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“Quite. They keep sheep and the abbot has a house in Dunster, where he stays when he’s there doing business in the wool trade. When the king’s receiver disposes of the abbey, the sheep will come up for sale along with everything else. It will be proclaimed, of course, but since your brother runs a big flock, I thought he might like to know in advance. Those monks are clever shepherds. Their sheep are some of the best in the county. Francis might want to buy some of them and I’m giving him a chance to get in first.”
“Yes, I see,” said Sybil bleakly, understanding but not able to summon up any great excitement about extra sheep for Allerbrook.
As though he had read her thoughts, Owen said quite gently, “You have just asked if you can visit your brother, or if he wishes to visit you. Perhaps I should explain why the answer is no. Francis has handed you into our care and—I am sorry, Sybil—but to him, you are as one who is dead. You are not badly off, living here, you know.”
“That isn’t all that I came to ask,” said Sybil. “I…I just wondered…if there were any chance…that you and Mistress Lanyon might…might arrange a marriage for me. With someone who wouldn’t mind Stephen, who would be a father to him, of course.”
There. It was out.
“Marriage,” said Owen thoughtfully. “A husband and home of your own. A father for Stephen and a lawful father for any other children you might produce. Yes, a very natural wish and not impossible, for although, I’m sorry to say, most of Lynmouth knows or guesses by now that you are not a widow, there are men who would be happy to take you on, since you have proved yourself able to bear children, and that’s something to be valued. But…”
“But?”
“Your brother absolutely forbade it, and one thing that I value is my friendship with him. He and I meet quite often. His orders were that you were to remain in our care and that since you would be perfectly safe under our roof, he had after due consideration decided that you should not marry because—” his voice hardened “—once a girl turns wanton, she is likely to remain so and is not, therefore, fit to be a wife.”
“But…”
“No buts. Whether I fully agree with your brother or not isn’t the point. I will do nothing to jeopardize my friendship with him. Be glad that you and your child have a home here. Now, please leave me. I have much to do before I sail. Ask Perkins to come here. I need him to take this letter to Allerbrook.”
“Couldn’t I even…?”
“Write a letter of your own and send it with mine? No, Sybil. And that’s final.”
So that was that. Sybil, ignoring the fact that she had a whole string of domestic tasks awaiting her, went up to the room where Stephen was playing with some little painted bricks which had once belonged to Idwal. She stood looking at him.
She didn’t love him. She had attended to his needs, obeying ancient instinct, but it wasn’t love. There were times when she almost hated him. But for him, she would have gone to court. But for him, no one would ever have known that she and Andrew Shearer had coupled in the straw at that christening party. But for Stephen…
He would be all right here. Katherine would look after him. She didn’t like him much, but she was a responsible woman, and she’d reared one son; she ought to know how to manage.
Sybil had had enough. Maidservants were paid and had days off, and if they got a chance to marry, they took it. She’d rather be a maidservant than live like this.
It was a busy time of year on farms, with the extra milking to do, more eggs to collect and weeds capable of choking a vegetable bed almost overnight. Next month there would be shearing and haymaking, too. It ought to be possible to find employment.
She thought about the locality. Above Lynmouth towered the cliffs; she must begin by climbing up to Lynton, the little town at the top. Beyond that, if one went on, inland and uphill, lay the open moor and there were few farms there, but there were some in the combes around the edges. If she turned east and followed the East Lyn River, surely she would come to farmsteads, to places where extra hands might be needed.
They could have Sybil’s hands, and pay for them. She was leaving. First thing tomorrow morning.
“Gone?” said Eleanor after she and Jane had listened in horror to Francis as he stood in the hall and read them the contents of the second letter in two days to come from Lynmouth.
Perkins, the Lanyons’ hardworking manservant, had on returning to Lynmouth after delivering Owen Lanyon’s news about the sale of Cleeve Abbey, found himself obliged to go back to Allerbrook again the very next morning, bearing a further missive, penned by Katherine in frantic haste. Owen and Idwal had left for Bristol and would probably have sailed for Venice before the news could catch up with them but Sybil’s family at least could be informed. “She can’t have gone!” Eleanor protested. “Where would she go? What happened?”
“Aye, what? It’s not right, a young girl like that, wanderin’ on the moor all alone!” Peggy gasped. She and the maids were also present and listening with scandalized expressions. “It’s dangerous, that sort of thing,” Peggy added.
Perkins, standing deferentially to one side, spoke up. “The mistress thinks that the girl ran off early today. She was in the house last night, right enough. But today the little boy Stephen started calling out for his mother, and we found Mistress Sybil wasn’t there. Her things were gone from her room and some food from the kitchen and a water flask.”
“Someone must search for her!” Jane cried. “Somebody will have seen her. She shouldn’t be hard to find, surely?”
“Yes. She must be found, before something happens to her!” agreed Eleanor anxiously.
“Mistress Katherine is getting a few folk together and sending them to enquire up in Lynton and round about,” Perkins said.
“Quite.” Francis nodded. “I certainly hope she will be found and brought back. But there’s nothing we can do from here. There never is anyone to spare at this time of year. We’ll pray for her, naturally. She is even more foolish than I thought. First she throws away her chances of going to court. Now she throws away the only home and shelter that she has. However did I come to be saddled with such a ridiculous sister?”
“Oh, how can you be so unkind!” wailed Jane.
Francis looked at her coldly. “There is no unkindness. On the contrary, she has always been treated more gently than she ever deserved and see how she repays it. Peggy, take Perkins to the kitchen and see that he has refreshment. His horse must have some rest, as well.”
“You care more for the horse than for Sybil!” Jane shouted.
“Mind your manners, sister,” said Francis. “And yes, an honest horse is to my mind worth more than a silly, lightskirt wench.”
At Stonecrop Farm, just above Porlock, the days at this time of year began at cockcrow. Bess and Ambrose Reeve rose as usual shortly after the sun, splashed their faces and dressed quickly. Bess dragged a comb through her greying hair and bundled it under a cap. Downstairs, their daughter Alison and the maidservant Marian were already astir, waking up the banked fire in the kitchen, while the farmhands were pulling on their boots, about to go and feed the plough oxen and the pigs. Ambrose went to help them.
The morning was fine, the grass asparkle with dew. Bess and Alison collected pails and set off for the field where the cows were grazing, to milk them out of doors. Two of the dogs went with them, not barking loudly, because they had been trained to be quiet when near the sheep and cattle, but sometimes woofing softly, running here and there with noses to the ground.
Until, as they passed the haybarn, one of the dogs stiffened, pointed his pewter-coloured nose at the barn, and in defiance of all his careful training, started to bark very noisily indeed.
“Now, what’s amiss with you? Be quiet!” Alison seized his collar.
“He never does this as a rule. Now Brindle’s started! There’s something wrong in that barn,” said Bess. “Be a vagabond or something in there, if it b’ain’t a fox. Put thy pail down, Alison, and come along.”
“But Mother, if there’s a wild man in there…an outlaw…”
“We’ve got the dogs. Go and fetch a hayfork! That’ll be enough.”
Sybil, curled miserably in the hay, had barely slipped beneath the surface of sleep, because her empty stomach wouldn’t let her. She woke suddenly, to find two women, both in brown working gowns and white aprons, standing over her. The younger of the pair was grasping a two-pronged hayfork. The second one was middle-aged and standing with arms akimbo. A grey lurcher and a brown-and-white sheepdog stood beside them, growling. Sybil sat up, pulling herself farther away from the threatening points of the hayfork.
“It’s all right, Alison. It’s just a lass,” said the older woman. “Quiet! Down!” she added to the dogs.
They stopped growling and lay down, but Alison continued to hold her hayfork at the ready and demanded, “What be you a-doin’ yur?”
“I just…I just wanted somewhere to sleep. I was cold and it was so late. I meant to come to the house this morning.” Sybil was trembling.
“What be you at, wandering about and sleepin’ in barns?” Bess asked, though not roughly. The sunlight slanting in behind her through the open door had shown her how young Sybil was, and how white her face.
“I…I ran away,” said Sybil. “I took food with me but I’d eaten it all by yesterday morning. I’ve been looking for work, but I couldn’t even find a farm till last night. I saw candlelight…from one of your windows, but it went out before I got close. The barn wasn’t locked. I’m sorry. Oh,” said Sybil, bursting into tears, “I’m so hungry!”
“Well,” said Bess, “young wenches dyin’ of starvation in one of our barns, that’s somethin’ we wouldn’t care for. ’Ee’d better come in for some breakfast. Then we’ll hear thy story. But it had better be the truth, now. Liars b’ain’t welcome at Stonecrop.”
In the kitchen Bess despatched Marian with Alison to see to the milking, telling them to send Ambrose back indoors while they were about it. She then fried a piece of bread and an egg, filled a beaker with ale and handed it to Sybil. “But eat slowly, or thy guts’ll complain,” she warned.
Ambrose, large, gaitered and puzzled, appeared while Sybil was in the midst of eating and Bess did the basic explaining while he listened, pulling off his cap and scratching his thin white hair. At the end, by which time Sybil had finished, he, like Bess, asked for her story.
Sybil was too tired and frightened to lie, and didn’t, except that she begged them not to ask where her original home had been, and clung to the name of Sybil Waters, which the Lanyons had given her. “I walked and walked,” she said, coming to the end of her account. “Miles from Lynmouth, miles up the East Lyn, trying to find somewhere. All day I walked and then when it got dark, I tried to sleep in a patch of trees, but there were things rustling, and I saw eyes….”
“Fox or weasel, no doubt,” said Ambrose with a snort. “Christ, girl, you were a fool to run off like that. And leavin’ thy babby!”
“No one’ll hurt Stephen. They’ll look after him in Lynmouth,” said Sybil. “But I can’t go back. I won’t go back! I’d rather walk into the sea and finish it all. I was used as a slave, just a slave, not a penny in wages and nothing was going to change, ever, for the rest of my life!”
“All right, be calm,” said Ambrose.
“We don’t need help in the house,” Bess said. “Wouldn’t mind help with the milkin’ and the dairy. You any good at that?”
“I can milk and make butter,” offered Sybil, who had occasionally done so at Allerbrook. “But can I have a proper job? With a wage, and if anyone wants to marry me, can I say yes?”
“What do you think this here place is?” Ambrose enquired. “It b’ain’t no dungeon. From what ’ee’s told us and the way thee speaks, our farmhands won’t be thy kind of bridegroom. But work, and ’ee’ll be paid, only there’s to be no more gettin’ thyself into trouble. We don’t stand for that here. Decent folk, we are. Today ’ee’d better take some rest. Got any clothes apart from that grubby lot ’ee’s wearin’?”
“I had some in a bundle….” Sybil looked confused.
“I’ve got it here,” said Bess. “The bundle, I mean. It wur with her in the hay.”
“Then ’ee’d best change, take a bit of rest and wash all them messy clothes,” said Ambrose. “Tomorrow, we’ll see.”
“She’s at a farm called Stonecrop, just above Porlock, on the west side,” said Francis, coming into the dairy where Jane and Eleanor were skimming cream. He was holding yet another letter from Katherine in his hand. “She got herself taken on as a dairymaid there, it seems. She told them that Katherine treated her like a slave. She’s still calling herself Sybil Waters.”
“The mistress is furious,” said Perkins from the doorway behind Francis. “Says she won’t have Mistress Sybil back, that she never used her as a slave. She says she cared for Sybil like a daughter and she can hardly believe in such ingratitude. She’ll keep the boy, Stephen. Seems Master Owen thinks he might be trained up as a sailor….”
“I wouldn’t agree to have him back here in any case,” said Francis.
“Well, it doesn’t arise,” said Perkins. “But the mistress says she’ll have naught to do with Mistress Sybil and the Stonecrop people are welcome to her.”
“How was she found?” Jane asked.
“I found her, mistress. I’d been riding out each day, first this direction, then that, and eventually I came across the place. It’s in Culbone parish—there’s a tiny little hamlet and a little church, both called Culbone, not far away, down in the woods toward the sea. The farm’s up on the edge of the moors, though, away from the woods. Bleak kind of place. She looked tired,” he said with some compassion, “and I reckon she works as hard there as she ever did with us, but she told me she was happy and that she was being paid. I suppose that’s a point. She can go to Porlock now and again and buy herself the sort of gewgaws women like.”
“Francis,” pleaded Jane, “couldn’t Sybil come home?”
Francis flushed an angry red and Eleanor said, “Better not. At least we know that Sybil is safe with respectable people.”
“Quite. I’ve said I won’t have her back and I keep my word,” Francis said coldly. “As for you, Jane, you should put your mind to your own future. And if you don’t like it, blame Sybil. If she had behaved herself, I wouldn’t be sending you to court. One sister there is an investment, but two would be an extravagance. However, as things are, it’s your duty to me.”
Jane, also recognizing the signs of Francis’s temper, said no more, but that night she knelt by her bed and once more prayed that no court vacancy would ever arise.
For some time, it seemed that her prayers were still being heard, for no vacancy came about and in late October the news reached them that the queen had borne the king the son he wanted, and had then died. There was no queen at court now, needing ladies to attend her.
Jane, mindful of the health of her soul, did not this time let herself feel glad that another young woman had lost her life. But the sense of freedom, of safety, of knowing for certain that she could not now be sent to the court, was immense.
Until the January of 1540, when King Henry, for the fourth time, got married.
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Icy Welcome 1540
“There’s Greenwich Palace,” said Ralph Palmer to Jane, standing in the bows of the hired barge which was bringing the party to the court. “See—those towers and turrets—against the sky, to the right.”
“So we’re nearly there,” said Jane bleakly.
“I wonder what this new Queen Anna is like,” said Dorothy Stone, emerging from the little covered cabin amidships, pulling her furred cloak around her more tightly and thrusting herself determinedly into the conversation, as she had been doing whenever she saw Jane and Ralph in anything like private talk. Jane glanced at her with irritation.
She had known Ralph all her life, as a kinsman, albeit a distant one. She understood now that their common ancestor had been Ralph’s great-grandfather and Jane’s great-great-grandfather. Their cousinship was therefore remote and Ralph was certainly handsome, but the simple fact that they had known each other since childhood was enough to make Jane regard him as a brother rather than a possible suitor.
She knew, too, that his family, especially his stern father, Luke, and the wealthy London cousin, Sir Edmund Flaxton, to whom she owed her appointment to court, intended him to make a grand marriage or at least a moneyed one, and Ralph would not cross his family’s wishes. The Sweetwaters were not as wealthy as they used to be and certainly were nowhere near as rich as the Stones. Ralph’s father was acquainted with Thomas Stone and Francis had told her, before she left home, that there was talk of betrothing Ralph to Dorothy.
“Once Dorothy has had a little court burnish, of course,” Francis said. “She’s a pallid little thing and hardly ever has a word to say for herself. You and she will travel there together.”
“Very well,” said Jane without enthusiasm.
“I can’t escort you,” Francis said. “I have too much to see to here, but Dr. Spenlove and Eleanor will accompany you. Dorothy’s father is going with her and Ralph is going to court, too, and will also be in the party. Now, Jane, make sure you don’t—er—upset the plans for Ralph and Dorothy in any way. You know what I mean.”
She knew perfectly well what he meant, but could not see that merely talking to Ralph, as she had talked to him a thousand times already, was going to upset anything. Dorothy’s attitude was embarrassing and a nuisance. Well, it was cold out here on the river anyway. Quietly she withdrew to the cabin in Dorothy’s stead.
It was January, a terrible month for travelling. They should have set out sooner but their departure had been delayed by storms, and the journey had been slow. Floods after heavy rain had repeatedly forced them out of their way, and then the weather had turned bitter, with winds that penetrated the sturdiest riding cloaks as though they were made of tissue paper.
When they left their horses at Kingston and hired barges instead, Jane hoped the Thames would be warmer, but it was worse, with a leaden sky reflected in the water, and sleet on the wind. She had wondered at times if this arctic journey would ever end. Not that I wanted to start out on it in the first place, she said to herself, sitting down disconsolately in the cabin.
She was not alone in it, since Eleanor was there, and so was Dr. Amyas Spenlove, the chaplain who for the past three years or so had led daily prayers at Allerbrook. He was by nature rubicund and jolly, but didn’t seem so just now. On the contrary, he looked pinched and unhappy. Dr. Spenlove was an indoor man. In a world where printing had turned the making of illuminated manuscripts into a dying art, there were still people who loved them, and creating the colourful pages was Spenlove’s hobby. Over the years he had become quite well known. At the moment he was preparing a set of the four Gospels for a Taunton gentleman.
In his room at Allerbrook he had a cupboard full of pigments and fixatives and a locked drawer containing gold and silver leaf, and a smeary table to work on. He hated being separated from his hobby and he hated cold weather. He was also, as Jane knew, sorry for her. She had admitted to him, as they rode, that she loved Allerbrook and did not want to leave it to go to court, and although he had said all the expected things, such as “You’ll enjoy yourself once you’re there,” she had seen sympathy in his eyes. He wasn’t liking this journey at all, either on her behalf or his own.
Also in the cabin were the two middle-aged tirewomen Thomas Stone and Francis had found in Taunton.
“Maid of honour is a dignified post. You must have your own woman servant,” Francis had told Jane. “Thomas Stone is looking for one for Dorothy, as well. We’ll choose sensible women, skilled at their work and not too young.”
Eleanor and the two sensible women were talking together just now and they all smiled at Jane as she stooped her head under the cabin door, but although she smiled back, she sat down as far apart from them as the cramped conditions would allow. Eleanor glanced at her thoughtfully, but let her be, for which Jane was grateful.
At home there would be a roaring fire in the hall on a day like this, the sheep and cattle would be in the shippon, and the moors above the house would be dark and brooding and yet beautiful in their stern way. The trees in Allerbrook combe would be leafless, so that the sound of the swift Allerbrook would come up clearly, especially after the recent rain. She had not dared to protest when the news came that a place in the new queen’s entourage was hers. But now, less than a fortnight after leaving home, she was so homesick that she didn’t know how to endure it, and they hadn’t even landed at Greenwich yet!
They were arriving now. The plash of the oars had ceased and the barge was gliding silently onward under its own momentum. Ralph appeared. “Time to go ashore,” he said.
Jane obeyed, followed by the other three women and the chaplain. Dorothy was already stepping ashore on her father’s arm. Through stinging sleet they all beheld the palace frontage, stretching left and right, full of windows, adorned with the towers and turrets that Ralph had pointed out. Straight ahead was a doorway, reached by a broad flight of steps. Heads bowed against the sleet, the party ran for shelter. There were guards at the top of the steps, but a large, impressive gentleman with a blond beard stepped out to greet them and led them quickly inside, into a wide vestibule.
“I’ve had someone looking out for new arrivals. When he said a barge was approaching, I hoped it would be you,” he said.
He had a heavy mantle edged with beaver fur and a thick gold chain across the chest of his black velvet doublet, and though he was not old, he had considerable presence. Jane, concluding that he was a senior court official, promptly curtsied with cheerful informality. Ralph, however, gave a perfunctory bow and said, “Hallo, Edmund!”
“Ralph! At last!”
“This is Sir Edmund Flaxton,” said Ralph, turning to the others. “My cousin—and yours as well, Jane. You’re related to him in exactly the same way as you’re related to me. He’s younger than me, believe it or not. It’s the mantle and the gold chain that give him all that gravitas.”
“You’re a cheeky puppy,” said Sir Edmund amiably. “Behave.”
“Edmund, we all want to thank you.” Ralph spoke seriously and then once more addressed the new arrivals. “He’s worked himself ragged to arrange your appointment here, Mistress Sweetwater, and yours, too, Mistress Stone, when your fathers and I requested it.”
“We are all very grateful for your endeavours,” said Thomas Stone gravely and Eleanor, who had also sunk into a deep curtsy, echoed, “Yes, most grateful” in heartfelt tones.
Ralph performed further introductions and Sir Edmund told them all to come with him. “I’ve an apartment in the palace and I’ve already bespoken some wine and hot pasties. My wife isn’t here—she’s at home in Kent with our little boy, Giles—but I’ve good servants with me. You must all be perished after travelling on water in this weather. Where did you leave your horses?”
“Kingston, to be collected on the way home,” said Dr. Spenlove glumly. “We understood that stabling couldn’t be provided here, and by the time we got to Kingston, the poor beasts had had enough, anyway. The journey was difficult. I fear we’ve arrived much later than we expected.”
