The House Of Lanyon

He had been proud of them, all the more so because they were really his. He knew that in many places fields were communal, with each farmer cultivating just a strip, or perhaps more than one, but compelled to plant the same crop as everyone else and changing strips each year. Here in the southwest, it was different. Here, a man’s fields were his own.

Beyond the farmland was a dark green line, the trees of Allerbrook combe, and in the distance strode the skyline of the moorland’s highest ridge, swimming in lemon light. There were strange mounds on the hilltops of Exmoor, said to be the graves of pagan people who had lived here long, long ago. He’d like to be buried in a mound on high ground, but he’d have to be content with a grave in the churchyard of St. Anne’s. He wouldn’t even be able to hear the sound of the Allerbrook…well, no, he wouldn’t be able to hear anything, near or far, but…

He was growing confused and things were fading again. But how lovely was the light on those moors. He’d never attended to it in life. Been too damn busy trying to control that awkward son of his. Now he wanted to float away into that glorious sky, to dissolve into it, to be part of it….

His eyes closed. The voices around him became irrelevant once more and then were gone. Father Bernard, gentle now, spoke a final prayer and Richard, also gently, kissed his father’s brow and drew up the sheet.

“It was a good passing,” he said.

The priest nodded. “Yes, it was. I will make arrangements for the burial. Will you decide when the best day would be, and let me know?”

“Of course,” Richard said. “I shall have much to do.”

And organising the funeral would be only part of that. To Richard—and though he didn’t speak of it aloud, he didn’t conceal it from himself, either—the golden light of the descending sun was a sign of golden opportunity. He would give his father a respectful farewell, as a good son should. But his mental list of the people he would invite included some with whom he particularly wanted to talk, and the sooner the better. He had plans, and now, at last, he was free to put them into action.

But certainly the funeral itself would, he trusted, be long remembered as an example of well-organised, quiet dignity.

In the event, George Lanyon’s funeral was unquestionably memorable and parts of it even dignified. But from that day onward, the conflict between Richard Lanyon and the Sweetwater family was more than a simple matter of dislike. That was the day when what had been merely dislike and resentment escalated into a feud.

CHAPTER TWO

SHAPING THE FUTURE

In the village of Dunster, a dozen or so miles away on the coast of the Bristol Channel, Liza Weaver, suitably grave of face, stood among other members of the extensive Weaver family and bade farewell to her father, Nicholas, the head of the house, and her mother, Margaret, as they set off on the long ride to Allerbrook for the funeral of George Lanyon.

She was a strongly built girl with warm brown eyes and hair that matched, although at the moment it was hidden under a neat white cap. Her big, florid father said cheerfully, “I’m sorry about George, and his family will miss him, but we’ll likely bring back some good fresh bacon from the farm. It’s an ill wind, as they say,” and he leaned down from his saddle to kiss his eldest daughter. “Be a good wench. Help your little sister and—” he dropped his voice “—don’t mind Aunt Cecy’s tongue. She means no harm.” He straightened up in his saddle, took off his hat and waved it to them all. “See you all soon!” he cried. Margaret smiled and turned her sturdy pony to follow him as he set off.

So there they went, thought Liza. Off to the funeral of George Lanyon. The two families were mostly linked by business, but there had been some social contacts, too. She had been to Allerbrook now and then—to Christmas and Easter gatherings as a rule—and she had met George. She had also found him rather alarming. She felt dutifully sorry for anyone who was ill, or had died, but she was young and the passing of Master Lanyon did not mean so very much to her.

On the other hand, the departure of her parents did mean something, of which they had no inkling. She had since childhood had a habit sometimes of going for walks on her own. Here in Dunster where everyone knew everyone else, it was safe enough and no one had ever stopped her, unless there was so much to do that she couldn’t be spared. Aunt Cecy would probably say that with Nicholas and Margaret absent, there’d be too much to do just now, but it shouldn’t be too difficult to give Aunt Cecy the slip after dinner.

And in the dell beyond the mill, where bluebells had been out the first time they met there, back in the springtime, a young man called Christopher would be waiting.

Autumn had declared itself. On the moors the bracken was bronzing and the higher hillcrests were veiled in cloud. It had rained overnight and there were puddles in the farmyard at Allerbrook. In the kitchen Betsy and Kat were busy by daybreak, preparing the food which must be served to the guests. When Richard came downstairs, the stockpot was already bubbling and there were chickens on the spit. The poultry population of Allerbrook had gone down considerably in George’s honour.

Out in the byre Betsy’s husband, Higg, was milking the cows while Kat’s husband, Roger, fetched water from the well for the benefit of the kitchen and the plough oxen in their stalls. It should have been the other way around, since Higg was as broad chested as any ox while Roger was skinny and stoop backed from a lifetime of carrying full buckets and laden sacks. He carried buckets so lopsidedly that they usually slopped, but the cows, perversely, responded better to Higg.

Upstairs, guests who had had a long way to come and had arrived the previous day were still abed, but Peter was up ahead of his father and snatching a quick breakfast of small ale and bread smeared with honey. Richard sat down next to him. “Sleep all right? It’ll be a long day.”

“I didn’t sleep much, no. It’s strange without Granddad. Nothing’s ever going to be the same again, is it?” Peter said.

Richard was silent, because to him, the fact that nothing was ever going to be the same again was a matter for rejoicing, but it would be quite improper to say so.

Under George’s rule, life at Allerbrook had been the same for far too long. There were so many things that Richard would have liked to try, new ideas which he had seen put into practice on other farms, but his father was set against innovations.

It was always Take it from me—I know best. No, I don’t want to try another breed of sheep. Ours do well on the moorland grazing, so what do you want to go making experiments for? No, what’s the point of renting more valley grazing? Got enough, haven’t we? Nonsense, I never heard of anyone growing wheat on Exmoor, even if Quillet field does face south and the soil’s deep.

There were going to be changes now, and that was nothing to grieve about. He glanced at Peter again, and saw that the boy was hurrying his meal. “Take your time,” he said. “Our guests’ll be a while yet. Ned Crowham’s never been one for early rising, I’ve noticed.”

For a short time, Peter had been to school in the east of the county and Ned had been one of his fellow pupils. They had become friends, although they had little in common. A complete contrast to the Lanyons to look at, Ned was short, plump, pink skinned and fair as a newly hatched chick. He was also the son of a man as wealthy as Sir Humphrey, owner of several Somerset farms and a manor house twenty miles away, toward the town of Bridgwater. At home, young Ned was indulged. He had spent nights at Allerbrook before and shown himself to be a terrible layabed.

“And the Weavers didn’t get here till after dark last night,” Richard added. “Mistress Margaret was tired. It’s only twelve miles from Dunster as the crow flies, but it’s a heck of a lot more as a pony plods and she’s not young. It was good of her to come. I hoped Nicholas Weaver would, for I’ve business with him, but I’m touched that his wife came, too.”

“We’ll have a crowd here soon,” Peter said, swallowing his final mouthful. “Just as well Master Nicholas didn’t bring his whole family! Poor Granddad used to envy the Weavers, didn’t he, because of their big families? Father, why did you never marry again after my mother died? I’ve often wondered.” Richard frowned and Peter hastily added, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say anything I shouldn’t.”

“I’m not offended, boy. I was just wondering what the answer was, that’s all. I tell you,” said Richard, man-to-man, “about three-quarters of the reason was that your granddad wanted me to marry again so badly! He kept on and on and the more he kept on, the less I felt like obliging him. So time went on, and it never happened. You’ll gain! You won’t have to share with others when you inherit the tenancy.”

Another reason, although he was fond enough of Peter not to say this to him, was that he hadn’t been very happy in marriage. Joan had been a good woman; that he wouldn’t deny. Too good, perhaps, too gentle. He sometimes glimpsed the same gentleness in Peter and didn’t like it. Peter was a Lanyon in looks but he had his mother’s temperament, and that wasn’t fitting for a man. It had even been irritating in a woman! He’d have liked Joan better if she’d spoken up more, the way Margaret Weaver sometimes argued with Nicholas: good-naturedly—there was no spite in it—but clearly, and often with very sensible things to say.

Joan was timid, scared of him and scared of George. She always had a bad time in childbirth and she was terrified of that, too. The fact that her last pregnancy had killed her had left Richard feeling guilt stricken. For some years now he had had a comfortable arrangement with a widow down in Clicket, a woman who’d buried two husbands and never borne a child. She did him good and he had done her no harm. He never discussed her with his family, though they all knew about Deb Archer.

“I don’t think you’ll be inheriting yet awhile,” he said jovially to Peter. “I’ve a good few years in me yet, I hope. Do you want to see your grandfather again, for a last goodbye?”

George was in his coffin on the table in the big living room. After the funeral, the room would come back into use, with a white cloth over the table and the best pewter dishes brought down off the sideboard, but until then, the room was only for George.

Peter shook his head. “No. I…I’d rather not. I saw him yesterday but he doesn’t look like himself anymore, does he?” He shivered. “I can’t believe that what’s in that box ever walked or talked…or shouted!”

“You’re getting morbid, boy. Well, maybe before long I’ll turn your mind in a happier direction. You just wait and see.”

In another hour Father Bernard had ridden in on his mare, and shortly after that, Tilly and Gilbert Lowe arrived from the farm on the other side of the combe, accompanied by Martha, the plain and downtrodden daughter who was virtually their servant. The Lowes were followed by the Rixons and Hannacombes from the other two farms on the Sweetwater estate, and then a number of folk from Clicket village straggled in, all soberly dressed, some on foot, some on ponies, to pay their last respects and escort George down to the churchyard and his final place of rest.

Among them came Mistress Deborah Archer, forty-nine now but still buxom and brown haired. Richard kissed her without embarrassment and Father Bernard greeted her politely. Like nearly everyone in the parish, he knew of the arrangement but accepted it without comment, just as he accepted the fact that neither Richard nor Deborah ever mentioned it in his confessional. He had had a lapse or two of his own. It was even possible that Geoffrey Baker, steward to the Sweetwaters, was his son. No one knew for certain.

The Sweetwaters didn’t come and no one expected them, though some of their employees arrived, including their shepherd Edward Searle, along with his son Toby. Edward Searle was a local personality. Tall, gaunt, dignified as a king and able to tell every one of his sheep apart, he was one of the few in the district whose baptismal names had never, unless they were already short enough, been chopped into nicknames. In a world where Elizabeth usually became Liza or Betsy and most Edwards became Ned or Ed, Master Searle remained Edward and no one would have dreamed of shortening it.

The other exceptions included the Sweetwaters themselves, Richard Lanyon (who refused to answer to Dick or Dickon and had long since squelched any attempts to make him) and Geoffrey Baker, who arrived on a roan mare and gave his master’s apologies with great civility though Richard knew, and Baker knew he knew, that Sir Humphrey Sweetwater hadn’t actually sent any apologies at all.

Sir Humphrey, said Baker solemnly, had guests, connections of Thomas Courtenay, the Earl of Devon. The Sweetwaters had promised to show them some sport today. They were all going hunting.

“Sir Humphrey’s showing off, as usual,” Richard growled to Peter.

Friendship with the Courtenays had brought one very marked benefit to the Sweetwaters, since Sir Thomas was the warden of Exmoor Forest. Clicket was outside the forest boundary, but only just. All deer belonged to the crown and no one hunted them except by royal permission, but a Sweetwater had distinguished himself so valiantly at the Battle of Crécy that he and his descendants had been granted the right to hunt deer on their own land.

Normally, they would not have been allowed to pursue them into the forest, which was inconvenient because the deer, oblivious of human boundaries, very often fled that way. Sir Thomas, however, had used his own considerable powers and granted permission for the Sweetwater hounds to follow quarry across the boundary. Sir Humphrey never missed a chance of demonstrating his privilege to his guests.

By ten o’clock all was ready at the farmhouse. The Clicket carpenter, who had made the coffin and brought it up the combe strapped to the back of a packhorse, had solemnly nailed it shut while Father Bernard recited a prayer. The Lanyon dogs—Peter’s long-legged, grey-blue lurcher Blue, Silky the black sheepdog bitch who had belonged to George, and Silky’s black-and-white son Ruff, who was Richard’s special companion—knew that they were not invited on this outing and lay down by the fire. How much animals sensed, no one could guess, but Silky had been pining since George died.

The six bearers, Richard, Peter, Higg, Roger, Nicholas Weaver and Geoffrey Baker, lifted the coffin onto their shoulders. They would be replaced halfway by a second team of volunteers, since the mile-long Allerbrook combe which must be traversed to reach Clicket was a long way to carry their burden, but to put a laden coffin on a pack pony would be risky. Ponies could stumble, or take fright. Nicholas, whose hair and beard were halfway between sandy and grey and who had grown hefty with the years, grunted as he took the weight, and cheeky Ned Crowham, who was one of the relief bearers—he had been got out of bed only just in time to join the procession—said that at least Nicholas’s pony could now have a rest.

“True enough,” Nicholas said amiably. “My pony’s stout, but I reckon the poor brute still sags in the middle when I get astride him. That’s why Margaret’s got her own nag. Not fair to any animal to put me on him and then add someone else.”

Father Bernard smiled, but Margaret said seriously, “Oh, Nicholas. We shouldn’t make jokes, surely.”

Richard, however, easing his shoulder under the weight of the coffin, said, “Oh, my father liked a laugh as much as any man and he wouldn’t grudge it to us now. Are we all ready? Then let’s start.”

The bearers carried George ceremonially through the front door—the hinges, as usual, had had to be oiled to make sure it would open—and took the downhill path into the combe. They trod with care. The sun was out now, but the ground was soft from last night’s rain.

The voice of the Allerbrook came up to them as they went. It was a swift, brown-tinged peat stream which rose in a bog at the top of the long, smooth moorland ridge above and the rain had swollen it. Some feet above the water, the track turned to parallel the river’s course down to Clicket. The trees met overhead and the light on the path was a confusing mixture of greenish shade and dazzling interruptions where the sun shone through. There was no other track to the village. The combe was thickly grown with trees and tangled undergrowth and on the far side, the few paths did not lead to Clicket. The track was wide but in places it was also steep, and in any case the coffin lurched somewhat because Higg and Roger were among the first team of bearers at their own insistence, and Higg’s broad shoulders were four inches higher than Roger’s bent ones.