John Saturnall's Feast (45 page)

‘There's a man in the yard, Master Saturnall,’ he whispered. ‘He's asking for you.’

A familiar figure stood in the icy rain, a snow-white mule beside him. Josh's hair was almost as white, John noticed.

‘I know about Henry,’ the driver said before John could speak. ‘I knew the moment he marched out of here.’

‘I'm sorry, Josh,’ John offered. Then he looked up the drive. ‘How did you get through?’

‘Your Colonel Marpot's been ordered back to Zoyland. They don't like him up in Soughton. The new Lieutenant's secretary's an old friend of yours.’

‘Who?’ asked John.

‘Sir Philemon Armesley.’

John shook his head. ‘You're mistaken, Josh. Sir Philemon served the King at Court.’

Josh shrugged. ‘Now he holds old Ned's pen. Sits on their Committee too. But that ain't why I'm here.’ He gestured back to the string of horses, laden with crates and sacks. ‘Got a letter in there. Took it from a fellow who was around by Banbury. He had it from a driver out of Oxford. From Sir William.’

‘He will return?’ John asked, wondering at Lucretia's reaction. But Josh shook his head.

‘Sir William's dead.’

My Daughter, may this Letter reach you in better Health than its Writer who suffers more under the demands of ‘Peace than ever he did on the Battlefield. The Masters of our new Commonwealth are miraculous Men who see deeper into our Consciences than we do ourselves. For they discover loyal Men to be Traitors and those who fought for their Sovereign to be Outlaws. And though they are Thieves they call
themselves Judges for whatever escaped their Cannons they would seize now with their Pens.

Some these Commissioners unhouse and drive from their Estates. Upon others they visit barbarous Violence as they threaten against our King, Such is our new Babylonian Captivity.

It pains me as grievously as the Saw that gnawed its Way through my Knee that you must .face these Creatures in my place. That they know if those close Conferences which were held here at Buckland is certain for one among our Company serves now upon their Committee. Philemon Armesley presents as many Faces as there are Gentlemen to look upon them. He tells me that he presses our Cause from Within.

All these Woes I bequeath you, and .Another. This Day the Surgeons tell me there is a Poison in my Blood. The .Apothecaries opine the same. But I have known it long before. Our Legacy has ever been a Poison that creeps about our Veins, mingled with the bright Blood that nourishes us.

Now the Hour is late and you and Buckland are distant. Yet I rest secure, trusting in the Promise that you made to me and knowing now your true Character. For Lady .Anne did not give her Life for Naught. In your Hands I know that the Vale will be kept safe. You are my Providence, Lucretia, and hers .
. .

John waited for her in the Solar Gallery, composing speeches in his head. But when she came in the early hours, red-eyed with grief, he found himself tongue-tied. She clung to him wordlessly, her body shaking with silent sobs.

In the Great Hall, the black velvet hangings were brought out. The Household conducted its business in silence. Lucretia wore a dark dress and veil. Sitting with John in the bedchamber, she gazed at the doorway.

‘He caught me playing here once,’ she said. She glanced back at the cradle with its silver bells, the dusty combs and little bottles. ‘Gemma and I used to play at Queens and Maids.’

‘You must play a different part,’ said John. ‘You must be Mistress of Buckland.’

Sir Philemon arrived flanked by riders as before, his saddle-bags bulging with commissions. Sitting behind the great walnut table, Lucretia heard out his protestations of loyalty while John, Ben Martin and Mister Fanshawe stood behind her. He would plead their case before the Committee, he promised. He would save the Estate from its worst depredations. But alas, he could not return empty-handed. John watched the man's scar stretch as he offered an apologetic smile, laying out his papers. A composition would have to be paid, he feared . . .

With Marpot banished, the pack-men and carters began to return. Ben Martin and Mister Fanshawe examined the accounts in the steward's rooms, drawing up lists of rents and fees, tallying the arrears and making rounds to collect them. Soon, in the crowded yards, Philip presided over a jostling throng, waving his one good hand at the unruly men. Motte began replanting the kitchen garden. Once again the Buckland Kitchen took its meals downstairs.

Word of the Manor's resurgence spread. Men arrived in search of work. Across the river, a gang of hired hands spread muck under Adam Lockyer's direction. All around the gardens, men and boys dug, cut back, repaired and planted. Only the ponds remained untouched. Beneath the water's dark surface, the fish swam lazily among the weeds.

In the house, the windows in the Great Hall were reglazed and the passages grew crowded. No longer could John and Lucretia exchange glances across the table, nor let their hands brush beneath, let alone embrace in quiet corridors. If John intercepted Lucretia, he hardly had time to take her arm before footsteps approached and she was forced to shake herself free.

‘I could not get away!’ she hissed after he had again waited in vain for her in the Solar Gallery.

Their encounters grew rarer. A week or two might pass before they kept their assignation. Then they came together in a flurry of desire. The next day, wielding his ladle at the hearth or discussing the next week's dishes with Philip, John wondered if he had dreamed the night's encounter, so abruptly did it wrench him from his life in the kitchen.

But at the end of that year on Old Saint Andrew's Day he laid the table in their chamber and awaited her, holding before him a tray loaded with dishes. She took her seat and, as he bent over her, spoon in hand, she looked up again with a smile.

‘If it pleases you, Master Saturnall, perhaps you might sit with me?’

Her hip-bones no longer jutted. He could not count her ribs through her skin. Only Marpot's blow marked her. As they lay together in bed, John ran his finger over the bump.

‘Your broke-nosed bride,’ she murmured.

‘Would that you were.’

That winter, the stores and larders were full. On the Twelfth Night feast John was summoned from the depths by a smiling Mister Fanshawe who led the way up the stairs and past the old buttery, through the passage and into the Great Hall.

Once again the red-liveried cooks, pot-boys, scullions and turnspits emerged from behind the screen and were beckoned onto the benches. The Household and Estate men shifted up to make room until the Great Hall was a motley of red, green and purple. Philip Elsterstreet contrived a place next to Gemma. Adam Lockyer and Alf leaned over to exchange words with Ginny and Meg. Further down, John saw Mister Bunce and Mister Stone yawn over their cups while Simeon Parfitt hushed three bellowing kitchen boys with an angry wave of his hand. It seemed another life in which Simeon had peered into a blackened pan, his eyes prickling with tears, or Scovell had pressed the ladle into his hand.

Sir Philemon passed their settlement through the Committee, Lucretia told him. The compact would hold, Ben Martin averred, so long as the composition was paid. John looked along the table to Mister Pouncey. He spent his days playing chequers with Mrs Gardiner, Mister Fanshawe had confided. Beyond the housekeeper, Lucretia leaned in and out of view. John nodded to a serving man to refill his cup. Mrs Pole was stifling her laughter next to Mister Fanshawe. As the games and songs grew wilder, the ladies rose to leave. Lucretia paused behind him.

‘Come tonight,’ she whispered.

It was late before he could slip away from the kitchen. He took the steep stairs two at a time. When he reached the gallery, the door to the chamber was open. Lucretia stood before the fire. She wore the silver-blue silk dress. As he stood in the doorway, she pulled the fabric tighter.

‘It almost fits.’

‘Perhaps the Queen will call you to Paris.’

‘I would not go.’

‘Perhaps the Court will return.’

‘Not tonight.’ She turned to him, smoothing the silk over her body. ‘Look, you have fed me up, John Saturnall. You can see the swell of my belly. Imagine if it were to swell in earnest . . .’

He heard the silk rustle over her skin. The faint smell of spiced wine drifted on her breath. She turned her back to him and he saw that she was unlaced. As he reached for her in the candlelight, the dress slid from her shoulders and pooled on the floor.

In the yard Calybute Pardew cried the news of Cromwell's Rump and the Bare bones Parliament, of Penruddock's rising and the fall of the Lieutenants. But in the Solar Gallery chamber, the heavy black curtains stayed drawn. Lucretia's belly swelled no more than it had that night. The seasons outside passed unseen, winter quickening into spring, spring bursting into summer, summer waning to autumn until the year turned and the next one began. John breathed in her smell and felt her warmth against him.

‘Is this how they were in your garden?’ she asked drowsily. ‘Did they feast like this?’

John smiled. ‘They were hardly so fortunate as we.’

Every year, on Old Saint Andrew's Day, he prepared a feast and served it from a tray. Every year she looked up.

‘If you wished, Master Saturnall, you might sit with me . . .’

The dishes grew richer. Barrels and boxes that John had not seen since Lucretia's wedding day began to arrive. Breaking them open he found bitter oranges, Madeira sugar, saffron, long mace and pepper. Once again the kitchen filled with bitter-sweet fugs and clouds of steam, with rich scents and sharp tangs. The posts from Carrboro spoke of the Lord High Protector's absences from his accustomed haunts, then the death of his daughter and at last a sickness that was described by
Mercurius Bucklandicus
as a melancholy humour. Then, a week past Michaelmas, as autumn slipped into winter, a company of red-faced villagers from Callock Marwood advanced up the hill and passed through the Manor's gates. They sang and cheered as they advanced down the drive. They drank from leather flasks. Drawn by the noise, John and Philip hurried out to confront the rowdy crew. Crossing the inner yard, John saw Lucretia accompanied by Mister Fanshawe emerge from the Great Hall and stand at the top of the steps. A frown creased her forehead. At the sight of the Mistress of Buckland, their shouts redoubled. Their leader raised his flask in a mock-salute.

‘We're here to toast Lord Ironsides, your ladyship! Our High Protector! The Devil bless his soul!’

John saw Lucretia frown deeper at the raucous behaviour.

‘And bless his iron arse too!’ shouted another. Then the others joined in.

‘Cromwell's dead!’ the men shouted. ‘Long live the King!’

Around John, the men in the yard downed their tools or put down their burdens and turned to one another. On their faces bewilderment turned to delight.

‘It's over, John!’ exclaimed Philip as the leather flasks were handed around. The men jostled and shouted.

John nodded and drank. But when he turned and looked back, Lucretia stood motionless on the steps, as silent as himself.

‘Our Eden is ended,’ he told her that night in the Solar Gallery chamber.

‘You would abandon our garden so easily?’ She mustered a smile. ‘It was never ours,’ he answered. ‘We only walked within its walls.’

‘So did Adam and Eve,’ she said.

‘They were expelled.’