Authors: Norah Lofts
‘You made good speed,’ he said.
We should have made better had the servant had his way. I had disliked him from the start; he was one of those – a type then new to me – who was intensely servile when they must be, and make up for it by being insolent when they can. It was plain, at the moment of our meeting that he despised me on account of my youth, and Jack because he was a plain unliveried servant. The new man wore green with the Astallon badge, a falcon, on his breast.
Jack helped me on to my pony, for the last time, and then dived into his pocket, brought out a little handkerchief, edged with pegged lace and tucked it into my sleeve.
‘It’s to be hoped you ‘on’t need it, my little dear, but if you do you’ll know where it is.’
He then turned to the Astallon man and said,
‘You take good care of our little mistress; she’ve never been from home afore.’
That remark, and the thought of parting with Jack thickened my throat again. The Astallon man merely sniffed and looked down his nose in a way that said, plainly, he was taking no orders from servants.
I said, ‘Good-bye, Jack. I shall see you at Christmas.’
We rode in silence for some time. The man broke it to ask,’ in a burring voice which made it hard for me to understand his words,
‘Is that the best pace you can make?’
I thought I had not heard aright; Browny was, for his size, very speedy and he was trotting his best.
‘What did you say?’ I asked. He repeated the question.
‘Yes, it is. Browny is only a pony, as you can see for yourself.’
‘We’ll see,’ he said, and he lifted his whip and brought it down hard on the pony’s rump.
Certainly since the two matched ponies had been given to Walter and me on our fifth birthday, Browny had never been struck like that; Grandfather Reed was soft-hearted towards all his horses and had given us a little homily about treating the ponies properly; and I loved Browny who was, anyway, quite willing to run as hard as he could without being beaten. Now, frightened and hurt, he broke into his little short-stepped rocking gallop for a minute or two, and then slowed down to a trot again.
I had a good enough reason of my own for not wanting him whacked into a gallop; I had been in the saddle a long time and was very sore. I was only accustomed to taking short rides, or – as on our visit to Minsham – a long one with a rest in between. When Browny galloped, I bumped, and it hurt.
When the man came up to strike the pony a second time I cried,
‘Don’t do that!’ But he did, and we bumped forward as before. It happened twice more and Browny began to blow; so next time, just as he began to slow down I pulled him to a standstill, clapped my hand to my eye and let out a yell.
‘There’s a fly in my eye,’ I said.
The servant, close behind me, said,
‘Damnation!’ and then, coming alongside, ‘Can’t you get it out?’
I made a quick movement and snatched the whip, which he was holding in a slack hand just then, and I pulled the pony round a little so that my hand, with the whip in it was as far as possible from the servant on the tall horse.
‘Give me that whip,’ he said between his teeth. I was going to say – Not unless you promise not to hit my pony again! – but what good would a churl’s promise be? So I simply said,
‘I shan’t.’
There then followed, right out in the open road a most unseemly scuffle. He pulled his horse round and made a grab for the whip, but I was ready and brought it down smartly on his wrist; he cursed and made another snatch, not this time at the whip, but at the top of my arm, which he seized and twisted. I was quite helpless then, and the only way to break his hold was to slip out of the saddle and stand in the road; even so I dangled for a moment, held by his hand, before my weight carried me to the ground.
I was by this time thoroughly frightened; dismounting so hastily and carelessly had rubbed my sore bottom, and my arm had had a cruel twist, so I started to yell. I stood there, holding the whip behind me, my back pressed to Browny’s heaving side and I yelled as if I were being murdered.
‘Give me that whip and get back on that pony,’ the servant said.
I yelled louder. He was in a rather awkward position; he could lift me back on to the pony, but to do that he must himself dismount, and when he did, I thought – some part of me quite calm for all the fright and pain and the yelling – I would strike his horse, hard, so that it galloped off, and while he chased it I would jump back on Browny and ride in the other direction.
The road was far from being deserted. Two old women were herding along a great gaggle of geese and looked at us with interest, not untinged with amusement, but they were too busy with their charges to stop and ask questions. A man with a panniered donkey, waiting for the geese to pass the place where the horse and the pony narrowed the road, did speak.
‘Whassa matter? Hurt yersel’?’
‘Mind your own business,’ said the Astallon man so fiercely that the man with the donkey quailed, smacked his beast with the flat of his hand and passed on.
‘My Lady will hear about this,’ the servant said to me.
‘Aye, from me!’ I said, and was straightway frightened again at the thought of some great lady listening to both our tales and believing him. So I yelled some more. But I kept my eye on the man and saw that he was going to dismount. I got ready, but just then along came some horsemen, riding fast. The first one cried,
‘Make way, make way!’ and the Astallon man, instead of dismounting, pulled in a little to the side of the road. The gentleman rode past, his companion followed, but he looked at us, the third gentleman passed. Then the second rider wheeled round and rode back. He was about the age of, and not unlike my Uncle Godfrey.
‘What is all this to do?’
I said, ‘Oh sir, please, please help me.’
The Astallon man slipped from the saddle and put his hand to his forelock and began to speak rapidly … a sore task … sent to conduct the little lady … no will for the journey ….
I ran forward and took hold of the gentleman’s foot in the stirrup.
‘It isn’t true. It’s all lies. I was going willingly till he hit Browny.’
The gentleman said, ‘If you would speak one at a time I might make some sense of it.’ He leaned forward a little and studied the badge. ‘Astallon of Beauclaire?’
‘That’s right, sir. And sent to conduct ….’
‘Ladies first,’ said the gentleman. ‘Now, why do you stand here and make a noise like a hound in full cry?’
I told him in as few words as possible. ‘You can see I speak the truth,’ I said and I pointed to the welts that had already r isen on Browny’s smooth rump.
‘All right. Now you be quiet for a moment. You, tell me, was there any particular urgency about this journey?’
‘I was told to make it with all possible speed, sir.’
‘All possible speed. Well, your master would know that so small a child would not be mounted on a saddle horse. All possible speed, for that pony would be … let me see … three days. I shall pass close by Beauclaire, I’ll turn aside and say that if you arrive earlier you have over-driven both pony and rider and should be beaten.’
He turned to me with a smile and said,
‘A pleasant journey and a safe arrival, demoiselle. Would you like me to take that whip?’
I said, ‘Oh, I do thank you. Thank you. What is your name?’
‘My name? Why, what is my name to you?’
‘I shall mention it in my prayers every night as long as I live.’
He laughed. ‘Then I shall be greatly in your debt. But I hope you will outlive all memory of me by fifty years. My name is John Fitz Arle. And what is yours?’
‘Maude Reed.’
‘I wish you well. As for you, fellow, mind what I said.’
(I put his name into my prayers that night, and I kept it there, for years and years, by rote and habit, long after I had forgotten what he looked like and everything about him, except that he had stood by me in a moment of great need.)
So I had won, but victory has its price. At inns one’s accommodation and food depends very largely upon one’s servant and his care for one’s comfort. Jack had seen that I slept and ate well in Colchester, Chelmsford and Brentwood. Now anything would do.
What I didn’t know was that in all great establishments all the servants are for ever trying to make their duties profitable. My escort had been given money for the journey, if he could have shortened it by a night – even if Browny had ended broken-winded – the price of a night’s lodging for us and our mounts would have gone into his own pocket. This form of cheating was rife at Beauclaire, as it must be, I suppose, in any establishment too large to be sharply looked to by one person. Even over the candles my Lord Astallon was swindled by his house steward whose duty it was to see that new candles were placed in every sconce and stand every evening. The short ends were one of his perquisites, and since hundreds of candles were used every day, they would have amounted to something. But he was not content. The new candles were put in place and they were lighted; then some minion of the Steward’s would run around, replacing them by the stubs of another evening. So the cry, ‘Bring fresh candles’ was constantly to be heard, together with complaints that candles these days lasted only half the time that they were wont to do.
Even taking three days for the journey, thanks to my behaviour, I think the man made some small profit for himself. I do not think that my Uncle Godfrey, nor my Cousin Astallon would have wished me to lie in the common sleeping room, with tinkers and drovers; or to dine on boiled goose-grass root three days in succession. Fortunately, as my homesickness and misery grew my appetite lessened. And as the appetite lessens so do the spirits. It was a very miserable, quiet little girl who got stiffly down from her pony’s back, and saw him led away and thought – There goes my last friend.
The servant indicated that I was to follow him, so on foot we went through another archway and into a court with a well in its centre. An old man was drawing up water in a bucket and tipping it into a barrel which fitted into a frame with two wheel and shafts; a donkey stood between the shafts and a boy stood by the donkey’s head. This vast household used so much water that the old man worked at the well and the barrel made journeys to and fro, all day long.
One side of this court was enclosed by a wing of the house itself, and here was an entry, a deep, dark porch with an iron-studded door set within it. As a sign of his displeasure with me the servant halted by this door, instead of taking me in and handing me over.
‘In there,’ he said, and walked away.
I stepped into the porch, feeling smaller than I had ever done in my life, knowing how dwarfs feel in a world fitted to ordinary people. I stood for a moment gathering my breath and my courage, then I pulled off my glove, and making a fist, knocked on the door. It was, I soon saw, a very thick door, and plenty of noise was being made on its further side. Nobody answered my knock. I beat on the door again and when it stayed closed, turned the great iron handle and pushed.
Immediately inside the door was a kind of small room, the door behind me forming one wall of it, the other three made of finely carved screening through which I could see. Our solar at the Old Vine was reckoned to be a wonderful apartment, unmatched in the whole of Baildon, but this room was three times as large and half as high again. Yet it seemed full, for the young ladies within were all wearing wide-spreading dresses and enormous head-dresses. Four of them sat in a group, with a piece of embroidery spread over their laps, each stitching away at her own portion, and talking and laughing as they worked. One sat alone on a window seat, playing a lute very softly and sweetly. Some others, at the end farthest from the hearth, stood at a table, throwing dice and making loud exclamatory noises; and three stood quite near the door, divided from me by the lacy woodwork of the screen.
I stood in the enclosure, like something in a cage and looked about, then I pushed against each side in turn and the left side proved to be a swing door. I walked into the room and went near to the three young ladies who were talking. One was telling some tale, making gestures as she did so.
‘… so I said, “Oh, is that so? Then what about the evening of Holy Cross Day?” Could you have seen her face?’
One of the listeners said, ‘Oh, Ella, we swore never to mention that!’
‘I was so much provoked. But listen! She then said, “That is what comes of lending one’s cloak!” And she tossed her head and turned. … God have mercy, where did you spring from?’
Tossing her head and imitating the turn she had come face to face with me.
‘I came by that door.’
‘And what do you want?’
‘I’ve come to live here. My uncle arranged it.’
‘Who is your uncle?’
‘Sir Godfrey Blanchefleur.’
‘Oh. Well, I don’t think he is here now ….’
Perhaps she would have shown more concern, but one of the other girls tugged at her sleeve.
‘Ella, go on! I must skip in just one minute. Lend her cloak, why, she wouldn’t lend a pin!’
There was nothing to be hoped for from them, so I went farther into the room and from shyness approached the lady who sat alone, rather than another group.
All I had time to see, or wit to notice then was that she was pretty, with a beautiful pale unblemished skin and hair so fair that it was almost silver.
I planted myself in front of her and said all in one shaky gulping sentence,
‘My name is Maude Reed and my Uncle Sir Godfrey Blanchefleur invited me here, and now he is gone and I don’t know what to do and I want to go to the privy very badly indeed!’
‘Poor poppet!’ she said, and laid the lute aside, jumped up and took my hand and hurried me through a doorway, into a passage, up some steps, down some steps, into another passage and so into a room where stood a row of big square boxes covered with black velvet. She threw open the lid of one of them and showed a gleaming copper pot, sunk in the black velvet of the inner frame.
‘There you are,’ she said cheerfully.
Urgent as my need was I waited for her to go. I was unused to the ways of the great. At home there was a privy, with a screen of bushes around it, and there was, of course, the night-pot under the bed in case of need, but I had not – at least since I could remember – used either with anyone watching.