ERNSCAR
Ernscar Castle was small as castles go, but still impressive. Geoffrey Randall always boasted to visitors that it had stood for nine hundred years or more, and would usually add, rather unnecessarily, "on the same spot" as though some previous owner might have taken it into his head to transfer the whole edifice from a different site. Complete buildings have been moved, true, but not to such a position, perched on the tallest outcrop of rock for miles around - the Erne Scar of the name.
In fact not much of the original building remained: over the centuries it had been modified extensively, with re-fashioning under the Tudors after it had been left partly ruined for years from a siege in the Wars of the Roses, serious damage in the Civil War, repair some time after the Restoration by a lord who had been kind to the young Nell Gwyn in the last years of the Commonwealth, disastrous "improvements" in the 18th century and a much more successful modernisation in the style of Lutyens in the early 20th. Nevertheless the Norman keep was still discernible as the basis of the structure.
Geoffrey was inclined to be fanciful about his forebears, but one thing he never attempted to claim was descent from the original builders or any of their successors. He had simply bought the place when it came on the market just after his wife’s winning the lottery jackpot roughly coincided with the take-over of the business that he had built up from scratch into a very successful enterprise, and after forty years of hard work he relished the idea of turning himself into a country gentleman of leisure. However, a genealogy commissioned by his wife as a retirement present tentatively suggested a connection with one Thomas Miller who had been jester to Lord Ernscar in the fifteenth century and might or might not have been the original "Tom-Fool," but whose notorious tight-fistedness belied the proverb that "a fool and his money are easily parted." Geoffrey himself was by no means stingy, although careful in considering any substantial expenditure. He heeded his wife’s warning that money could never buy respect, and anyway there was much less than she had expected left over after the necessary refurbishment of the building, so he gave time instead to various local organisations. He didn’t talk unnecessarily about his involvement, but it became known, and the general view among the villagers was that he was "not a bad sort, for an off-comer."
The Randalls had one son, John, unmarried. He had lived away ever since taking his first job but visited whenever his other commitments permitted. Helen often contrived at such times to invite eligible young women for meals or social events, but despite some tentative nibbles, the fish never seriously took the bait. He said he was too busy for that sort of thing. Helen suspected that life in the city was not strictly monastic, but kept her thoughts to herself, and John himself never mentioned a girl friend until quite out of the blue he asked if he could bring one to stay for the weekend. This threw Helen into a tizzy of preparations, and having a traditional view of morality, she carefully prepared a spare room, aired the bed, put out perfumed soap and new towels, and despite an anxious thought about the possibility of hay fever, added a couple of vases of flowers. The room was fairly near John’s, but some distance from her own; if there was to be any traffic between the two she didn’t want to know about it.
She was of course consumed with curiosity about what the girl would be like. For no particular reason she imagined a willowy blonde out of a fashion plate, with half a dozen degrees in modern languages and business studies, and a habit of reading Wittgenstein in bed - at any rate when not … She quickly banished that thought.
In the event, when the two arrived, Anne proved quite different from expectations: a shade on the plump side, by no means beautiful though pleasant-looking enough, neatly but not elaborately groomed and dressed, interested in the garden, cheerful and friendly without gushing. On Geoffrey, who prided himself as a judge of character, the first impression was favourable and confirmed by better acquaintance. Helen was in any case predisposed to like the girl and found no reason for any other opinion, apart perhaps from a tendency to tease John rather sharply about various little oddities that he had picked up over the years. He didn’t seem to mind.
The weekend passed happily and was the first of many, to the extent that Helen began to think about the prospects of an undeniable excuse for buying a really expensive new hat, but there was no sign of any developments in that direction. Having unintentionally choked one promising relationship by asking too early to have it defined, she bit back the questions she was dying to ask, but privately wondered whether anything was ever going to come of it. "Patience," urged Geoffrey. "He’ll tell us in his own good time."
In truth there was little to tell. Anne enjoyed John’s company, and would have liked to make it permanent, but sensed that he was less keen on the idea and was reluctant to risk a make-or-break confrontation. John in fact was in much the same quandary. Both had been single long enough to appreciate the advantages as well as the drawbacks of that state, and so the misunderstanding continued, only gradually putting a cloud on the relationship.
The first sign of Anne’s being rather less stolid than everyone assumed came one morning during a visit when, asked if she had slept well, she avoided a direct answer, but later wondered apparently in all seriousness whether there were any stories of haunting at the castle. "Not that I know of. Are you interested in that sort of thing?" "Not specially; I just wondered." "Have you heard any rumours, Geoffrey?" "Not a thing. But then I don’t suppose I should. What brings it to mind?"
It turned out that as it was a fine, warm night, Anne had left the window open. She awakened in the early hours as the light of the setting moon fell on an old picture in the room, and experienced an overwhelming sensation of sadness that seemed more strongly reflected than she remembered in the features of the young woman portrayed there. Fortunately there were no more tangible manifestations, though she had dozed fitfully for the rest of the night.
There was some mystery about that painting. A note in the Tudor records showed that the picture had been found during renovations, and a letter from the then Lord Ernscar to his cousin mentioned that it was being re-framed as a birthday gift to his lady who thought it interesting despite its technical deficiencies. A scribble on the back, even then barely decipherable and subsequently covered by a backing that was hardly worth removing, seemed to indicate that it represented the daughter of the mediaeval Thomas Miller, although why so lowly a character should have been painted no one knew, nor why that portrait alone from the period should have been preserved. A search of the parish register had shown the baptism of an Alison Miller in 1418, but nothing about her marriage or death, and there was no chance of checking the register in modern times as it was lost in the 17th century.
During one of Anne’s later visits, the Randalls were entertaining an old student friend of Geoffrey’s who had astounded the acquaintance of his youth by going on to become a professor of theology. He had an amateur interest in art history, and Anne took the opportunity to ask if he could deduce anything about the painting. "I’m afraid it isn’t of the best quality, but of course you already know that. I think we can safely say that it isn’t by one of the known masters, unless a very early student effort, possibly preserved for some sentimental reason. At a guess it’s probably of the Flemish school, 15th century or thereabouts, but if you want anything more definite you’d better get a real expert on the job."
He had been John’s godfather and still took an interest in his activities, so during dinner was eager for the latest news. Geoffrey was more interested in the professor’s. "Quite an interesting conference in Louvain last April. Otherwise the usual grind. Lectures, tutorials, seminars, trying to keep up the flow of learned papers. These days it’s ‘Publish or be damned,’ you know." Geoffrey, who remained agnostic, couldn’t resist taking up one of the usual arguments. "Talking of damnation, Brian, what I’ve never really had out with you is the insistence on a supposedly loving God who can condemn someone to eternal punishment for mistakes made in life. It seems totally inconsistent." "You’ve got the wrong idea - not surprising; it’s very common. Suffering, yes, but not punishment. More a natural consequence, in the same way as a hang-over after a binge. And the condemnation is by the person himself." "What do you mean? It sounds nonsensical."
Brian accepted a refill of his glass and settled himself for a dissertation. "Hell, I think, is simply the state of rejecting a God who won’t force his company on those who ultimately decide they don’t want it." This time Helen interrupted, "But surely no one would want to reject it.." "Don’t you believe it. Love - real love - is sometimes the most difficult thing in the world to accept. Believe me, I know. Eventually it means a total surrender, abandoning all the defences. And not everyone is willing to make it. With the best will in the world, it can take a lifetime’s effort. I couldn’t do it, not yet, not without a lot of help." "Not even for the sake of eternal happiness?" "It wouldn’t be happiness. For a soul clinging to its independence, the love of God would seem like a surgeon’s knife, more painful than the alternative." "And what is that alternative, now we come back to it?" "The pain of frustration. Like sexual frustration (which is bad enough, heaven knows) but infinitely worse because it’s of the whole being, not just one specific function. A being intended for the company of God, and yet refusing it."
Anne broke the ensuing silence. "What about praying for the dead, then? I know some people think it’s worth while and others don’t. What good could that do?" "I suppose it could give a helpful nudge to someone who’s teetering on the edge, undecided in the last moments of consciousness whether to let go or not. Or it might ease the pain of doing so. After all, the pain comes from resisting the call of love." Geoffrey snorted. "Anne’s talking about someone already dead." "Don’t forget, these are matters of eternity. God isn’t limited by time. It’s all present to Him. There’s a story that Padre Pio was once found praying for a happy death for his father, who’d been gone for ten years." "At that rate you might as well pray for the redemption of Adam - or Judas Iscariot." "You can’t alter what’s already happened in the temporal order, of course, but prayer at any time will have been a factor in determining it. Not changing God’s mind - no one can do that, for all the anthropomorphism in a lot of the tales - but helping the poor weak humans who are involved. As for Adam, I don’t see why not. It hadn’t occurred to me, but it might not be a bad idea at that."
Helen thought of the names on the village war memorial, quite a few related to friends she had made in the area. "What about the services of remembrance? Do they do any real good?" "Remembrance pure and simple is no good to anyone; it just depresses the living. But there must be many a mental prayer during the two minutes’ silence. And C. S. Lewis said something about the courtesy of heaven being to take the best men know as better than they know. When someone is remembered with affection and gratitude, even by an unbeliever, I’m sure it will be taken as a kind of prayer. But good heavens, do we have to stay on such a gloomy subject? John, tell us about that exhibition you and Anne went to see today."
*****
Robert of Ernscar was a minor aristocrat with no wish to be anything more - or less. In the troubled mid-1400s it was enough for him to keep his territory in relative peace amid the factional squabbles that later developed into the Wars of the Roses, and this needed considerable diplomacy besides judicious use of his modest but efficient military force. He wanted no complications from internal dissension, and so dealt firmly with trouble-makers of any kind, but as fairly as he could according to the lights of the time.
It never occurred to him that there was any particular high-mindedness in an essentially pragmatic approach. With neighbours tending to be predatory he needed to be seen as strong, but there would be no sense in making unnecessary enemies of any rank through palpable injustice; an aggrieved peasant behind a hedge with a crude bow and arrow could kill him quite as decisively as a knight with a sword, and with less chance of defending himself. Anyway, in the shortage of labour after the Black Death it would be foolish to aggravate the problems of husbandry through unnecessarily harsh punishments. Nevertheless, a cleric visiting the monastery noted in a letter to his bishop that while Robert’s judgements seemed generally reasonable, they might perhaps err towards leniency where offenders were poor and ignorant. With others, who might have less excuse and should have known better, he was more severe.
In this as in many other ways he followed the example set by his father, William. Both Ernscars were intelligent enough to recognise their limitations, and sought counsel on any important issue that was in doubt. Several of the principal tenants and freehold gentry were capable, honest men whom William trusted completely for sound advice on anything within their ken, but he was not so sure of the next generation and realised that it might be wise to cast his net wider. Around 1390 he had given refuge to a party of monks from a neighbouring county where a resurgence of the plague added to problems with the local magnate had made conditions too difficult, and provided them with land and building materials on condition that they set up a school for lads able to benefit from instruction. These came mostly from artisan families, as the gentry employed private tutors while farmers and labourers were considered not to need formal education, or indeed tended to despise it. A stipulation had been that any pupil of particular merit, who did not intend to go into the Church, should be brought to his attention with a view to entering the service of the castle.
One such was Tom, the miller’s third son. The family had known hard times during the years of pestilence, and although trade was now better than it had been, supporting three sons and their eventual families in tolerable comfort was likely to be more than the mill could do. Young Tom was a bit of a dreamer, more interested in his grandmother’s stories than in the practical matter of running a business where if anything he was more hindrance than help. He was therefore packed off to school out of the way. Brother Eldred had hopes of him as a potential recruit to the community, and for a while this seemed a likely prospect, but later, without actually rebelling, Tom made it clear that his interests were essentially secular. On the recommendation of the Abbot he therefore became an assistant clerk at the castle.
After a few weeks of feeling completely lost, he began to settle down and to come out of his shell. With increasing confidence came signs of a burgeoning wit, and the castle steward was often amused by some of the banter he overheard, enough to pass it on to others of the household. Sometimes that included His Lordship, who eventually had the idea of a jesting competition between Tom and the resident Fool. It went badly for Tom; he was overawed by the occasion and in any case needed a feed for his best sallies, while the Fool, resenting the comparison, put him down mercilessly. William found this highly entertaining. Others of the household who had suffered the sharper edge of Tom’s own tongue made no secret of relishing his humiliation, taunting him with it at any opportunity, so that over the following years he became increasingly bitter, his humour darker and crueller.
One exception to the general unkindness was Cedric, the steward, a warm-hearted and conscientious man who felt himself partly responsible for the situation. He encouraged his daughter Rose, whose lively disposition cheered everyone up, to befriend the lad, and she succeeded so far that some years later, to everyone’s surprise including perhaps their own, they married. Then there was Lord Robert, much the same age as Tom, who sympathised with his embarrassment in the debacle, took him aside with words of encouragement and a handsome tip, and thereby earned a lifelong devotion. In Tom’s later years it was almost the only generous trait left in his increasingly distrustful personality. To the end of his days he never parted with that coin - nor with any other if he could honestly help it.
In the course of time Robert inherited the lordship. He had never liked his father’s Fool but in view of long and faithful service had him pensioned off in reasonable comfort (not that he got much thanks for it), and Tom took the position. He had gradually learned what was acceptable in his often caustic humour, and as a rule could judge to a nicety the line between wit and insolence. Fortunately for him, his early errors in straying over that line with Robert had been only gently rebuked except on one occasion that really hurt, and the resulting explosion of wrath, though short-lived, was enough for a lifetime. A raised eyebrow was now sufficient warning of getting on to dangerous ground. In entertaining visiting lords of greater power but less perception, Tom’s skill in double meanings caused Robert much concealed amusement. His assessment of the visitors’ characters, motives and intentions, if cynical, generally proved remarkably astute, and Robert came to value it highly as a supplement to his own observations.
His lord’s approbation won Tom the respect of the household but little affection, and did nothing to mellow his character. His one soft spot was his daughter; Rose had died in childbirth, but the baby survived and was virtually adopted by Cedric’s wife Alice, as kindly a soul as her husband. It was some consolation for her own loss. Little Alison grew to be a pretty girl with her mother’s cheerful nature, as popular as her father was shunned, and he doted on her almost as much as on his gradually accumulating deposit in the castle strong-room. She had inherited her father’s intelligence as well as her mother’s good nature, and with some hesitation in taking such a revolutionary step, he taught her reading and writing although without letting it be generally known. As he said, there was no telling when it might come in useful to understand what was on disregarded pieces of paper. "But don’t let anyone catch you spying!"
It was while Alison was in her teens that a bishop returning from a visit to the Pope chose to break his journey at Ernscar. He was an old and close friend of Robert’s, with much to discuss about the troubles of the time and how men of influence and good sense might best mitigate the impending evils, so stayed for several days. In a lighter vein, he also had news of cultural developments on the continent. Depressed by the still degenerate state of Rome after the Avignon papacy and the subsequent chaos with rival claimants to the office in both cities, he had stayed for a month at an abbey in Flanders headed by a relative, in order to refresh his spirits, and been greatly taken by the work of painters following the school of van Eyck.
So had his favourite page Nicholas, who liked to dabble in the art with results that the bishop found quite pleasing. The guest-master at the abbey was well acquainted with local workshops where the new techniques were practised, and glad to introduce Nicholas to several of them when opportunities happened to coincide. Meanwhile the bishop, with plenty of congenial company, a good library to explore, and attentive service from the abbey staff, needed little from his own retinue and allowed Nicholas more than usual leisure to pursue his personal interests. He used much of it to follow up some of the introductions.
One of the master painters, hoping for a commission from the bishop, thought to gain favour by giving the lad a few hours’ tuition, and let him try his hand in a corner of one of the works in hand, to tolerably satisfactory effect. "Quite passable, for a novice," was the verdict, "it won’t want much retouching. But don’t give up the day job. With time and good fortune you may make a good judge of other people’s work, but I doubt whether your own will ever be serious competition!" The bishop was interested to see the piece, and took the opportunity to buy one from stock; not quite what the master had hoped, but any sale was better than none. In an indulgent mood after a pleasant sojourn, the bishop also bought a basic set of materials and equipment for Nicholas. Now that the party appeared to be settled for a while at Ernscar, he was eager to use it.
His first attempt was to sketch out a simple interior, but he soon tired of its stiffness, and instead started on a still life in the kitchen until he was chased out for getting in the way. Returning to the interior view, he was dabbing away in a desultory manner when Alison paused on her way through on some errand, and looked critically over his shoulder. "You’ve drawn that box wrong." "What do you mean?" "The other end’s narrower than this one." "Well, that’s how it looks." "But not how it is." "Look, the idea isn’t to …" At that point Alice appeared and chivvied Alison to hurry up with what she was supposed to be doing. "You’ve no business to be disturbing the young gentleman." "It was no disturbance, really, I assure you." "It’s kind of you to say so, but she will go poking her nose into what doesn’t concern her." Nicholas was impelled to a touch of gallantry. "A pretty little nose, too. Your daughter?" "Get away with you - my grand-daughter, as I dare say you realise very well, you young rascal!" But she was amused none the less, and decided on reflection that he might be of the gentry and have visited all kinds of foreign parts, but he still seemed a very pleasant young man and not at all stuck up with it.
A few months later Bishop Justin was back again for more conference with Robert, and naturally Nicholas came too, complete with painting kit. He was gradually becoming more adept, and had attempted some portraits though with disappointing results. He needed more practice, and that needed a sitter who wasn’t always dashing off on more important business, so when he bumped into Alison again he asked if she would oblige. "All very well for you, young sir. Some of us have work to do, you know." "Yes, but when you’re passing through, couldn’t you stay just for a minute or two while I get the outlines down?" "Well … I suppose the odd minute won’t do any harm."
But of course the outline was only the beginning, and getting the gradation of skin tones anything like right needed a more concentrated effort. The odd minute had already stretched well beyond the odd five minutes, and Alice felt she had to take notice. "It’s not right," she grumbled to Cedric one evening. "He’s taking up too much of her time, and the servants are beginning to whisper. Goodness knows what ideas he’s putting into her head." "I dare say you can guess well enough. Lads of that age all have the same idea, whether gentry or peasants." "Aye, and of any other age too!" "But don’t worry too much; she’s a sensible girl underneath. And after all, he’s a better class of company than she’ll find in the kitchen. Put a bit of polish on her, perhaps. Let it be for the time being. But don’t say anything to Tom - he’d have a fit. The lad’s only here for a couple more days. That may be the end of it." And so it was left.
The time came for farewells, and Nicholas was anxious to catch Alison in a quiet corner. "Look, their lordships need to keep in touch, so there’s to be a regular messenger run. If I ask the courier to get a letter secretly to you, is there anyone you could trust to read it for you without spilling the beans?" "No need for that. I can read it myself, if your writing’s good enough." "You can? Are you sure?" "Of course I’m sure. Try me if you don’t believe it." So he jotted something down, and her blushes showed that she read it very well.
It was half a year before Justin’s next visit in person. When Nicholas had to be told twice to bring a particular package, and then brought the wrong one, Robert commented on his unusual absent-mindedness. "Is he sickening for something, do you think?" "You might say that. I caught him the other day with his nose stuck in a book of Petrarch - that man has a lot to answer for! His age, you know." "Oh, so that’s it. Any idea who’s the lady?" "He seems to have fallen heavily for your Master Thomas’s daughter." "What, Alison?" "That’s the one. A pretty girl, and pleasant-mannered, from the odd word I’ve had with her. Well liked, too, I gather." "Good lord. Is it serious, do you think, or just a passing fancy?" "As far as a lad of his age knows his own mind, I should say very serious. He did have a crush on the chaplain’s sister, but he was over that in five weeks. The next one took even less. This time he’s hardly looked at any other girl for the past six months, and that’s quite something, for him."
"Hm. It won’t do, of course. I don’t like the idea of mixing the classes. Could bring all kinds of problems. Look what happened when old Percy’s nephew eloped with the shoemaker’s daughter." "Yes, he did rather put his foot in it." "Justin!" "Sorry. To be serious, I do see the difficulties. Though I gather that Alison is a cut above the usual run of servants. Nicholas could look a good deal higher and do worse. And his own background isn’t all that exalted."
Justin explained that he had taken the boy on as a favour when his father, who had very efficiently handled a tricky lawsuit for the See, had perished in a fire with the rest of the family while Nicholas was elsewhere. "But that favour’s been amply rewarded. It’s almost like having a son of my own." "Indeed!" "And you can take that smirk off your face, Robert Ernscar! I’m no model of priestly virtue, heaven knows, but I’ve never gone in for that kind of shenanigans. Or the other. But to get back to the point. The lad’s going to marry some time, and I’d like to see him happy. More importantly, I’d like to get his mind back on his proper duties."
"Fair enough. But surely not Alison. Quite apart from the difference in status, how well do they know each other? They can’t have had more than a few hours together all told, probably much less, and scattered over the best part of a year. There’s probably more imagination than substance in his ideas of her." "Quite possibly. How well did you know the Lady Eleanor before you were married?" "That’s different. The usual family set-up. We met a couple of times, briefly, enough to make out that we didn’t hate each other on sight." "Exactly. Yet by all accounts it’s turned out tolerably well."
Robert smiled affectionately. "Tolerably indeed. All right, point taken. But just supposing we were to countenance such a union, what should we do about it? If anything." "Well, I stand more or less in loco parentis to Nicholas, but there are uncles who will reasonably expect a say in the matter. And there’s the girl’s father. What does he think of the situation?" "I doubt if he has any idea of what’s going on. There aren’t many people he trusts, but I think I’m one of them, and he hasn’t mentioned it. Though maybe he wouldn’t anyway. An honest man, but close about his own affairs, and hard as nails. I can’t see him coming up with much of a dowry, even if he could, which is unlikely." "And the uncles would certainly expect one - it would look very bad otherwise, apart from anything else." "Hm. Well, I’m sorry, Master Nicholas, but there doesn’t seem to be much future in it." "That’s more or less what I told him."
Alison herself was just then taking a moment to look again at Nicholas’s last letter when she heard someone coming and put it away hastily. Too hastily; it fell out without her noticing and a new domestic found it on the ground. He had had it well dinned into him that outside the servants’ quarters he was to be seen little and heard not at all, so he checked the impulse to call after her and was too busy to follow. Later, however, he bumped into Tom. "Excuse me, Master Thomas, but I think Mistress Alison dropped this piece of paper, and I couldn’t catch her attention before she was off. I wasn’t sure whether to pick it up or leave it. Can you tell if it is hers?" Tom glanced at it, and quickly put a calm face on his shock. "Yes, lad, I think it is. Thanks. You did right." The boy had never been anything but polite to him, and thanks cost nothing. It even occurred to him that a small tip might be fitting - the shock must have been worse than he realised - but he had no suitable coin handy and the aberration soon passed.
His anxiety did not. That evening he tackled Alison about it, together with Cedric and Alice who agreed with him on grounds of common experience. Alison’s own wishes hadn’t been considered, but if she was less blinded by romance than Nicholas, she was at least as attached to him personally as to the prospect of social advancement that a marriage would offer. Alice was not impressed. "He may talk very well, but they all do that when they want something. Even if he really means what he says at the time, lads of that age are liable to change their minds at a moment’s notice." "He’s been saying the same for about nine months now." "Yes, and nine months is about the time they lose interest, when the chickens come home to roost." "There’s been none of that. When would we have the chance, even if I wanted to?" "And don’t you?" "Yes - when the ring’s on my finger, and not before."
Tom loved his daughter dearly, and would be glad to see her happily settled, but had to put the social realities to her. "Look, Alison, he’s gentry, probably nobility. What has he told you of his family?" "Only that most of them died in a fire. The bishop’s all the father he has now." "Well, that counts as nobility. Even if the lad’s genuine and loyal - and for all the truth of what your grandmother’s been saying, it’s just possible he may be - even then, he’ll be expected to marry within his own class when the time comes. His feelings don’t come into it. For these people, marriage is a business arrangement, and what good would an alliance with us do for anyone?"
So it went on, until at last Tom put a stop to it by forbidding Alison to have any further contact or correspondences with Nicholas. It wrenched his heart to see her misery, but it was for her own good in the long run. She went to bed in tears.
*****
Conversation continued far into the evening, pleasantly lubricated, so that Anne went to her room later than usual and slightly less steady on her feet. The picture of the jester’s daughter caught her eye and she took it down for a closer examination. She worked in an art gallery and had some appreciation of the technicalities. It really wasn’t very skilfully done, but well enough to show a face that must have been very attractive in its day. The appearance of sorrow that she had noticed on a previous occasion was evidently a trick of the light on the brush-strokes, and came and went as she turned it. A sense of undefined longing came over her. "This is ridiculous," she thought. "I’m tired, I’m half-sloshed, I’m worried about John" - she had been thinking that if he didn’t make a move soon she would have to consider cutting her losses - "and probably reading my own anxieties into a quite different situation. Whatever it may have been." But nevertheless she kept hoping, in waking moments during a rather disturbed night, that if the girl’s sadness had been real, it had come right for her in the end.
*****
News came to Ernscar, among other things, about two of Justin’s relatives, both on reasonably good terms with Robert but for years at odds with each other over a disputed claim to inheritance. A tavern brawl between some of their retainers had developed into something more serious, resulting in several fairly severe injuries, including broken limbs and stab wounds that would take weeks to heal. Each side naturally blamed the other for starting the affray, each lord demanded compensation from the other, each refused to pay, and the incident looked like escalating into armed conflict. "Honestly!" exploded Justin. "Some people should never be let out of the nursery. I could cheerfully bang their heads together. As if we didn’t have quite enough trouble from a threat of war without our friends and relations fighting each other!"
"What set them off?" asked Robert. "Not in this particular squabble, I mean, but in the first place? I only heard that they were always at each other’s throats." "It’s really quite trivial - a small manor house that I inherited. Nothing compared with the estates that they have already. It’s entailed, and one or other of these two would get it according to the legal provisions for the possessor’s dying without lawful male issue, but they aren’t sure which. The legitimacy of the senior line is disputed, just plausibly enough for no one to predict how a judgement between them would go if it went to court. So neither of them will risk litigation. Between ourselves, I’ve been trying to find ways of disqualifying both of them. But for the insistence on ‘lawful’ issue I might have been tempted to sire a bastard myself just to avoid the whole wretched problem." "Well, I’ve never heard that excuse before. Full marks for novelty if not for virtue, my old friend! Let’s see; the first might have been a girl, and so might the second, so perhaps you should take half a dozen mistresses to be on the safe side."
"All right, all right, have your little joke. It would be quite amusing in other circumstances. Have you any more serious suggestions?"
"Well, for a start, your ingenious little scheme wouldn’t have worked anyway, because if illegitimacy were no bar the question wouldn’t have arisen. But the crucial point seems to be ‘lawful issue.’ I’m no expert on the law, but doesn’t formal adoption confer all the legal privileges of an actual son?" "I’m not sure how it would bear on the entail. But even if it didn’t eventually stand in law, it would at least get those two idiots on the same side to fight it, and for the time being that might be good enough. Hm. Worth thinking about."
"Good, because I’ve no other ideas. And it’s got to be quick, and it’s got be made known, at least to the said idiots. One way might be to install your new-found heir and his family in the manor itself. Is there a sitting tenant, by the way?" "A steward. That’s no problem." "Good. So all we need is to choose your son." "There’s no option. In the time we have, it can only be Nicholas." "A bit young for the part, isn’t he? And no family, not even a wife."
"There’s nothing we can do about his age. A wife is another matter." "Oh, come off it, Justin. I may be fairly ruthless at times, and I know these things are essentially matters of convenience, but even I wouldn’t force a man besotted with one woman into marriage to another. Altogether too cruel all round."
"Actually, Robert, I think you’re quite a romantic on the quiet." "Justin, I don’t like that crafty look in your eye. I’ve seen it before, and it usually bodes trouble." "Does it, indeed? Well, how about this? You’ve just wished a son on me. Allow me to return the compliment with a daughter." "What!!?"
"Simple. I adopt Nicholas; you adopt Alison. That gets over the question of rank, and I gather that Mistress Alison is more than a match for some of our high-born ladies in sense and decorum. You’ll have to square it with Master Thomas, of course, but explain that it’s purely a legal fiction, except that you’ll be providing the dowry for her wedding - I gather the lady is willing enough …" "Ah yes, the dowry. I knew there’d be a snag somewhere." "Don’t worry, I shan’t be unduly demanding in that respect. Anyway, to resume. I’m sure from what I hear of Tom that on those conditions he won’t object, so announce the wedding, invite the two idiots at the root of all the trouble - you never know, on such an occasion they might actually be induced to talk to each other like civilised gentlemen instead of quarrelsome schoolboys - and hey presto! The problem’s solved, for the time being. And sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof."
*****
One morning, a few days after the wedding, Alison awoke in tears, to Nicholas’s consternation. "What’s the matter, love?" Alison snuffled for a while, then came to herself. "Sorry, dear, it’s nothing really. I just had such a sad dream." "Tell me. As much as you can remember. Get it out of your system."
"It was like looking into one of those paintings you told me about, only people were moving. Two of them were walking along paths in a forest. They got glimpses of each other through the trees and I knew they wanted to come together and I desperately wanted them to, but between the paths was a tangle of briars and creepers that barred the way. And then they came to a place where the paths were so overgrown that they had to pick their way carefully and didn’t notice that there was nothing between them but a hundred yards of brushwood. I tried to call to them that they could easily get through it, but no sound would come. After that the paths moved apart and they saw each other less and less often, but they couldn’t go back, only forward. And then the man came to a great plain of bare rock that he had to cross, and he went on for days and days, and at first there were streams of clear water, and then only dirty puddles, and then nothing at all, until at last he just sat down in despair, and that was the end."
She subsided into tears, and Nicholas cuddled her. "There, there, it was only a dream. It’s over now." "But what does it mean?" "Probably nothing at all, at least nothing beyond your own mind. Perhaps you were thinking what might have happened if we hadn’t been able to come together. But we did get through that brushwood. Someone did manage to call to us – Cedric putting in a good word with their lordships, perhaps? Who knows? Whoever it was, we should be grateful."
After a few minutes he had another thought. "Cedric and Alice are very fond of you, aren’t they?" "Yes, and I of them." "They’re bound to miss you." "I suppose they will. Why?" "I’ve been thinking. You remember that painting of you that I started?" "Yes, but what about it?" "Well, it isn’t very good, but I could work it up a bit. Do you think they’d like to have it? Nowhere near like having you back with them, but better than nothing." "Oh, Nicholas, what a lovely idea! I’m sure they’d be delighted."
*****
One question was resolved in Anne’s mind by the morning: she would have it out with John, one way or the other, once and for all. No time like the present, but it was a while before she could get him alone in a secluded corner of the garden, away from risk of interruption. Then she wound herself up, forced herself to an appearance of calm, sat deliberately a few feet away from him and took a deep breath. "John, we’ve got to have a serious talk." "That sounds ominous. What about?" "Look, how long have we been going out together?" "Must be a couple of years now. Yes, easily that. What of it?" "It’s been very nice, and your people have been marvellous, but we don’t seem to be getting anywhere." "I suppose not. I’d have taken you to bed any time, only you wouldn’t have it." "Don’t be exasperating, John. I’m not talking about sex. Not that it isn’t important; I’ve wanted you more than I can tell. No, let me finish. I don’t want just a casual fling or even a ‘stable relationship’ (horrible term, sounds like something to do with horses). What I want is ‘to have and to hold, for better or worse, till death us do part’ and all that. The full works. If you can’t or won’t give it to me, then I’m very sorry, dear, but I don’t think I can bear to go on as we are."
John took a moment to answer; it seemed like an age. "Good lord." "Is that all you can say?" "Well, no, but I was just stunned." "Why? Is it such a novel idea." "Not at all. I’ve wanted it too, almost from the start, but couldn’t bring myself to ask." "Why ever not?" "Partly for something like what Brian was talking about last night - a fear of committing myself. I couldn’t give myself up completely." "No one can, in one go. Every couple has to work at it. And in any case there are always other responsibilities. But what was the other reason?" "Well, you may not believe this, but I was simply too scared." "Scared? Of me?" "In a way, yes. You seemed so cool, so content with the situation as it was. So I had to force myself to be the same - that damned English stiff upper lip. I was terrified you’d say ‘No’."
"Idiot!" And for a while it was neither necessary nor possible to say anything.
*****
It was an attractive village where they stopped for lunch, the pub was generous in its helpings, and the home-made pie too good to waste any part of it. They clearly needed time for digestion before continuing. From the outside, the church showed every sign of being true rather than neo-Gothic, and Anne was eager to look round it. John was less keen, but very willing to humour her.
She was not particularly anxious for a guide, but inside was a verger, who glanced up from repairing a notice board and said he would be with them in a moment once he had finished. That done, he asked civilly enough if without particular interest whether they had come from far away, but when told he really came alive. "You must see this, then," he said, leading them to a side chapel. "We’re particularly proud of this chapel anyway, but there’s actually a connection with Ernscar. Now where’s that paper …" And rummaging round, he produced a leaflet describing its foundation and features with the text of an ancient legal document, damaged when discovered but mostly legible, prescribing the endowment in 1470 by one Alison, widow of Nicholas Palmer, knight.
It stipulated that a Mass be said for the repose of his soul and that of her father - "You see, here…" - Thomas Miller of Ernscar in the county of (indecipherable), annually on the fifteenth day of April in perpetuity. "Of course, the Reformation did away with all that." He didn’t actually add "nonsense" but it was clearly to be understood. Anne found herself rather shocked that pride in the bequest should be untouched by shame at defaulting on the only condition, and mentally exchanged her intended paper donation for a coin, not of the highest denomination.
"It’s lucky there was no effigy, otherwise the place might have been smashed up. The vandals did enough damage to the glass in the nave, and no one was daft enough to tell them what the chapel was originally for. Her grave used to be just outside, with three of her sons and their wives according to old records, but they disappeared when horses were kept in the churchyard during the Civil War." "Not Sir Nicholas himself?" "No, there’s a story that he was lost at sea coming back from some business in Flanders. He’d been on several diplomatic missions, and it was probably one of those, but in any case he had other connections over there. I’m afraid there’s nothing else we have of real note. There used to be a few tombs from the late 1600s, but the stones had to be removed a while back. Supposed to be unsafe. Still, there are some others that are quite old, if you’re interested in that sort of thing."
The old man clearly meant well so they thanked him but declined the suggestion. Not too far away, they found a church evidently more sympathetic to the idea of Masses for the dead, and Anne left an offering to cover the next ten years - well short of perpetuity, of course, but a gesture in the right direction.
Peter D. Wilson
Seascale, 6 February 2002
Copyright © 2002
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