to himself, squared his shoulders and slowly dismounted. He gave the black’s reins to a groom.

Jos looked round the busy stable yard. It was owned by a group of London business men. Regular toffs who knew how to invest their money for a quick and sound return. It housed various types of animals from hunters and ladies’ hacks to coach horses. It catered for both private and commercial use.

The head stableman eyed Jos and hurried past with a brief nod. Jos was a little surprised. He suddenly became aware that the other boys and men were whispering surreptitiously. For a moment he wondered what was attracting their attention, then he shrugged and turned towards his home.

His cottage stood on its own as befitted a top rough rider earning big money. He immediately became conscious of two things. All the men and boys stared after him and there was no smoke from the chimney. Unease started to fill him. He hurried his steps. Now what was wrong?

He opened the door with a bang and clumped over the stone floor into the downstairs room which doubled as living-room and kitchen. As soon as he entered he sensed the cottage was empty. It was so still and cold. Last night’s ashes lay in the black-leaded grate. No smell of hot food touched his nostrils. He stopped, trying to puzzle it out.

‘It’s not a bit of good you calling for her, she’s gone!’ the voice told him calmly.

Jos whipped round in alarm. The woman in the door was holding his son in her plump arms. She was Jenny. The stud groom’s wife, a buxom female with a large brood of forever squabbling children.

‘She went off early this morning. Left the child with me,’ explained Jenny, watching Jos’s reactions with interest.

Jenny shrugged eloquently. ‘That’s her secret, but she didn’t go alone,’ and she paused, eyeing Jos carefully. What would his reaction be?

‘Happen you know that Ann Tate, as I think of her, had an eye for the men? You weren’t the first—but you’ll be knowing that fact—and after the young ’un was born you weren’t the last by a long chalk! Common lot! Always has been. Anyhow, she’s gone off with a soldier. Him and her went on the first coach to London. My guess is you’ll not be seeing the likes of her back here again and good riddance!’

Jos leaned against the wall, staggered with this information. He knew things were bad between him and Ann but for her to prefer a common foot soldier—his pride was shattered. His lips tightened. He quickly debated what to do. He could go after her, thrash her and the man and bring her back, but then what? Did he want her back? And wouldn’t she do the same again as soon as his back was turned? He was honest enough to understand his feelings: In a way he was glad to see the back of her—it was just that he should have taken the step. Not his wife!

‘Fine type to run off and leave her young ’un,’ she added caustically. A man with a toddler and no woman could get himself in a mess, though she knew, as did everyone, that Jos Howard was not short of money. He’d not have trouble in finding a wench to warm his bed for him either. This giant of a man had a quiet magnetism about him which brought out the mothering instinct in most females.

‘If I’d been a bit younger I wouldn’t have minded jumping into bed with you, Jos Howard,’ Jenny told herself. ‘You’re all man!’

Jos reached out and took his son in his arms. He felt great tenderness towards the small child, now so utterly dependent upon him. He smiled down, watching the tiny hands form fists while big blue eyes looked up at him trustingly.

‘He’s been fed and changed,’ Jenny informed him. ‘I’ve had him in with my lot.’

So many implications were hitting him. He was free! At last! No longer did he have to ponder the means to obtain his freedom. Ann had given it to him. His relief was overwhelming. He knew he would never marry again. Once bitten had made him more than twice shy.

Slowly he showed her to the door, making small talk, assuring her he would call if he needed help. He latched the thick wooden door to and leaned back against it. This was all his now to do exactly as he liked. He lifted the boy high in the air, laughed up at him and the child gurgled back.

The knock at the door was both loud and unexpected. Jos jumped with shock, then swore in annoyance. Jenny back to peep and pry! He opened the door, ready to be brusque, but choked the words back. He looked at the stout middle-aged man dressed in sombre black from his top hat, coat and trousers down to expensive boots.

‘You’ll be wondering who I am, no doubt? Let me introduce myself. My name is Cleeg, and I’m from the Bristol firm of solicitors Frewster and Frewster. I regret to inform you that Mr James Mayo died very suddenly last week. The will was read after the funeral and you are a beneficiary. Perhaps you knew?’

Jos stared in surprise. So old James was dead. His grandfather for whom he had always had more than a sneaking regard. A great, true yeoman gone forever; they didn’t breed them like old James nowadays. Jos felt pain clutch at his heart. He was surprised to realize how grieved he was.

‘I did understand there would be twenty acres of land for me and two Mayo’s greys,’ he replied, bringing forward two stout chairs.

‘Mr Mayo deeded you twenty acres of land a number of years ago. However, two years last March he added another codicil to his will. You now inherit fifty acres of very prime land indeed, all of which abounds a small cottage where your grandmother lived. The original twenty acres stays with Mayo’s. You have also been left a filly and colt of the breed now known as Mayo’s greys. You know them?’

Jos nodded. His two Mayo’s greys and fifty acres of best land. This was news indeed. The old man had done him proud in the end. Good old Grandpa. You tried to atone—and you have, Jos thought quietly.

‘I was also instructed to give you this letter when my client was deceased.’

Jos took the heavy letter in his hand and looked down at it. Apart from Sarah’s scribbled notes this was the first real letter he had ever received. Instinctively he knew the hand which had penned this had put very private thoughts to paper.

Something prodded at him—a word the clerk had used. His excitement waned. The man had referred to his grandmother—in the past tense! That could only mean—and Jos turned to stare at the wall. He averted his gaze, not wanting a stranger to read the emotion on his face.

Sarah must be dead. Dear, tough old Sarah. Gone forever. The aggressive little old lady who had been mother and father to him; who had poured over him enough love and kindness for six boys. Tiny Sarah of the fighting heart who had been ready to take on the mighty Mayos!

Jos swallowed. Grief stormed through his body. His Gran had gone. He would never see her again. She had died without him at her side, her life’s dream unfulfilled. He knew he was very near to tears. He fought for self-control. He set his face in a bleak mask impossible for anyone to read.

‘Goodbye, Gran! I’m so sorry you had to go without me there—but I’ll do it. By God I will! I’ll get all our land back somehow. And I’ll see that my boy receives the lessons you gave me!’

‘I regret I have further sad news for you,’ the messenger continued, ‘your grandmother, Sarah Howard, died the same day as Mr Mayo. She went very peacefully. There was no pain at all. The vicar and the Squire were with her at the end.’

‘Squire Gordon requests that you make arrangements to remove your grandmother’s possessions as soon as possible. He wishes to sell the cottage. I realize this must all be a big shock to you, Mr. Howard. I can stay overnight at the Bell Inn, but I must chaise back to Bristol no later than tomorrow. Perhaps if I call in the morning you can give me your instructions then?’

‘There’s no need to wait until then. I can tell you my plans right now. I will return with you if you care to share your chaise with me? Myself and my son,’ Jos said, pointing to the child lying quietly watching the stranger with fascinated eyes.

‘My good wife has run off with a soldier. I’m glad to see the back of her. The child is mine and comes with me,’ Jos told him.

The clerk coloured and cleared his throat uneasily. For once he was at a loss for words to utter. This young man was unnaturally blunt. He sniffed uncomfortably.

‘I’m a man of means,’ Jos told him. ‘I’ve over £400 in a Leicester bank which I’ll want transferring to a good bank in Bristol. Oh, you needn’t look like that! It’s money I’ve earned!’

The clerk coloured as he pricked up his ears. A young man living in a place like this with so much money was unusual and the unusual was always worth cultivating. He eyed Jos shrewdly, wondering his mental strength.

‘And it’s money put by for a purpose, not to be thrown away!’ Jos warned him firmly.

The clerk wondered curiously why the mighty James Mayo had taken so much interest in this young man as to leave him good land? There was much more to this than met the eye!

‘I’m pleased to be of assistance to you, Mr Howard. You know that if we can be of any help to you, Frewster and Frewster are always the first to act.’

‘I think, sir, if we were good enough to act for Mr Mayo we could also prove satisfactory to your good self,’ he pointed out.

Jos nodded. That was a good point well made. I’m going to need legal protection for Peter. If I know George Mayo there was all hell let loose when that Will was read. I wouldn’t put it past him trying something in the future. I must think of Peter.

The clerk sensed Jos was making an important decision. ‘Naturally, anything we do for a client is held in the highest confidence,’ he said suggestively.

‘Very well! Now listen carefully. I’m James Mayo’s bastard grandson. George Mayo hates my guts because I beat him up—perhaps you knew that—and I hate his! He took my girl. I suspect he wasn’t pleased to say the least, when his father’s Will was read. I want my land and horses protecting legally, you understand? I also want my grandmother’s cottage. I want you to go back and negotiate with the Squire. Keep it quiet that it’s for me or that I’m coming back into the area again. I’ll lodge in Bristol for the time being. Once the cottage is mine and the land is secure no one can touch me.’

‘I quite understand, sir. I’ll see that immediate action is taken. If I might offer a word of advice? George Mayo is, I regret to say, going from bad to worse. He’s full of hatred for you. You are womanless with a small child. Might I not arrange the hire of a suitable housekeeper—I think the knowledge of your home always being occupied might stop George Mayo from doing anything rash on those lines. But I cannot guarantee your own person!’ he warned carefully.

‘I can look after myself,’ grinned Jos, a wicked look in his eyes. ‘I’ve beaten George Mayo up once. I’ll do it again if he crosses me!’

The clerk nodded silent agreement. This young giant would be hell to cross. He suddenly decided he would rather have Jos Howard on his side than against him. He was also astute enough to realize that this young man was bursting to read the letter in private. He stood, stretching and, offering a farewell, left Jos to his thoughts.

They were very confused thoughts. Too much had been sprung on him in too short a space of time. Ann gone. His freedom given to him. Old James and Sarah both dead. And himself the owner of fifty acres of good Glos. land. He looked at the child then moved and slowly attended to him. His fingers fumbled with unaccustomed garments. Only when his son slept peacefully did he break the letter’s wax seal.

The paper was nearly as thick as parchment. The words were written with a bold, flowing script. Jos settled down, head bent near the candle.

‘My Dear Grandson,

When you receive this Jos I will be dead, and because of the past I feel I must write and tell you my feelings. You know, Jos, you think of yourself as a Howard, but you are far more Mayo than you realize. You are certainly more Mayo than my son George will ever be. You’re exactly like your father, my long-dead John. Somewhere Jos the blood-lines have gone wrong. George is bad, through and through. I worry for Mayo’s when I’m gone. I’ve entailed everything, he cannot touch or sell it without his heir’s consent and, you may know, he has a son called Jon. But he’s a waster, Jos. A drinker, cheat and liar. I’m frightened what he will do to Mayo’s when I’m not there to control him. I suspected him as a child. I feared more as he grew to manhood but that beating you gave him finally showed my son in his true colours. It’s hard for a father to despise his heir but I despise mine. He disgusts me. How I wish things had turned out differently. Jos, you should be my heir. You are the only true Mayo. You would be kind to the land, cherish it for what it is, nurture it and make it produce. George, I fear, will let it backslide. I can only hope that Jon will not follow his suit.

I’m a tired old man, Jos. I wish I could see you again. I would even go and talk to Sarah if she would allow it but I know better than to try. She has carried her hate far too long—like Mary. Try and end all this Jos. What happened, happened so very long ago. I hear tell you too have a son. I hope to God he doesn’t cross with Jon when they both grow up.

Take care of the horses which I leave you. Breed true and well. Always keep two of them. They will never let you down. Take care of your fifty acres. Feed it, guard it and it will reward you well.

Watch George. He is wicked and mean. He is afraid of you. When he strikes it will be in the dark or behind your back. I put nothing past my rotten son. Maud is a weak fool. You don’t realize how well rid of her you were. She’s afraid of me and even more terrified of her husband. You certainly gained when you lost her, Jos.

I only hope that this weak strain does not come out in Jon. You will only ever breed true, Jos. I feel so old and weary. I look forward to the peace of death. I will never see you again, dear Grandson. Think of me—will you? May God be with you and yours always—remember—cherish the land!

James Mayo.’

Jos sat for a long time, his head bowed, reading and re-reading his letter. Memories flooded through him.

He sighed, and looked at his child. How would Peter turn out? Would he be a Mayo or a Howard, or an equal mixture of both? What lay ahead for his son? How would he fare when faced with his distant relation. Jon Mayo, a lad the same age as Peter, would, no doubt, be brought up to hate as he himself had been.

He thought for hours into that night, reflecting about the two people who had most influenced his character. That old Sarah and James were no more was tragic news. He was acutely aware that now he stood alone. He had no true friend to whom he could turn and talk. He was solitary by nature. He had been hurt too much in the past. When friendship had been offered his wariness had made him decline. He knew that his future could be very bleak indeed. To claim his own he had to step back into the area of a man who seethed with hatred for him.

If anything happened to him—Peter must know their story. Jos had a good if slow script. He resolved, when settled, to spend his evenings writing down his history as a legacy for his son and his son’s sons.

They had a right to know who they were and from whence they came. Sarah had been so right. She had only ever thought of him.

‘Now I must think only of my son!’ Jos vowed. ‘Peter should be the heir to Mayo’s. Not this boy Jon!’

‘What Peter does when a man is up to him, but I must mould him as Sarah moulded me.’

What he would think about his turbulent past Jos could not imagine. He did not want a spineless son. Neither did he want an evil one. He did want a son who understood his place in life. A son who would be ambitious for his children in turn. Most of all, he wanted to rear his son to have the same love for the land which was, he admitted, the true legacy of both Mayo and Howard.

CHAPTER FOUR