Beauvallet · Chapter 6 (1/2)

VI

The Venture was left in Plymouth Sound, under charge of Master Culpepper, and her treasure safely stored. She was docked, and would be clean careened before she could put to sea again. Beauvallet stayed some three nights in Plymouth, where he found a seafaring crony or two, heard what news was abroad, and saw to the bestowal of his ship. He took horse then, with Joshua Dimmock in attendance, and a hired man following hard upon them with led sumpters, and made for Alreston, in Hampshire, where he might reasonably expect to find his brother.

My Lord Beauvallet had other dwellings beside this, but of all this manor of Alreston saw him the most. There was a grim hold in Cambridgeshire, built nearly two hundred years ago by the founder of the house, Simon, First Baron Beauvallet. A left-handed scion of the old house of Malvallet, Simon cleaved for himself a new name and a new title. Under King Henry V he saw much fighting in France, and when those wars were done, came riding back into Cambridgeshire with a French bride, a countess in her own right, holding lands and a stronghold in Normandy. You might read of this first Beauvallet’s mighty deeds in the dreamy chronicles of his close friend, Alan, Earl of Montlice, who occupied the latter years of his life with the writing of his reminiscences. It is a diffuse work, something poetical in tone, but contains much of interest.

Since the days of the Iron Baron the family fortunes had fluctuated. The French County was lost to the English branch very early, for Simon, finding himself continually at loggerheads with his firstborn, bestowed it upon his second son, Henry, who was thus the founder of the present French house.

Geoffrey, the second baron, survived the Wars of the Roses, but left the barony considerably impoverished by his vacillations. His heir, Henry, took to wife Margaret, heiress of Malvallet, by which wise alliance the two families were made one. His successors all laid schemes for the family’s advancement, but the times were troublous, and it was not always possible to steer a safe course through the varying politics of the day. Thus in this year, 1586, although the house of Beauvallet had by dint of careful marriages planted its roots in many great houses, and become one of the wealthiest in the land, the present holder of the title was still only a baron, as his ancestor had been before him.

This Seventh Baron, Gerard, a solid man, had built the new house at Alreston, a noble mansion of red brick, with oak timberings. My lady, a frail dame, complained of the cruel temper of the climate in Cambridgeshire, and was urgent in her gentle way, to be gone from an ancient castle full of draughts and damp and gloomy corners. My lord, inheriting much of his great ancestor’s rugged nature, had a fondness for this medieval hold, and saw in the use of oak for house-building a sign of the decadence of the age. He was, so they said, a hard man, with a will of iron, but there was a joint in his armour. My lady had her way, and there arose in milder Hampshire, on lands that had come as part of the dowry of Gerard’s grandmother, a stately Tudor mansion, set in fair gardens, surrounded by its stables, its farmsteads, and its rolling acres of pasturage. It was seen that my lord for all his hardy notions had pride in the magnificence of the building. He might speak slightingly of an age of luxury, but he adorned his house with every trapping of wealth, used the despised oak for his panelling, and had all carved and painted to the admiration of his neighbours.

Thither rode Nicholas, on a bright spring day, and came in sight of the square gatehouse, after an absence of over a year. The gates stood wide, and showed a broad avenue stretching ahead, with rolling lawns to flank it, and the high gables of the manor beyond. Sir Nicholas reined in, and sent a shout echoing through the archway. The gatekeeper came out, no sooner saw who called than he hurried forward, beaming a welcome. “Eh, but it could be none other! Master Nick!”

Beauvallet stretched down a hand in careless good nature. “Well, old Samson? How does my brother?”

“Well, master, well, and my lady too,” Samson told him, and bent the knee to kiss his hand. “Are you come home for aye at last, sir? The place misses you!”

There was a shrug of the shoulder and a shake of the head. “Nay, nay, the place needs but my brother.”

“A just lord,” Samson agreed. “But there is never a man on Beauvallet land would not be glad to welcome Sir Nicholas home.”

“Oh, flatterer!” Beauvallet mocked. “What have I ever done for the land?”

“It is not that, master.” Samson shook his head, and would have said more.

But Sir Nicholas laughed it aside, waved his hand, and rode on under the arch.

A flight of broad stone steps led up from the neat drive to the terrace and the great doorway. There were clipped yews in tubs, and in the stonework above the door the Beauvallet arms were set in a stone shield. Leaded windows reared up slim and stately to either side, built out in rounded bays, with scrolls beneath them of stonework set against the warmer brick. The roof was tiled red, with tall chimney-stacks to either end, and round attic windows set between the many gables. The door stood open to let in the spring sunshine.

Sir Nicholas swung himself lightly down from the saddle, tossed the bridle to Joshua, and went bounding up the steps. Like a boy he set his hollowed hands to form a trumpet for his mouth, and called: “Holà, there! What, none to cry Nick welcome?”

In a moment heads peeped from upper windows. There was a stir amongst the serving maids, a whisper of: “Sir Nicholas is home!” and much preening of stuff gowns and patting of prim coifs. Sir Nicholas might be counted on to give a hearty buss to the prettiest, ignoring my lady’s murmured protests.

Portly Master Dawson, steward for many years, heard the shout in his buttery, and made haste to come out into the sunlight. A couple of lackeys hurried at his heels, and Dame Margery, urgent to be the first to greet her nursling. She pushed past Master Dawson as he reached the door, dived under his arm without ceremony, a little wrinkled woman in a close white cap. “My cosset!” cried Dame Margery. “My lamb! Is it my babe indeed?”

“Indeed and indeed!” Sir Nicholas said, laughing, and opened his arms to her. He caught her up in a great hug while she fondled and scolded all in one breath. He was a good-for-naught, a rough, sudden fellow to snatch up an old woman thus! Eh, but he was brown! She dared swear he was grown; but his cheek was thin: she misgave her he was in poor health. Ah, he was a sad wastrel to be so long gone, and to come home but to laugh at his poor nurse! She must pat him, stroke his hands, feel the thickness of his short cloak. A fine cloth, by her faith! all tricked out with points and tassels of gold! Oh, spendthrift! Take heed, take heed! Could he not see my lord coming to greet him?

My lord came sedately out from the house in a gown of camlet trimmed with vair, with a close cap set upon his head, and a gold chain about his neck. My lord wore a cathedral beard like a churchman. He was fair where Nicholas was dark; his eyes were blue, but lacked the sparkle that was in his brother’s eyes. He was a tall man of imposing mien, had a grave countenance and a stately gait. “Well, Nick!” he said, with the glimmer of a smile. “My lady heard a shouting and commotion, and straightway saith Nick must be home. How is it with you, lad?”

The brothers embraced. “As you see me, Gerard. And you?”

“Well, enough. A tertian fever troubled me in February, but it is happily passed.”

“He must needs go into Cambridgeshire to that damp, unhealthy castle,” sighed a mournful voice. “I knew what would come of it. I foretold an ague from the start. Dear Nicholas, give you good den.”

Nicholas turned to greet my Lady Beauvallet, kissed her hand right dutifully, and so came to her lips. “Do I see you well, sister?”

“Nick!” She blushed faintly and shook her finger at him. “Ever the same swift way! Nay, the hard winter⁠—harder than any I remember, was it not, my lord?⁠—tried me sorely. At the New Year I had the sweating-sickness. Then, at Candlemas, an ague seized me, and was like to have carried me off, methought.”

“But the spring comes, and you grow strong with it,” suggested Nicholas.

She looked doubtful. “Indeed, Nicholas, I trust it may be found so, but I have the frailest health, as you know.”

Gerard broke in upon this lamentation. “I see you bring home that ruffler,” he said, and nodded to where Joshua stood in parley with the lackeys. “Have ye schooled him yet?”

“Devil a bit, brother. Joshua! Here, rogue, come pay your duty to my lord!” He put an arm round my lady’s waist and swept her into the house. “Have in with you, Kate. The snip of the wind is like to lay you low of a second ague.”

My lady went with him protesting. “Nick, Nick, so hardy still? Not a second ague, I assure you, but more like the seventh, for, indeed, no sooner am I raised from one than another comes to strike me down. Come into the hall, brother. There should be a fire there, and they will bring wine for you. Or there is some March beer of two years tunning. Dawson! Dawson, bring⁠—oh, he is gone! Well, come in, Nicholas; you will be chilled from your ride.”

They went through the screens to the Great Hall. This was a noble apartment with the roof high over their heads crossed and re-crossed with oaken timbers. Tall windows were set all round the walls at a height above a man’s head. Between them the walls were covered with panels of linen-fold. A dais was set at one end, in the bay of the front windows, with a long table upon it and benches around. A great fireplace stood in one wall, with logs burning in it. Above the lofty mantelpiece, supported by pilasters, my lord’s quarterings hung. Rushes, with rosemary strewed amongst them, covered the floor; there was a settle on either side of the fireplace, and some carved and panel-backed chairs ranged neatly along the wall.

My lady sat down on one side of the fire, and since her monstrous farthingale seemed to occupy most of the settle, Sir Nicholas went to the other. “Yes, sit down, dear Nicholas,” she said. “Dawson will be here anon, and my lord too, I dare swear.”

Sir Nicholas loosed the cloak from about his shoulders and tossed it aside. It fell over one of the chairs against the wall, and Margery, peeping round a corner of the screens, frowned to see the fine thing so rudely used. My lady caught sight of that puckered face and smiled kindly. “Come you in, Margery. You will say it is a good day that sees Sir Nicholas come riding home.”

“Good indeed, my lady.” Margery dropped a curtsey. “But a feckless, heedless boy! Ah, is there never one to school him?” She picked up the cloak and folded it carefully. “Tut, the brave hat upon the floor! Two feathers in it, i’faith!” She looked a fond reproof at such extravagance. “Heed old Margery, my cosset, and get ye a wife!”

“What need?” Sir Nicholas asked, and disposed his graceful limbs at ease along the settle. “What need while I still have Margery to scold, and a fair sister to shake her head at me?”

“Oh, Nicholas, for shame!” my lady said. “I shake my head? Though, indeed, ye often deserve that I should. Ah, my lord, in good time! Here is your brother says we scold, poor Margery and I.”

My lord came to sit beside Nicholas on the settle. “Dawson is gone to fetch the March beer for you, Nick. He is sure it is what you need.” He smiled. “It is a rare thing, faith, to see the house turned upside down for a graceless rogue that heeds naught that concerns it.”

Sir Nicholas threw back his head, and laughed. “The old tale! I irk you sorely, Gerard, alack!”

“Nay, nay.” My lord looked on him with some kindness. “So ye be come home now to stay.⁠ ⁠…”

“Patience, Gerard, patience!” Nicholas said mischievously.

Dawson came in preceding a lackey, bearing the famous beer upon a salver. “Sir, at your pleasure!”

“In good sooth!” Sir Nicholas stretched out a hand for the tankard. “Give you my word I have yearned often for this. My lady, I drink to your better health.”

“Ah!” sighed my lady, and shook her head.

My lord took the second tankard. “You will wish to hear news of my Lady Stanbury,” he said. “I had a letter from her lord last Friday se’n night, telling me she had been brought to bed of a fair son.”

“What, a son at last?” quoth Sir Nicholas, tossing off the rest of his beer. “Marry, I lost count of poor Adela’s daughters long since! Dawson, another tankard, man, to drink my nephew’s health!” He looked at Gerard. “How doth my sister? Who stands sponsor?”

“Well, very well. I am asked to stand, with my lady, and another. Ye should journey into Worcester to visit them; Adela would be glad of it. You will not have heard that our cousin Arnold is wedded to Groshawk’s second daughter? A fair match, no more than fair. The elder girl favoured her mother too much for Arnold, so I heard.”

Talk ran awhile on family matters; my lady went away presently to see to the preparation of the heir’s chamber, and Nicholas must needs be off to the stables to greet old servants, and inspect new horses. My lord went with him, willingly enough.

“There’s a Barbary horse might suit you,” said he. “Ye shall try his paces. I bought him last Michaelmas, but he is scarce up to my weight, I believe. He should please you: a fiery, impatient brute.” He linked arms with Nicholas, and made his brother curb his hasty steps to match his own. “Gently, lad! What’s your hurry?”

“None. What hawks do you keep now? What sport?”

“Fair, fair. I was out with my neighbour Selby last Thursday. I let fly my tassel-gentle at a pheasant, discovered in a brake. A rare bird that! I had her from Stanbury when he was here over Twelfth Night; ye shall see her anon. Selby found a mallard, whistled off his falcon. Down she came, twice missed, but recovered it at a long flight.⁠ ⁠…”

They talked of hawking, and of venery, and of the management of the estate. When they came slowly back to the house the sun was sinking behind it in a red glow. Master Dawson met them with a warning of supper. Sir Nicholas’ baggage had arrived, and was safely bestowed in his chamber. Sir Nicholas went up the wide stairs two at a time, and found Joshua laying out a doublet and hose of slashed mochado, with netherstocks of carnation silk, and a clean stiff ruff.

A great bed with a canopy of carved wood supported at all four corners by pillars in the form of caryatides, stood out into the room. It had hangings of worked damask, and a Venice-valance. A bow-fronted chest of walnut inlaid with cherrywood stood at the foot of it; there was an armoire in one corner, a second chest bearing upon it a basin and ewer of pewter ware, painted cloths upon the walls, and a thrown-chair by the window. Sir Nicholas flung himself down in this, and stretched his legs out before him. “Off with my boots, Joshua. Where’s the casket I bade ye cherish?”

“Safe, master; I will bring it on the instant.” Joshua knelt, and tugged at the muddied boots. “All goeth merrily at home, sir, as we see. ‘What now,’ quoth Master Dawson⁠—he grows somewhat fat on good living, mark you⁠—‘What now, do ye stay in England, Master Dimmock?’ This is to pry into our affairs, master. I made him a short answer, never fear me. ‘It’s not for me,’ quoth I, ‘to divulge what plans Sir Nicholas hath in mind.’ He stood abashed.”

“I warrant me!” Sir Nicholas said mockingly. “A rare, politic answer, my Joshua. Pray, what are my plans?”

Joshua arose with the second boot in his hand. “Nay, sir, ye have not favoured me with them yet,” he said with unabated cheerfulness. “But it was not fit that I should say as much to that fat steward. A swag-bellied, pompous ass, I make bold to say. Yet, master, and I do not speak without reflection, it might suit us well to remain snug at home now.”