Fallen Angels

‘Nonsense.’ She looked away from him. ‘That coppice needs trimming. I told Wirrell last week.’

‘And don’t change the subject,’ Achilles said. ‘You should marry someone, my dear Campion. It is time you were worshipped. That is what women are for! To be worshipped, to be stroked, to be adored.’

‘To be loved?’

‘You talk of illusions.’

‘To be decorative, then?’ she asked him teasingly.

‘Of course,’ he replied seriously.

They had reached the strip of grass between the Castle’s lake and the great, wrought-iron fence that fronted the Shaftesbury road. Achilles stopped and looked over the water. ‘Magnificent.’

They were looking at the celebrated view of Lazen, the one that had been drawn and painted so often that Campion claimed the artists’ easels had permanently marked the lawn at this spot.

From this lake bank Lazen Castle spread across their view in all its magnificence. The Castle had taken two centuries to build, yet it was marvellously coherent. It was really three houses. To the right was the Old House with its Long Gallery and its great windows that reflected the day’s grey light. The Old House was joined by a bridge of rooms to the Great House, and the bridge also formed the portico beneath which carriages drew up to deliver guests to the Castle.

The Great House was the tallest building, topped by the huge banner of Lazen, and fronted by the fluted columns that reared so arrogantly from the great spread of gravel. It was there, in the Great House, that Campion’s father had lain for fifteen years, ever since his best-loved hunter had fallen on him, rolled on him, and bequeathed him paralysis and pain.

To the left was the lowest part of the building, the Garden House that was joined to the Great House by a curving, pillared arcade. It had been built for Campion’s mother, a gift from her husband, but now it was used as a guest wing. It was in the Garden House that Uncle Achilles had been staying on this visit that ended today. Campion stared at Lazen Castle, seeing it reflected in the wide lake. It was home to more than two hundred people; grooms, maids, cooks, footmen, postilions, cellarmen, seamstresses, servants by the score, and all fed and paid by Lazen, their babies born in the town and raised in the Castle’s shadow, their beer brewed in the Castle’s brewhouse, their linen pounded in the Castle’s fullery, their corn ground in the Castle’s mill.

Her uncle stared at her. ‘Do you ever get tired of it?’

‘Never!’ She smiled wistfully, took his elbow again, and began walking. ‘Do you ever wish that nothing should change?’ She looked up at him. ‘That everything would just stop?’ She waved at the Castle. ‘Perhaps next summer? On a day of perfection? If we could just leave it like that for ever?’ She laughed at her own fancy.

He stopped walking, took her face in his long, thin hands on which, perversely, he still wore his bishop’s ring, and kissed her solemnly on the forehead. ‘Dear Campion, may I say something offensive?’

‘Uncle?’

‘This is serious advice.’

‘Oh dear.’ She smiled.

‘It is time you grew up.’ His face, thin and intelligent, was extraordinarily attractive. He was the cleverest man Campion knew, the most interesting, the most unexpected. The lines of age seemed delicately etched beneath the powder on his face. He smiled. ‘I’ve offended you.’

‘No.’

‘I should have offended you, then.’ He took her elbow and walked on with her. ‘Lazen is not yours, my dear. It will go to Toby and Lucille. You will lose Lazen just as I lost Auxigny. You have your own life to make and the sooner you make it, the better. You should not be here adding up columns of figures and worrying about the harvest and paying the wages; you should be in London. You should be dancing.’

‘That doesn’t sound like growing up.’

He walked in silence for a few paces. ‘Experience is growing up, Campion. What’s your family motto?’

‘Dare all.’

‘And you dare nothing! You stay here like a nun in a convent. Of course you’re happy here. You live in the greatest house in western England, you live off the greatest fortune in the realm. You want for nothing, you only have to lift a finger and the servants trample each other to provide for you. I know!’ He raised his gold topped cane to ward off her reply. ‘I know! You work hard. Yet you chose to do that, just as you could have chosen to do nothing. But you exercise your choice in safety. You are like a ship that must leave harbour, a beautiful ship, well built, splendidly rigged, and you dare not leave the quay.’ He stopped and smiled at her. ‘Yet one day, my child, there will be no more harbour, no more quay, no more safety.’

She stared at him, sensing the seriousness in him, then smiled. ‘Lazen will go?’

‘Of course not. It’s eternal.’

She smiled. ‘Toby will be here.’

‘Ah.’ He mocked her with faked comprehension. ‘So the nun will grow old in her brother’s household? When you are really old your great-grandnephews and nieces will be brought to look at you; “See the old lady! See how she dribbles!”’

She laughed. ‘It isn’t true.’

‘Then marry.’

She said nothing for a few paces. ‘Marriage will come, uncle.’

He tutted irritably. ‘You make it sound like a disease!’

‘I don’t want it to be an escape.’

‘How clever you are, niece.’ He smiled at her as they climbed the gentle bank towards the driveway. ‘My beautiful, clever niece with a clockwork heart.’

‘Nonsense!’

‘Then I expect to find you drowning in love’s illusion when I return. I demand it! I expect you to be sighing and writing excessively awful poems about your love’s eyes.’

She laughed and they turned into the driveway, walking directly towards the great house. The huge stable block was visible now to the right of the Castle, its entrance busy as the outriders’ horses were prepared for her uncle’s departure.

Hooves sounded on the gravel behind and Campion turned to see who approached.

At first she thought it was one of the grooms returning from exercising a saddle horse, but then she realized that not one of Lazen’s grooms rode like this man.

This was a horseman. She had grown up in a house that prized horsemanship, that knew a thing or two about men and horses, but never had she seen a horseman like this. This was a horseman.

The horse, big, sleek and black, trotted superbly on the gravel, while the rider, long-legged and straight-backed, seemed arrogantly at home in his saddle.

The rider was dressed entirely in black. Black breeches, black boots and a black shirt. A black coat was rolled and tied to his saddle. He had long, black hair that moved with the horse’s motion, and, as he came closer, Campion saw the glint of a gold earring in his left ear.

Her uncle, also staring in admiration, suddenly laughed. ‘It’s a gypsy. He must have stolen the horse.’

The Gypsy’s face was dark, thin, and savage as a hawk’s. Campion stared at the face, struck by it, thinking suddenly that never, ever in her life had she seen so superb a man. He rode as though he trampled a conquered world beneath his mare’s hooves.

He looked at them as he passed, his oddly light, bright, blue eyes passing incuriously over the man and girl. He did not stop, he did not acknowledge them, he seemed to observe them and then arrogantly dismiss them from his attention. Campion saw that the man’s sinewy forearms were tattooed with the images of eagles. A sword hung from the saddle, incongruous for a man who was not a gentleman.

Uncle Achilles watched her face, then laughed gently. ‘Perhaps you don’t have a clockwork heart.’

She was embarrassed instantly. She blushed.

He took her arm again. ‘It’s easier for a man. Just as my father did, we men can take our fancies of the peasant masses, indulge them, and pass on. It’s so much harder for a woman.’

‘What are you talking about, uncle?’

‘Oh, nothing!’ He sketched an airy gesture with his ribboned cane. ‘Only he was rather a handsome brute and your face did rather look like that tedious little Joan of Arc when she heard her boring voices.’ He smiled at her. ‘Take him as a secret lover.’