Norton, Andre - Novel 08 (22 page)

 
          
 
Fitz obediently swallowed the bitter stuff and
then asked a question: "Where am I, sir?"

 
          
 
"This is the vicarage of Prince's Marvel,
a moor village. You were
lost "

 
          
 
"The bell!"
Fitz remembered something from those dark hours in the fog.

 
          
 
His host beamed, "Just so, my boy, the
bell. And you are not the first to be saved by the bell of Prince's Marvel. We
have a noted bell, a bell which has played its small part in English history. I
am Evan Lodge, the
Vicar "

 
          
 
"I'm Fitzhugh Lyon," Fitz returned
sleepily.

 
          
 
"I had guessed part of your name, my
boy." Mr. Lodge patted his hand.

 
          
 
Fitz was too drowsy to untangle that, though
he knew that it was a strange answer. But he was asleep before they were
through the door and had left him alone.

 
          
 
Several days of convalescence got him on his
feet again. The inhabitants of the vicarage, which crowded close to the
tall-towered church of St. Columba-in-the-Moor, were four in number—Mr. Lodge,
Noll, the taciturn Godfrey, and a mysterious female who kept to the kitchen
quarters and was known to Fitz only as a disembodied voice. Godfrey did most of
the work, proving surprisingly adept at such traditionally feminine pursuits as
bed making and cleaning, as well as gardening and caretaking in the same
churchyard through which Fitz had stumbled on the night St. Columba's bell had
drawn him to safety.

 
          
 
Mr. Lodge was proud of that bell and of its history
—a history to which Fitz's exploit had just added new laurels, as he was
informed as soon as he showed the least interest in the subject.

 
          
 
"Some two hundred years ago," the
Vicar began his tale, his hands smoothing Noll's thick fur as the lazy beast
sprawled across his knees,
"
there was a certain
Sir Bertram Sampson, homeward bound across the moor. He was cautioned not to
travel by night or alone, since he was carrying a goodly sum in gold on his
person. But, as he had sailed with Drake and was a fighting man, he paid little
heed to such council, and set out with only a serving lad as escort. They were
attacked by outlaws—the serving lad was killed—but Sir Bertram, though wounded,
broke free. However, he was dismounted and totally lost as to direction, left
wandering in a land where hidden bogs made every footstep a probable trap. Then
it was that he heard the bell of St. Columba's which was rung because of a fire
in the village. And its sound guided him to safety. So when he reached this
very house he put into the hands of the lord of the manor all the gold he
carried upon him, with instructions that every night at that same hour during
which he had wandered, lost, the bell should be rung to bring other benighted
travelers to safe lodging—as it did you, my boy, as it did you! And as it has
others in years past. Thus Godfrey bends to the bellrope each night, fog or
clear, and so will others after him."

 
          
 
"It was lucky for me that Sir Bertram was
such a public-spirited man," commented Fitz. "You have heard no word
of my lost friend?"

 
          
 
Mr. Lodge shook his head regretfully.
"Yesterday was market day, and Godfrey rode into
Hampton
Lesser. But he heard nothing of your
companion, sir. I do not think that he could have come into the moor so far,
now that I have heard all that you can remember of that night. The shadow which
drew you from the road must have been one of our wild moor ponies. They run
free and in a fog might seem larger than they are. You are well off the
Exeter
road herewith that Fitz had to be content.
The only reason he could give for being on the road with Crofts in the midst of
a fog was so weak that he knew the Vicar must have accepted it only out of
politeness. And he was afraid of questions. Mr. Lodge's own explanation of the
affair came as something of a shock to Fitz when he chanced to overhear it.

 
          
 
On a warm day, such as he had not before
enjoyed in this land of rain and clinging mists, he had been exploring the
garden where the tangled flowers drew an inordinate number of bees. And he had
walked its full length without effort. Tomorrow or the next day he would have
to investigate the chances of getting on to
London
. If Crofts had won free he could get news
of him at the Sign of the Lighted Candle.

 
          
 
He came back toward the house, his boots
making no sound on the grassy lawn which stretched to the study windows. Being
in the mood for conversation Fitz decided to peer in and see if his host was
not too occupied for a visit. But then the sound of Mr. Lodge's voice came
floating out to him.

 
          
 
"It is my belief, Sir Hew, that the young
man was the worse for his potions when the accident occurred. He had been long
at sea and perhaps had imbibed too freely during his first night ashore. To
ride the moor road at night in such a fog is surely the
action
"

 
          
 
"Of a drunken puppy!" boomed a
heavier reply. "Yes, Lodge, that is doubtless the truth of the story.
Unless he is disordered in his wits."

 
          
 
"Oh, no," the Vicar's protest was as
quick as Fitz could hope for, "not that, not that at all. He is most
intelligent, interested in our countryside to a great extent. And while he has
been under my roof he has shown himself to be of a temperate inclination.
Apparently his sad mishap has so worked upon him that he is now cautious of the
bottle."

 
          
 
Fitz grimaced ruefully at a neighboring rose
tree. So they thought him foxed on the night of the fog! To be presented with
such an excellent explanation for his actions was more than he deserved. It was
as if Crofts' famous luck had sought him out after it had deserted the Captain
in the Channel. He had only to play the repentant prodigal and need fear
questions no more.

 
          
 
He went around the house and into the hall
which led to the study. The sooner he made his contrite self known to this Sir
Hew the better. At his polite knock the Vicar bade him enter, and he found Mr.
Lodge sitting almost knee to knee with a thick shouldered, round bodied man in
a riding jacket which strained sadly at the seams. Lodge hastened to introduce
them.

 
          
 
"Sir Hew, this is Mr. Fitzhugh Lyon of
his Majesty's Service.
My boy, Sir Hew Penslow."

 
          
 
Fitz showed his best manners. The squire
cleared his throat with a grunt and held out his hand.

 
          
 
"So you're the young sprig who has given
our bell another honor?" He stared at Fitz from under very bushy and black
brows. The Marylander decided that Sir Hew was certainly no fool, no unworldly
country dweller to be fobbed off with a badly contrived tale. It was luck he
now had one which would now bear scrutiny.

 
          
 
"Yes, sir,” he returned frankly.
"
If it hadn't drawn me to Prince's Marvel, I might now
lie at the bottom of a moor bog. My horse had thrown me and my wits were
addled "

 
          
 
"They were addled before you came out on
the road on such a night!" Sir Hew was brutally honest.

 
          
 
Fitz strove to produce a passible flush of
conscious shame. And he must have been partially successful, for the Vicar came
to his aid.

 
          
 
"Ah, well, you have paid sorely for your
folly, my boy. And I think that you have made resolutions that it shall not occur
again "

 
          
 
"Indeed I have, sir!" Fitz's answer
was all honest fervor to that.

 
          
 
"You were on your way to
London
when you were lost?" Sir Hew continued
his inquisition.

 
          
 
Under that unblinking stare Fitz was becoming
more and more uncomfortable. But he was able to avoid shifting his feet or
dropping his eyes.

 
          
 
"Yes, sir.
I am
on leave, sir, and had thought to spend part of it in
London
."

 
          
 
"
Lyon
—
Lyon
,"
Sir Hew repeated the name, and Fitz's ringed hand jerked behind him. He had no
wish at all to be identified with the English Lyons.

 
          
 
But it was the Vicar who gave him away.
"Yes, Sir

 
          
 
Hew, our young friend is of that ilk, he wears
the Starr crest on his ring."

 
          
 
Fitz's useless protest died before he voiced
it, for the great Sir Hew was refolding his vast expanse of face into a smile.

 
          
 
"A Lyon of Starr, eh?
Well, that should explain your fiddle mindedness, my boy." He was cordial
now, talking to one of his own kind rather than to a fly-by-night stranger who
had arrived within the borders of his domain in none too creditable a fashion.
"You do not have much of the family look."

 
          
 
Fitz reddened. "I am not of the main
house, sir. And I am said to resemble my mother's people."

 
          
 
"Well, you do seem more sensible than the
rest of that lot. Farstarr's roistering is the talk of the town— or was the
last time I was up. I can't see that impudent numskull with a service coat on
his back." Sir Hew was fast becoming jovial. "So you have leave to
spend in
London
." He shook his head but still smiled.
"Young blood, young blood! Eh, Lodge? He poked a fat finger into the
Vicar's ribs, and that gentlemen echoed the squire's laugh somewhat timidly.

 
          
 
"Since you have come to us for aid,
Lyon
, the least we can do is give it to you. As
it happens I am for
London
myself in two days' time. You are welcome to a seat in my chaise,
boy."

 
          
 
At Fitz's startled thanks he shook his head
again. "No, don't make such a pother about it. I'm a dull old dog, and you
can chatter away to keep me amused. D'you play piquet?" Fitz could only
nod in answer.

 
          
 
"Then you'll most certainly come! I've a
fancy for the cards and m'friends
say
that I am a
deucedly poor player—so you'll have to suffer with me. Do you good.
Does any young puppy good to serve his elders.
I leave at
six on Thursday morn—pick you up here then."

 
          
 
Fitz, completely overborne, could only agree
helplessly.

 
          
 
Crown proud at reviews, great George had no
rest,

            
Each grandsire, he had heard, a
rebellion suppressed.

            
He wished a rebellion, looked
round and saw none,

            
So resolved a rebellion to make—
of his own
.

 
          
 
—OLD SOLDIERS OF THE KING

 
          
 
Sir Hew made an excellent traveling host, as
Fitz speedily discovered. Although he traveled with little outward show, his
chaise was comfortable, well hung, and he was known at all the better inns
along the route, so that their service was both prompt and willing. Also, as
Sir Hew's companion, Fitz was, of course, above suspicion. The closer they came
to
London
the less worried Fitz was. His escape was
more and more like a holiday, and he allowed his curiosity about his father's
homeland some play—having first planted in Sir Hew's mind a somewhat dismal
picture of his restricted boyhood in an out-of-the-way manor situated in the
bleak
north country
.

 
          
 
"You're the better for not being raised
at Starr," Sir Hew informed him bluntly again after Fitz had supplied some
fictitious details of his former life. "They're a bad lot—the Lyons of
Starr—a shocking crew. If it weren't for the name, no one would receive the
present Viscount—a gamester and a blackguard, if ever one
was
born. I've seen Farstarr so foxed he couldn't keep his feet, and that at one in
the afternoon, mind you! He'll likely drink himself into his grave in a few
years, the brazen murderer!"

 
          
 
"Murderer?"
Fitz was a little daunted by such a picture of one who was, after all, his
cousin.

 
          
 
"I deem it murder when a man goes about
forcing quarrels on others when he is a master of the sword. He's met five men
within the past three years. Two are crippled for life and the other three are
dead.
But not a scratch on him.
Oh, twice he's had to
skip across the Channel and lay low for a bit. But the Earl can always use his
influence and get him back again. Starr's not minded to let his only heir get
too far from home. The Earl's stark mad on the subject of family."

 
          
 
Fitz twisted the ring on his finger. His
English kin were certainly not too presentable it appeared. He hoped that he
would not cross the path of either
Lyon
.
Though once he reached
London
there was little chance of that. He would find the Tory coffee house
and be on his way to
France
, maybe before even another day passed. From
all Crofts had said
,
the American agent in the British
capital was efficient.

 
          
 
But it was a little hard to part from Sir Hew,
for the the squire of Prince's Marvel was set upon Fitz remaining with him and
sharing his apartment. Only by pleading a previous engagement with a brother
officer could the American break away. He experienced some feelings of guilt as
he went down the street, keeping well within the posts which marked the
pedestrian's lane of safety.

 
          
 
London
was a roar of sound, a never-ending tumult
of movement and racing speed. A little deafened, Fitz picked his way along
almost timidly. Such a parcel of ballad singers, apple women, chimney sweeps
and street peddlers assaulted his ears with their clamor that it was like a
wild scene out of Bedlam to one used only to the provincial quiet of Baltimore.

 
          
 
Fitz sidestepped quickly to avoid the rush of
a flying barber, his razors, soap and steaming jug of hot water all held before
him, and almost found himself inside the door of a shop where the watching
apprentice pounced upon him and would have him in to buy, whether or no. Since
head laces and such trifles of feminine folly were on sale the American shied
off in a hurry and fairly took to his heels to escape.

 
          
 
But, by several times asking directions, he
was at last able to reach his port of call—the Sign of the Lighted Candle—and
stepped down into the main room, where a thick fog of tobacco smoke gave notice
that a number of patrons were already in residence. Slipping into the nearest
vacant seat, he laid a twopence on the table, and the hurrying waiter brought
him a cup of the house beverage.

 
          
 
Crofts had told him enough about these
informal
London
clubs so that he was now able to make the
next move. It was perfectly permissible here to speak to one's neighbor without
introduction. He studied the six or seven men who were reading, talking, or
just sitting, and wondered if any might be Mr. Norwood.

           
 
None were young, and two were quite elderly.
They all had a sort of settled look as if the Sign of the Lighted Candle were a
ploughed field into which they had put their roots, not easily to be removed
therefrom. Fitz turned at last to the man who shared his table.

 
          
 
"I am seeking Mr. George Norwood, sir. Is
he present?"

 
          
 
"
Norwood
?" his table companion repeated
abstractedly. "
Norwood
—no—I fear you must be disappointed, sir. He has but yesterday gone into
the country. As to when he shall return
But
perhaps

 
          
 
Isaac will know that. Isaac!" He raised
his voice and the aproned waiter came up to them. "Isaac, did Mr. Norwood
chance to say when he would return?"

 
          
 
"No, sir."
Isaac shifted from one foot to the other, eager to be off again. "He did
ask that all letters be held against his comin'. But he never stays long away,
sir. Leastways he hasn't never before. Mayhap by the end of the week he'll be
back. Message for him, sir?"

 
          
 
"I wish to see him," Fitz answered.
"And as I haven't quarters in
London
as
yet "

 
          
 
His hand went to the money belt about his
middle. It was too light now. He had tipped Godfrey lavishly and left a neat sum
with Mr. Lodge for the parish charities. For the first time he thought of what
it might mean to be in
London
without funds. There was always Sir Hew—but he could hardly call upon
the squire's purse.

 
          
 
"If it is a room you seek, sir," his
table mate began
hesitantly,
perhaps I could be of
assistance. Not commodious
quarters "

 
          
 
Fitz laughed. 'I've the purse of a service
officer without high connections, sir."

 
          
 
The other brightened at such frank confession.

 
          
 
"This is a meeting place for exiles, sir,
as you doubtless already know. Here we are of the slender-purse fraternity and
not like to rise out of that state. But my landlady has recently lost a lodger
to the debtor's ward. She will be pleased to let his share of space—providing
that this time she be paid in advance. As for dining— if you wish I can
introduce you to a very good fish ordinary—patronized by the cits—but none the
less tasty because of the talk of pounds and pence which flies about the board
between bites."

 
          
 
"It seems to me that I have fallen into
very excellent company, sir, and I’ll say yes to both your offers. I am
Fitzhugh Lyon, very much at your service."

 
          
 
The other showed white and even teeth in a
quick flash of smile, which took away some of the careworn lines of strain
about eyes and mouth. He held out his hand.

 
          
 
"I am Captain Alan Robinson, late of the
King's American Dragoons."

 
          
 
A Tory Officer! But Fitz's hand was already in
the other's grasp. And no horns sprouted from the smooth head across from him,
nor did he sniff brimstone when Robinson spoke.

 
          
 
"You are from the colonies then, Captain
Robinson?"

           
 
"Yes, just as yourself, Mr. Lyon."

 
          
 
Fitz was very still, but Robinson continued
easily, "Your voice gives you away, my friend. But you must have influence
to wear the navy coat. Colonials are not so esteemed—in either service."
His mouth was a bitter line. "We can fight and be killed for the King—well
out of the sight of the court, of course. But we backwoods clowns had best remain
where we can be conveniently forgotten. Look about you, Lyon. There by the
fireplace is Justice Bragg of
Boston
, an old man nearer sixty than fifty. He had
to flee from a mob
who
had the tar ready and boiling.
Five years ago he was worth perhaps twenty thousand pounds. Now he exists —or
tries to—on twenty pounds a year. Every man in this room lost all he possessed
for a principle and then discovered that he was deemed a traitor if he tried to
get enough sustenance to keep life within his body! We are true loyalists,
sir—and this is our reward!"

 
          
 
He kept his voice low but it was savage, as
savage is the fingers with which he shredded the edge of a paper he held. His
thin face was only a palid frame for his burning, tormented eyes. Suddenly he
threw himself back in his seat and laughed harshly.

 
          
 
"Forgive me this unmannerly outburst,
sir. But you will discover
,
if you linger long among
us, that those who are not oversanguine are given to such bitter talk. However,
you must be more interested in a lodging —if you will but come with
me "

 
          
 
Robinson reached out for a cane and got
fumblingly to his feet. Once he must have been tall, but now he hunched
forward, scraping along in a rocking gait which took him over the ground at a
surprising rate. It was as if he resented his broken body so much that he drove
it to the limit of its powers. Fitz kept up with him down the sweep of
Pall Mall
, until the Tory turned abruptly into a
respectable looking house. In the hall they met the landlady, and Fitz,
following Robinson's example, paid her the compliments due a lady of quality.

 
          
 
For a gold piece, the last he had in his
pocket, she showed him a small but neatly kept room on the first floor, and he
was glad to put down the bundle which comprised his luggage. Then, with
Robinson lurching along beside him, they sought out, through a maze of streets,
the promised ordinary.

 
          
 
The long table was set for twenty, and a good
half of the seats were already occupied as the two Americans entered. At the
head was the armchair held by the chairman whose small, wrinkled face bobbed
not far above the board. The Tory introduced Fitz to him with some ceremony,
naming the pro-tem host as Master Edmund Seedly.

 
          
 
Master Seedly had presided at this same table
daily for some forty odd years and was now one of the proudly touted features
of the establishment. But he was also a shrewd man of business who did not
intend to retire from the amusement of commerce until he was laid underground.

           
 
When all the seats were filled, Master Seedly
rapped for order and commanded that the cheese be brought. Robinson whispered
an explanation to Fitz. The cheese, a mountain-sized wheel of red-yellow which
must have been the master work of a dairy maid, was duly admired—two waiters
carrying it about the table between them. Then a piece of paper was laid before
each diner, and he guessed the weight of the cheese, their wager slips being
passed to Master Seedly. Fitz jotted down a wild guess and added it to the nineteen
others laid at the chairman's right hand.