Sell-sword summer, 1Horse Play

Welcome to another Felicia book being prepared for publication; it's another braided covering the summer after their return from Italy and foreshadows future events. 

1 Horse Play

            The only topic of conversation in the village was the impending Easter races.

            We had been away from Monkshithe for six long months, longer than we had stayed there to settle its problems.  Not unnaturally we were concerned that what we had started might have fallen apart a little; especially as we had already encountered a small problem that one of our tenants had not taken to our steward.

            Mind you, John Belwether was a stubborn old fool at the best of times and would not take any problem to any man, nor probably mentioned in his prayers to God either. In any normal village so relatively wealthy a man would also hold public office as churchwarden at least; but John was interested in John’s affairs and no other and cared not a jot for any rough music the other villagers might enact upon him as reproof.

            But it did make us wonder if there were any other problems unrevealed to James.

            We could not have been more wrong.

            James Sykes sober was a very different man to the dispirited bailiff we had found; and as Steward with purpose in life and the Michaelmas rents and extra monies entrusted to him to make such improvements as he saw fit, he was a most excellent manager.  With Vivian Brewis to help him, and that rogue’s own brand of pragmatic good sense, he did a fine job, even though Vivian had been something of a shadow of himself the last two months after his wife died birthing a stillborn daughter.

            We rode all about the neighbourhood to remind people who we were, and to see if they had any needs; and the difference in the cheerful greetings as compared to the sullen hopelessness we had found last year was most encouraging.

            We would hope that Pernel would be strong enough now to remain in England for the next winter; or if not, that she have the confidence to travel abroad just with a group of servants to care for her.

            There had been a few shakedowns of course; we learned that Kistur had fought both Fidel and Oliver when they arrived in company with Crispin and Fanny; for Kistur held something of a torch for Pernel and was like to fight any other boy who might be either a more favoured companion or one who in any way should disparage her.

            In the meantime, Easter was upon us and all its attendant customs and celebrations.  We had perforce to spend last Easter in France, and were determined to enjoy this Holy time of year properly at home; and such would also help to make this new house more of a home.

            We helped decorate the church with such substitute palms for Palm Sunday as we might find, which were chiefly withies from the riverbank; then we finished off the garments we had been sewing, the girls, Fanny, Connie, Rosa and me, for gifting on Maundy Thursday.  We had made a selection of garments for the poorest, especially children who are hard on clothes and grow out of them so fast.  Besides, it was nice for the little girls to sew for other children.  We also made comfortable nightgowns for the inmates of the hospice, and took ancient Brother Hugh a bottle of mead to toast his aspirations of reaching his hundredth year.

            He was in one of his lucid moments, and entertained us with Church scandals over the last eighty years since he had entered his novitiate just turned fourteen.

            After a couple of glasses of mead he even sang us the words he and his fellow novices in Norwich had put to some of the sacred songs.

            I rarely heard smuttier lyrics; and Robin and I laughed heartily, for young boys do such things with no thought of heresy or blasphemy, especially when – as Brother Hugh explained – they learned the Latin words by rote and had no idea of any meaning attached to them.

            We gave out Maundy money as well of course; but I had ever liked to be involved with personal gifting that had more worth to it than the easy task of passing out coin.

            On Good Friday we took part in Creeping to the Cross, and it seemed that we caused great surprise in turning out to walk barefoot the mile to the church.

            “Bit o’ a change on Sir Lawrence,” remarked Edwin Attwood, with his inevitable spit to end the comment.  “Him wass walked three steps on his knees jus’ as far as his own chapel.,”

            The more I learned about Sir Lawrence, the more I thought that he really did have everything coming to him.

            If only for not taking any notice of the abductions of young village girls.  He ignored it for twenty years; we cleared the whole thing up in a matter of weeks.

            The ruined Saxon church which had been used for such ungodly purposes we decided to dismantle; its tower stood over the crypt as a reminder to bereaved parents of their daughters’ sufferings, though we had filled the crypt in.  We were robbing out the stone to build, we thought appropriately, a schoolhouse, with a room for petties from the village, who would be required to do three mornings schooling every week to the age of seven; as well as permitted more an their parents wished it.  There was also a room for starting scholars and a third for advanced work, and we might add others as seemed appropriate.

            Crispin was also building a house for himself and Fanny adjoining the schoolhouse, and had hired a brickmaker and his boy to dig the local clay to eke out the stone.  Robin had offered him land across the river towards Hobbeshithe St Stephen, an Fanny wanted a totally separate establishment; but Crispin demurred.

            “We want some good privacy, Rob, but we are happy still to be a part of your household to the extent of joining you for most meals,” he said “It is for the good company as well as the excellent board you keep.,”

            Robin laughed.

            “If you are sure….we’d not want to put a cramp upon your marriage by having you too close,” he said.

            “Fan likes to be around Felicia as I like to be around you,” said Crispin simply. “But we want our own chambers where too I may say that I am not at home to pupils.,”

            That was sensible.  And sensible too that they should have their own house to love or quarrel in privacy.

            It they wished a quiet, intimate meal, Fanny’s maid Lucia could prepare such for them; or they might come to us for lively discourse.

            Besides, I felt certain that Fanny was breeding by now; and they would want somewhere to enjoy any sisters or brothers to Sylvia.

            Easter Sunday dawned gloriously clear after a rainy night; a most excellent omen – though some do say that a rainy Easter brings a good harvest.  I fear that to many of the Parish the omen was largely one of good racing at Beccles after Mass.

            We were to attend the races too, and Adam was keen to enter Bucephalous against the wider field of competition than he had found at Bungay.  Kistur had begged permission to ride Sir Lawrence’s courser, Star; he and Adam had already held an informal race or two since our return.  We happily gave him leave.

            In the language of the Rom, Egyptians as they are called here, for some obscure reason, Kistur means ‘rider’.

            I’d back that boy on the back of a hog against most on a courser.

            Adam would have to work hard to come close to him in a flat race, though Bucephalous loved a run cross country with plenty of obstacles.

            The Easter service was very uplifting.  Father Philip Woodhill had a better rapport with his people than poor refined, erudite Father Stackhouse in Lavenham.

            Father Philip’s family came from around these parts, which helped.

            We had prepared a feast for our people, of course; and made sure that it was all easily packable into baskets, pasties and pies and cold meats, mostly fowl; for Easter Sunday ended Lent. With such foods any who liked might fill baskets and travel to Beccles to get a goodly place to watch the races.

            As the entire village seemed set to do this, we shrugged and joined them with our own basket.

            Why preside over a virtually empty table?

            James Sykes did not wish to attend the races, and would keep an eye on any rowdier tenants that remained yet in the village.

            As most of the rowdier elements were going with us, he would only have to break up fights between such old codgers bent with eld that got bellicose in their cups.  James should have a nice quiet afternoon of it.

            We rode in company with many of the villagers, with the whole procession making a festive atmosphere; and we took along the sumpter ponies to carry the smallest village children in pack panniers whilst their larger siblings rode.  Oliver Grewel the miller loaned his cart and his horse to pull it, for the comfort of the elderly; he had a beast that was one of these new bred sturdy creatures out of French stock and destriers that they call a Punch.  Huelin Carpenter and Mhathan Smith each produced mule carts, so none need stay for reason of infirmity.

            Our mule, Jester, was unreliable with a cart, though Connie was working patiently to break him to it.  This day however she was riding him – in preference to a horse – with Vivian Brewis and small Amadeo.

            I had ordered Vivian to go to the races to help him start to put his life back together, by spending time with his infant son.

            Besides, there was bound to be some skulduggery at a race meeting that would attract his attention and cherk up his interest past his despondency.

            Kistur and Adam had ridden their mounts on before the rest of us got going, that they then have time to rest them.  Robin and I chose to exercise Nightfire and Shadow, who had been in the stables when we moved here; though of preference I rode Bronte that came from Kent, from the Blean.  I had however put Bronte at the disposal of Silas Hunter, for his damaged knee, and he took old Walter the bee keeper up with him, as a rare treat for the old man.  Walter had not been to the races in years and was quite cackling with joy.

            Robin took Sebastian up with him; and I took Tibby to act as my maid and her Peterkin.  Rosa had elected to stay at home with babies.         Pernel took her maid Viola up with her on the palfrey Dancer; and Emma had Tamsin with her on placid and overweight Griselda.

            Jerid, Oliver and Fidel must run along with the village boys; and it would do the Italian boys no harm to get to know the boys of the village, such as Josse Carpenter, who was a crony of Adam. I was proud that Jerid felt now quite bold to mix in with the other boys; but of course, they were used to his dark skin now and thought it not strange any more.

            Pernel would, I wager, have liked to have run along with the boys too, as Fanchon Tailor did; but we must ever still be careful of her health.  As the rain had laid any dust there was, I nodded when she gave me a pleading look; that she might join her friends for some of the way at least, and give rides to others on Dancer.

            Once in Beccles and on the Common where the races were held, we caught up with Adam; he was being very much the young Lord of the Manor, in charge of Simkin Caston and his sister Maud, whose kitten face went well with the correct way that she pronounced her name to rhyme with ‘cloud’ not with ‘sword’ as many start to pronounce it these days.  They all looked dishevelled, but victorious.

            Simkin had been picking pockets – nothing new there – for the pickings being better here than in his native Bungay; and a wealthy youth and his friends had been about to take him up for it. Fortunately for Simkin, he had spied Adam and recognised him from our stay in Bungay; and appealed to him for aid.

            The leader of the youths had, Adam explained, a cruel mouth and nasty eyes and reminded Adam of Robert Belvoir of evil memory; so he promptly picked Simkin’s pockets and deposited all his ill gotten gains on this fellow, Nicol Hartley.  Adam used his fine clothes and air of address to suggest to Hartley’s companions that their friend made game of them; and they, not being used to encountering young lordlings who wore silk with so insouciant an air had wavered long enough for Adam to demand that Hartley turn out his purse.  It had saved Simkin from the justices, but the bully and his cronies were still spoiling for a fight.

            “So we gave them one,” said Adam, cheerfully.

            He, Kistur, Simkin and Maud Caston had routed five older boys quite successfully; and Reeve Greengrasse had seen the older ones ‘menacing Milord Adam’ and had sent them on their way with thick ears to add to their other lumps.

            Adam liked Simkin well enough, but was alive to the likelihood that he was born to be hanged; and was extolling to the boy the virtues and greater profits of being an intelligencer over being but a thief.

            Simkin was listening with interest.

            That’s a very good boy we had there.

            We had been afraid to educate Simkin lest he enter the church and steal half of Christendom.

            The usual villains were at the races of course.  There was Lowis Moyse with his cheap finery and ready, ingratiating smile, that was wiped off when he saw me, remembering my little knife; there was Thomas Catling and his dice, who gave us a sour look and slipped away quickly; and Master Anthony Pigeon with his air of aplomb and a new henchman; who was none other than another Pigeon, Adam of that name, one time steward of Monkshithe and proven thief. Whether they were in any wise related or the shared surname was a coincidence I could not guess; but it seemed that Adam Pigeon had found his level.  Both scowled in our general direction. They looked quite alike.

            Coney catchers do not like to find that their coneys are foxes, as Anthony had; and we had deprived Adam Pigeon of a comfortable and lazy living off our tenants. He was still wearing clothes that I wager he had taken from Sir Lawrence’s wardrobe though, a fine broadcloth robe of dark, probably Alessandrino, blue, guarded with squirrel fur. I looked at it pointedly.

            They too hastily made themselves scarce.

            I spoke rapidly to Vivian to keep an eye on them.  He had not seen our previous steward before; and it were well that he knew that the fellow had teamed up with a known gambler of dubious methods.

            Peter Rumyelow came over to greet us, and bowed unhappily.

            “My Lady Felicia, I have heard of the monstrous plot my sister was involved in with Marjorie – I am so sorry!,” he declared.

            I shrugged.

            “Such is not your fault, Peter.  I blame Marjorie; and I suspect too that your sister’s spite came all or most from that evil woman’s quiet training long ere you placed her in Flixton Priory.  What happened to Richenda?,”

            Peter shrugged.

            “She was not indicted for heresy with Marjorie; she is but one of the nuns under a new Mother Superior.  She wants to get out of taking her vows when her novitiate be up, but an she will not remain, she will be on her own for she is no more kin to me.,”

            Harsh; but she had already got him into trouble, and would have landed him with an almost un-payable debt, had Robin and my grandsire chosen to demand the full price of the painting she had tried to destroy.  I nodded my sympathetic understanding.

            “Warn me an she leaves,” I said. “I have no desire to wake up to find her firing my house after the manner of her mentor.,”

            He looked aghast.

            “Think you she might? Dear God, what ought I to do?,”

            “If I were you,” said Robin “I’d tell the new Prioress that you placed her in a priory in preference to Bedlam, for her insane rages.  Tell her of the incident at Curtney Hall. She’ll soon display her temper to back up your words, for her temper truly is insane, methinks.,”

            Peter nodded.

            “A wise idea,” he said “I shall be glad to act on your suggestion, Sir Robert.,”

            Walter Danforth was there too, and he had taken his intense, hawkish visage to start altercation over Kistur, claiming that the boy rode a stolen horse, for he recognised it.

            Star was very similar to Danforth’s own courser.

            I sauntered over.

            “I pray you, Master Danforth, dost count it theft when a dead man’s property is awarded elsewhere?,” I said sweetly.

            “You!,” he said without any signs of pleasure.  “What do you know of this horse then – and that Gyppo boy?,”

            “Half Gyppo,” I corrected. “His father is a good Beccles merchant, well known and respected; and quite like to knock you down for miscalling his natural son.  Kistur here is placed as page to mine husband in training to be his sire’s steward; and rides mine husband’s horse that used once to belong to Sir Lawrence Stoke of Monkshithe.  It is of the same siring as your good beast, methinks?,”

            Danforth cooled down and sniffed.  From him it was half an apology.

            “Well….whatever else, I know you to be fair and honest.  Are those other Gyppos in your pay?,”

            I looked where he indicated and laughed.

            “My nephew Jerid whom we have as our ward is of blackamoor stock like me; and is also mine husband’s apprentice.  Fidel is Italian, and tanned dark from warmer suns than grey England, and is an artist’s child that hath also apprenticeship with Robin.  Oliver is another apprentice, tanned as dark, but blonde from his Viking father. Art too ready to let your prejudices hang out, and your unreasoning bitterness.,”

            “Perchance I have reason for my prejudices; and as for my bitterness, well why not? Do I not feel embittered by the execution of Sir Lawrence, a good Yorkist?,”

            “He was a bad Yorkist, Squire Danforth.  Apart from failing in his duty to his land and people, which a gentleman such as yourself must understand, he also made a most serious error of judgement,” I said.

            “What was that?,”

            “He backed a loser.  He threw in his lot with a treasonous group who were very fools.,”

            “How can you call them treasonous? Henry Tudor stole the crown!,” he shouted in a prudent whisper.

            “And history is written by those who win.  This country needs no more wars, especially civil wars which are anything but civil.  Besides, all the information in the letters the fool wrote point to Sir Lawrence being more interested in the pay for his support than in the cause.  In my mind a good Yorkist is one who sees to the welfare of his dependants and proves himself as a good lord to them, not one who throws away their lives and wastes their rents on dubious and generally spurious claimants.  Kings come and go; a man takes his feudal duty from God, the King that never faileth any man.,”

            He gave me one of his curious, half-admiring half grudging looks.

            “You are a de Curtney for sure,” he said.

            I laughed.

            “Yes, but I do have some good points too,” I said.

            Danforth grudgingly joined my laughter.

            He took my points; for he was a gentleman, for all that he had some dubious friends.

            After all, we too had some rather dubious friends.

            And one of them had sidled up to Danforth and was about to pick his pouch.

            I whacked Simkin across the wrist ere he could get his foist’s hand into the pouch.

            “Go thou and steal from Master Anthony or Adam Pigeon or some other dishonest rogue, thou imp of Satan,” I admonished. “Master Danforth is a neighbour of my grandsire and only occasionally in quarrel with him.  Or shalt steal from the Broccs; canst steal all you like from them and my blessing upon you.,”

            He grinned unrepentantly and ran off to make good my suggestion.

            “You can tame the Castons?,” Danforth raised an eyebrow.

            “They respect a firm hand,” I said “And one who is no fool and wise to all their tricks.,”

            Simkin, I noticed, was busy signing to other pickpockets and thieves to leave Master Danforth alone; this sign language is a development of the cant of the underworld that is developing into a regular language.  Several ruffians appeared not to take any notice of Simkin’s warnings; indeed they seemed to have little understanding of his signals and I wondered if they were but amateur crooks.  They were eying Walter Danforth thoughtfully as though they had designs upon him.  Which being so they would be disappointed, for he dressed better than his means from old made over garments.  I had seen some of them before; they had been with the rider of one of the other horses that was entered to race.

            Well, Master Danforth was big enough to take care of himself, him and his man.

            It was a colourful spectacle on Beccles Common, with all the horses shining and well curried for the occasion, and seemingly everyone for miles around gathered to see them.

            There must have been hundreds of people there, all talking at once, and vendors crying their wares.  The noise was incredible.

            Simkin was not the only pickpocket we saw; but we are used to such tricks, and –lest he had not warned them to stay clear of us too – we carried our purses within our clothing on such occasions as this, within our shifts or shirts hung about our necks.

            A dummy purse which contained but a slip of paper and a drawing of a rude face let any pickpocket know we were wise to them.

            There were flags and buntings brightly dyed, flapping in the faint breeze and causing nervous horses to snort and shy at them; and everyone wore their best and brightest clothes.

            We wore sufficient finery to make our people proud of us, and that was hard wearing enough for the muddy ride to Beccles.  I was in my shot orange and black all silk taffeta that looked a russet tawny but changed colour as I moved; which was also cool in the hotter part of the day.  The black and silver grey embroidery upon it made it even finer. I wore it over my black silk petticoat.

            I had not fancied the dirt of the road getting on my pink and cream brocade.  The taffeta launders fairly well, with care, and better than my other russet taffeta which had gold thread and beads upon it. Laundering brocade involves soaking it overnight in warm white wine vinegar – or white wine if you are feeling extravagant.  And pale colours show the dirt so much anyway.  Russet is a much more practical colour then cream.

            The horses were called to line up; and after having studied the ground we made our wagers.

            It was like, I thought, to favour Star, especially since Kistur had exercised him all winter and knew all his foibles.  Accordingly I laid wager on Star to win, and Bucephalous to place; and under due consideration I also laid wager on Master Danforth’s horse to place too.  Which was when I noticed that Danforth was not at the line up.

            I turned quickly to Robin.

            “Delay the race,” I said. “Rafe, with me!,”

            Robin strolled off, all officiousness and idiotically aristocratic looking.  He did it so well.

            I knew where I had last seen Walter Danforth; and I crooked a finger at Simkin and Maud Caston.

            They ran up readily, hoping for largesse.

            “A groat for each of you an you might find Master Danforth,” I said.

            They grinned and ran off.

            “But you don’t like him, Mistress Felicia,” said Rafe, mystified.

            “Nay; but I’d not want anything to happen to him,” I replied. “My dislike of him is not so hot as my loathing of Gervase Brocc whom I might wish to perdition.  The fellow riding the big powerful roan was watching Danforth earlier, and so too were some villainous looking fellows whom I wager Master Roan Rider knew.  Call it a nasty suspicious mind if you like….,”

            Rafe chuckled.

            “’Tis the best kind of mind to have for an inquisitor, methinks,” he said.

            Maud and Simkin quickly reappeared, and grabbed me by a hand each.

            Their little paws were loathsomely grubby; but I did not say a thing, for there was an urgency in their actions as they dragged me off.

            Master Danforth was being scientifically beaten by the same toughs I had earlier seen watching him.  A broken set of dice lay on the ground; and lead had spilled out to show that they were ‘highs’.

            Walter Danforth was no such fool as to cheat; and besides, these dice were clumsy, not the fine ivory ones he was accustomed to using.

            Besides, Master Catling was in company of the attackers; and I knew him for a cheat and an exponent of the art of legerdemain.

            We waded in, of course.

            Simkin and Maud did their bit, kicking men in the ankles from behind, and Maud kicked a good one up between the legs of one ruffian that was bent over Walter.  She was wearing wooden pattens so that was a doughty blow.

            Rafe was a good man in a fight any day of the week; and I picked up a stool and wielded it to good effect.

            We drove them off quite successfully; though I will say they were no common ruffians and knew what they were about.  Had we not taken them by surprise, and moreover knew a few tricks they did not that Robin learned from Venetian sailors we had been in for a bad time.  As it was they saw we meant business and those who were conscious withdrew the field hastily.

            Master Catling was long gone.

            Walter Danforth groaned.

            He had a lump the size of a pigeon’s egg on his head, and a split lip; and his right arm hung limp.

            “Bad dice,” he said vaguely, trying to focus his gaze on my face “Switched…pretext…BLAST!,” he added and passed out.

            “Maud,” I said “Run to Pernel and tell her she shall ride Master Danforth’s courser.  Bet on it to place an you like, she’s good enough.  Where is his man through all this?,”

            “Here,” said Simkin as Maud hared off.

            His man it seemed was already unconscious; and he had been hit a judicious blow across the back of the head to stop him going to his master’s aid.  The horse was unguarded.

            Rafe gave it the once over to check it was unharmed; and declared that no ill had been done to it.

            “A maid to ride? That will not please Master Mysogenist Danforth,” he chuckled, tossing Pernel up as she arrived at the run hand in hand with Maud.

            “’Twill please him less if that fellow on the roan gets away with it.  Say she is his Goddaughter if any ask,” I said.

            Rafe grinned and led her to the start while I physicked Master Danforth and his man.  Maud squatted, watching and learning from me while Simkin ran off with two groats to bet where he would.

            “Gyppos put cobwebs on wounds,” she said. “It seem to work.,”

            “Possibly it is to stop excessive bleeding,” I said dubiously. “Comfrey works better; and there is plenty of that in this ditch here.,”

            Fortunately there was a brazier nearby that interested onlookers were cooking their meal upon, and they had left it burning. I borrowed their pot to boil up some comfrey leaves while I macerated other leaves just to bathe wounds.

            His man I might only make comfortable and bathe the wound, and lay him on his side that he not drown in vomit an he cast up his accounts; and likewise for Danforth’s head wound.  Fortunately he stayed unconscious for most of the time I was setting his broken arm; I had Maud hold firmly down on his shoulder and elbow with all her weight while I pulled and twisted the forearm back to the shape it should be.  He screamed once as I twisted.

            “I am most sorry, Walter, but ‘tis a bad break.  ‘Twil heal well enough if you keep it strapped as I shall do,” I said. “I am sorry, I had to cut your sleeve; I cut the stitching that you may have it repaired easily.,”

            “So you’ve not forgotten how it is to be poor,” he said harshly through gritted teeth “Thanks, child,” he added as Maud held a tankard for him to drink.  I think she had stolen it from the family whose brazier I was using.

            “I will never forget that, Master Danforth,” I said “Nor will I forget to count all monies twice ere I spend them. I am an excellent manager.  Maud, pour off the water of the comfrey and let us cool it ere I use it to strap Master Danforth’s arm; an you recall your Pliny, the paste hardens to help to hold a wound immobile, which I have seen work for myself helping to treat football injuries,” I said serenely.

            “Damn, I should have married you when I had the chance, you shrew,” he said, still speaking through clenched teeth against the pain.

            “You never did have the chance,” I retorted. “I’d picked my Robin when I was younger than Maud here.  Regardless of my grandsire’s machinations,” I applied the mess of comfrey paste; it was not so good an had it boiled longer but it would help, especially with linen strips to hold it torn from the shirt of one of the villains I had brained with my stool. “Did you want to see the end of the race?,” I asked him. “Your man will be all right, though his head will be sore for days, and I laid him on his side that he not drown in puke.,”

            “What’s the point?,” he said hopelessly. “I’ve lost everything.  I put all I had on myself to place, once I saw that damned grey of yours.,”

            “Your horse is being ridden for you, Master Danforth,” I said. “My husband delayed the start, seeing you missing and fearing some chicanery.,”

            He gave me one of those queer sideways looks of his.

            “Damned if I can make you out.,” He said. He had a better colour since I had set and immobilised his arm.

            “Damned if I’ll let some fancy stranger on a roan have his bullies ruin my neighbour,” I said. “I might not go so far for Gervase Brocc, who has even less manners than you; but then, he’s no gentleman, whatever arms his father may have purchased for his squirey.,”

            I helped him up, with Maud on the other side.

            “Had you been a lad I should have been glad to call you friend,” he said.

            “It need not stop you,” I said tartly. “And had I been a lad, I had been very wary of the company you keep.,”

            “Damn, woman, I keep low company for the reason you yourself said – to keep my demesne running,” he said. “My father paid heavy attainder, and I must repair the cottages somehow.,”

            “I respect you for that, Squire Danforth,” I said. “I pray that your horse be placed.  It has every good reason, for the rider is a natural in the saddle and rides light too.,”

            He blinked.

            “Not your blackamoor nephew?,”

            “Nay. My stepdaughter Pernel.,”

            He gaped; and I grinned.

            “She nearly had a fight with Kistur because he asked first to ride Star,” I said. “She’s overjoyed.,”

            “Huh,” he said.

            He had no good opinion of women to speak of; though he’s had to revise his opinion of me several times.

            “Lady Pernel be a main good fighter,” volunteered Maud “Ar, and her roide loike a demon outa hell! I seen her huntin’ with Sir Godfrey, up front o’ all the field!,”

            “Huh,” said Danforth again; but with less conviction.

            Anyone that can keep up with my grandsire on the hunting field when he was after venison is worthy of respect.

            I do not even try.

            Kistur and Star romped in lengths ahead of the rest of the field.

            How that boy could ride.

            Pernel and Adam were enjoying their own sibling rivalry, as well as battling it out against the roan.  It was a big, strong horse with a slight enough rider; he knew all the tricks, including dirty ones!

            Adam had to swerve Bucephalous to avoid his mount getting a face full of some powder the fellow threw; and I saw him kick out at Pernel.

            Pernel had had worse from her birth father when Richard Fosser was drunk; and swayed easily out of the way.  She changed foot on Danforth’s horse with consummate skill that even brought a whistle of appreciation to Danforth’s lips; and passed neatly in front of the roan that it must needs slow up or stumble; and wrong-footed, lost ground.  Then she and Adam were ahead.

            They passed the line in a thunder of hooves neck and neck.

            “That girl can surely ride!,” breathed Danforth. “Is she betrothed yet?,”

            He was at least half serious.

            “She is but ten years old and she’ll choose her own when she’s old enough,” I said tartly. “And I’ll probably advise her against you.  But feel free to try and woo her; she don’t lack for sense.,” I grinned.  “And now the question is how to pay back that fellow who thought you the best threat that he must needs take you out of the race.,”

            He stared.

            I shrugged.

            “You wouldst have him get away with it?,” I asked.

            He shook his head and his reddish locks danced like angry flames.

            “No, I would not; but you already put me in your debt,” he said.

            “Moonshine and fiddlesticks!,” I said. “Art a neighbour.  Maud, another groat each to you and Simkin to find out all you may about these bullies we beat so thoroughly.,”

            She grinned and slipped off.

            It was remarkably profitable, she had found, working for king’s agents.  She and Simkin had each earned as much as a Master Shipwright earns in a day an she found out what I wanted to know.

            And worth every penny to me.           

            I might just steal Maud Caston to work for me.

            We went to congratulate the riders.

            Kistur was as proud as proud, especially as his father, Henry Costyn, was there to congratulate him too. Henry was busy telling all and sundry that this was his son, and he was proud of him; and that such suited not a Master Hartley, father of the same Nicol the boys had previously had trouble with seemed to please Henry rather than dismay him.

            I gathered that they were business rivals.

            The rider of the roan started to raise a fuss.

            “That boy is a Tzigane – and Egyptian for sure!,” he shouted. “And begorrah, ‘tis stolen that horse is that he rides, and I’ve heard another suggest the same, a Master Danforth, who is not, it seems, riding…,”

            “And why might that be?,” called Danforth “’Tis because….,” I stood on his foot.

            “Circumspect for now,” I murmured to him.

            He grunted.

            “….because someone picked a fight with me on finding some false pretext!,” he said.

            “Good man,” I approved.

            “It must surely have been other Gyppos!,” hollered the roan’s rider.

            He had every stamp of the condottiere about him; all the arrogant swagger of the sellsword.

            “Got too dangerous in Tuscany did it, with the King of Spain out after King Louis?,” I said cynically in Italian.

            He jumped, and stared at me, and gave a nervous laugh.

            “I’m sorry, I don’t speak Gyppo,” he sneered.

            Several people hit him at once.

            Slight as he was, most of them only came up to his shoulder.

            The blow he went down under came from my husband.

            Reeve Greengrasse bustled up.

            “Sir Robert, I be main sorry!,” he said.

            “Lock him up for making malicious accusation,” I said. “We’ve not heard the last of him, but slander is a good charge to start on.,”

            “Ar!,” squeaked Maud, wriggling through the crowd. “Them ruffians be sowjers for hire wass come with un, ar and they picked acquaintance with Tom Catling, thass the biggest cheat unhung, and what hate Master Danforth account o’ Master Danforth floor un when Tom did try tu use bristle dice on him.  And moi brother be follerin’ them.,” She added.

            “You two are invaluable,” I said, paying my debt. “Reeve Greengrasse, I beg you have men to take in charge these free-lances, that I myself saw beating upon Master Danforth and his man, after Tom Catling palmed false dice.  I did not see him palm the dice, I arrived later, but I know his methods and I also know that the dice in question were not Master  Danforth’s dice, which are ivory with red pips.”

            “Ar, thass roight,” I received corroboration from the unlikely quarter of Lowis Moyse. “I seen Tom Catling try to cheat Master Danforth. And now Tom du hev a good long purse, for everyone know he be fer hire tu whoever pay the most,” he smiled at me ingratiatingly.  I managed not to shudder.

            He was one of Danforth’s less salubrious intimates; and at least loyal enough to speak up.

            “Be plain enough to me,” said Reeve Greengrasse. “Here, Maudie, you show me where yore brother du be.,”

            He beckoned some men to go with him.

            They would get off with a fine, of course.

            But I should make a sketch of this condottiere, and Vivian Brewis would pass word around about his activities, to Bungay and down as far as Sudbury and Ipswich.

            He would not find it so easy to pull the same trick twice.

            I might even write to Master Alan Deverill in Essex, and suggest caution to him and his friends that doubtless liked to race.

            He had mostly forgiven me for not wanting to marry him and for insulting his beard, methinks.

We found out later that the sell-sword on the roan had entered the races as Rowle Kennedy; which surname accounted for the traces of Irish accent and idiom.  We should have to keep an eye out for him when he got free of Master Greengrasse’s custody, for the look he gave us all was quite filthy.

            We appeared through this to have made a cautious friend of Walter Danforth.

            He was a complex man with many faults; but he had the soul of a gentleman somewhere within his somewhat tarnished exterior, and he was at least prepared to half acknowledge when he had been wrong.

            I should suggest to him that we might share stock for breeding that we all profit from the training and sale of good horses.

            He liked horses more than men; and had told me so.  And I could see why.

            He had a sense of honour withal, that may be set to his favour against many irritating flaws.

New Year bonus, short Chauvelin story

Happy new year!

 Chapter 1

“Oh  I am glad to be coming home here at last,” said Peter, as ‘Chalky’ White drove their carriage up the drive to the property in Essex. George, their adopted son, was driving the phaeton, and much awed to be permitted to do so. White would take both carriages round, and would bring their luggage to the door to be brought in by Paulson, who was, with his wife, caretaker of the property. Old Petronilla Holt, after whom Peter was officially named, had specified that her old butler and housekeeper were to have been taken care of.

“I’m not sure many of the repairs you sent money for have been undertaken, ma mie,” said Armand Chauvelin, Peter’s husband, looking over the brick-built Tudor manor  which had scaffolding up with a jaundiced eye.

“No, and I will be having words with Paulson about that,” said Peter, taking the steps as lithely as a pregnant woman, who had started to bloom rather, might do.

The bell jangled in the depths of the house.

“Loud enough to awaken the dead in case Paulson and Mrs. Paulson are revenants,” giggled Peter.

The door opened.

“There ain’t nobody in residence,” said the man answering the door and started to shut it.

Peter moved fast enough to be in the doorway.

“Oh yes there is, Paulson,” she said.

“There ain’t, there ain’t, how did you know my name?” cried the man, who was in late middle age and looked harried.

“Paulson, I am in residence, and I employ you. Have you been drinking?” demanded Peter. “My husband and my stepchildren will be living here from now on.”

“Oh it ain’t fit for you, you’ll have to go away,” gabbled Paulson.

“Have you been stealing the money I sent to put the place right? Or are you accusing my lawyer of so doing?” demanded Peter.

There was a startled yelp in Chalky’s voice and a scream in the voice of Peter’s maid, Lucille, from the back of the house and Peter pushed passed Paulson and exploded through the door to the servants’ domain.

“Oh gawd, missus, you’ve done it now,” wailed Paulson as Armand, George, Georgine and Amelie followed, along with Rateau, their large, hairy dog.

The scene which met Peter’s eye was of several rough looking men, several of whom had seized Chalky and Lucille. On the kitchen table a young man with an obvious bullet wound in his shoulder who was having the wound washed with vinegar by a middle aged woman.

“The devil!” said Peter.”Don’t we have any brandy in the house to do that, Mrs. Paulson? There’s no point being cheapskate about bullet wounds you know.  Did you get the ball out? I have tweezers.”

There was the sound of hysterical laughter from a young woman in a maid’s dress.

“Oh, yes, misssus, we got plenty o’ brandy,” she said. She was crying.

“Well don’t just stand there, go and get a bottle,” said Peter.  “Here, lad, I’ll have that ball out in a trice; two of you men hold him still, it’s going to hurt.”

There was a sudden laugh.

“Eh bien  I know zat voice, Madame la Vicomte.”

“Parbleu!” said George. “It is our friend, the captain of the ‘Sirène’, or is it ‘Naiad’ in English waters?”

“‘Naiad’ she is, m’sieur. We can trust zese people,”  he said to his fellows. “The vicomte is either ze red ... bah, I do not know ze English ... or his friend.”

“Scarlet Pimpernel is what you are looking for, and I am his friend,” said Armand. “I collect you are smugglers and one of your number is wounded.”

“He’s my son, Andrew, sir,” said Mrs. Paulson, wringing her hands. “And the preventatives will be here any time now.”

“Peste!” said Peter. “Well let our man and my maid go. Most of you men, you are sailors, you can turn your hand to anything. You will be the repairmen I employed, and young Paulson was unfortunate enough to have been hit by a falling slate. Unless there is a blood trail?”

“No, Madame, we packed it well,” said the captain of the French vessel, whom Peter thought was named Louis.

“The ship, have you unloaded it?” asked Armand.

“Yes, M. Le Vicomte,” said Louis.

“Let’s not worry about my title while we work this out,” said Armand. “I ... I bought the ship as a tender for my friend’s ship.  You were delivering it for me. You know no English.  You might as well stay here, in that case, looking uncomfortable and in the way.”

“Yes, sir,” said Louis.

“The rest of you, up the scaffolding I saw, and get to work,” said Armand. “Andrew Paulson will do very well with my wife’s care. Paulson, when the brandy has done its job on your son, I will take a glass in whichever salon you think appropriate.”

“Of course, my lord,” said Paulson, much calmer now someone was taking charge. “I knows smuggling is a pernicious trade, but the lads round here have no work and no money.”

“We can discuss the merits of smuggling later; I never heard of any smuggling. I am an innocent landowner,” said Armand, firmly.

Peter poured brandy proffered to her by the maid into the wound and then into the young man’s mouth. He was about her age. She passed the brandy back to the maid.

“Are you his sweetheart?” she asked. The maid bobbed a curtsey.

“If you please, madam,  only if you doesn’t permit followers, I doesn’t know what to do.”

“I believe in love,” said Peter. “What is your name?”

“Mollie, madam,” said the girl.

“Well we shall have your man right in a brace of shakes,” said Peter, deftly extracting the ball, and going back into the hole for the wadding. She ignored the screams.  She laid out the paper wadding and checked it was an intact piece.

“Burn that and the bullet; it will melt in the stove,” said Peter. “And give me a sharp knife ... damn, we need more brandy.”

“I brought two,” said Mollie.

“Good girl! Soak the sharpest meat knife in brandy for me and hand it here, Louis, prends-toi une ardoise de toit, s’il vous plait.”

“Cuh, madam you don’t half gabble their lingo,” said Mollie, admiringly. “What did you say?”

“I sent him to get a slate from the roof,” said Peter. “We will break it artistically outside, and I will bloody it well from Andrew’s wound.  And now,” she said, “I am sorry to hurt you more, my lad, but a timely cut on your shoulder may stop you being put to bed with a hempen collar.” She slashed the knife into the boy’s shoulder, from the wound to the top of the shoulder.  “Mrs. Paulson, wash that immediately.” She gave the woman the knife.

“Yes’m,” said Mrs. Paulson. “Cuh, that du look loike ut might be from a falling slate!”

“Yes, and no surprise if his collar bone is broken, which I think it is,” said Peter. “Basilicum powder if you please, and then we’ll get him all bandaged up.”

“Yes’m,” said Mrs. Paulson. “I ain’t never had to deal with bullet wounds before.”

“Well I’ve patched up a few of the League of the Scarlet Pimpernel in my time,” said Peter.  “I’m fairly good at it. Certainly better than a lot of doctors,” she added.  “Clean linen, if you please.”

Armand sipped brandy, reflecting that the room might be shabby, but it was well cleaned. He heard a thunderous knocking and ringing at the door.

“Paulson, does he suspect you?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” said Paulson, ringing his hands.

“Well, no matter, you will have to answer the door,” said Armand.

“What should we do, Papa?” asked Georgine, in French.

“What you would expect to do in a nice, peaceful house when bad men barge in, as I suspect they will,” said Armand.

There were sounds of altercation, and Paulson shouting

“Here, you can’t go pushing in like this!” and Armand strolled into the vestibule. It was more of a medieval great hall than a vestibule, with black and white tiled floor, oak panelling and a gallery about it at the first floor.

“Egad!” said Armand. “Who are you and what are you doing in my house?”

“Your house, eh? Nobody lives here – seize him, men!” said the young officer.

A martial light flared briefly in Armand’s eye. He had intended to be kindly to the preventative officer, and fob him off gently. A man who would act so peremptorily was not, however, to be treated gently.

“Papa!” Amelie wailed, running out to attach herself to her adoptive father’s leg. Georgine followed, hanging on to Armand’s arm.

“What are they doing? Are they brigands?” cried George. Rateau, at his heels, growled. One of the men put up his musket to aim at the dog.

“By God, sirrah, if you shoot my dog, you will have to shoot me first,” said George, standing in front of Rateau. Armand was so proud of him for having finally got the precise intonation and accent of an English gentleman.  Peter came into the vestibule, and gave an artistic shriek, throwing herself into Armand’s arms and clutching her belly.

“If you cause my wife to miscarry, I’ll have you for murder, you scoundrel!” cried Armand. “You will not get away with bursting into my house like this, and pretending to be some kind of soldiers! Not that anyone would take such a motley crew as you as real soldiers, you would be a disgrace to any uniform! Now get out!”

“Sir ... have you then bought this house?” asked the officer.

“No! My wife inherited it and we have finally moved here,” said Armand.  “Her maiden name is Holt; not that it’s any of your business, you thieving scoundrel.”

“Sir, I am a preventative officer. I have my warrant ...”

“He is lying and is going for a pistol!” shrieked Peter, artistically. “Oh tell them not to point those horrid things at us; I am going to have a spasm!”

“Now see what you have done!” cried Armand. “If you are as you claim, you will send those men outside, and slowly show me your warrant.”

“Out!” snapped the preventative. The men lowered their muskets and left, and very slowly the preventative pulled out his warrant.  Armand read it. It named the officer as Lieutenant Dawlish.

“So! And what are you doing breaking into my house like this?”

“Sir, I have reason to believe the Paulsons’ son is engaged in smuggling, and has been shot by one of my men,” said Lieutenant Dawlish.

“Preposterous,” said Armand.

There was a crash and a shriek from the rear.

“Dear God, they are attacking our servants!” Cried Peter, abandoning Armand and running through.

“Sir! Sir, we have the miscreant, and he is wounded!” cried one.

He said no more as Lucille hit him over the head with a rolling pin.

Enlivened by this, Mollie kicked another in the shins, and Mrs. Paulson hit the third with a broom.

“I told you ruffians to get out of my house! Chalky, tie them up and we shall have them before the magistrate for assault!” Declared Peter.

“But they have caught a smuggler red-handed!” cried Dawlish, pointing at Andrew.

“He’s drunk,” said Mrs. Paulson.

“Plainly,” said Armand. “Here, Paulson, take a letter to the local magistrate, and tell him to take these villains into custody, attacking innocent people in their own homes.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Paulson.

“L ... lord?” Dawlish paled.

Armand shrugged.

“An old and probably obsolete emigré title,” he said. “Mind, my wife’s brother is an English viscount and I doubt he’s going to be happy.  Seizing on the unfortunate young Paulson just because he has had an accident!”

“But ... but we shot him,” said Dawlish.  “Down at the creek!”

“He is drunk,” said Peter.  “I see it all, they were drinking, and they decided that as your little tender for Sir Percy’s ‘Daydream’ had arrived, that plainly it must be used by smugglers, and shot into the reeds and convinced themselves they hit someone.”

“You cannot deny that young Paulson is wounded!” cried Dawlish.

“Of course not!” snapped Peter. “And I’ve been patching him up, poor boy, getting all the broken bits of slate out of the wound so it won’t fester.  And piecing them together until you disturbed me, to make sure they are all there.”

“I finished checking, madam, and I think there are none left,” said Mollie.  “Oooh there is a puddle of blood in the yard where it hit him.”

“It will scrub off,” said Peter. “And be careful not to cut yourself on shards of slate when you clean it up.”

“No, madam,” said Mollie, who was almost enjoying herself.

Andrew Paulson was sat in a chair, his wound on display and a bloody hand mark on his chest,  as the initial dressing had been torn off by the marine who had left the hand print. Fortunately the wound looked more like a wound from the corner of the bloody slate piece on the table than a bullet wound, thanks to Peter’s artistry.

Dawlish paled.

He knew about the ‘Daydream’; he had strict orders not to stop or hinder her. He knew that he did not need to know why.  Sir Percy was a friend of the Prince of Wales and that damned French smuggler was a tender to the ‘Daydream’?  his world was falling apart.

“I ... I apologise,” he said.

“Well that’s all very well, but how are you going to make amends to my wife, my children, and Paulson on whom your men have laid violent hands?” said Armand. “You villain, look at my infant daughter! You have terrified her beyond belief!” He picked up a sobbing Amelie, who was reliving her time in captivity in France, and had wet herself.  “If you were a man, sirrah, I would call you out!” said Armand, furiously. “As you are not, I will merely throw you out, and will consider whether it is worth my while to sue you to penury!” He passed Amelie to Peter.

Dawlish opened his mouth, but found himself taken by the collar by a wiry, but strong hand, and heaved up to walk on his toes to the door, where Armand undertook to kick him down the steps with all the high-handedness his late and unlamented brother might have employed.  Armand might be a good republican, but the fellow had scared Amelie all over again, just as the nightmares had mostly stopped.

Dawlish sprawled on the ground, and reflected that his career had just fallen apart.

He had been so sure they had winged the Paulson boy! What had gone wrong?

Armand went back to Amelie, who was clinging to Peter, sobbing.

“The bad man is gone, ma mie,” he said. “An Englishman’s home is his castle, and we are at home. I will not let anyone hurt you ever again.”

And he would do it all over again, regardless of his views on smuggling, and on hypocritical English aristos who accepted ‘run’ brandy, just to teach a high-handed and officious young fool a lesson about not assuming guilt, and about trying to terrorise innocents.

And who knows how much he had terrorised innocent children in the nearby village if he suspected members of their family of smuggling!

“Merci beaucoup, M. Le Vicomte,” said Louis.

“Just don’t get caught smuggling in what is supposed to be my vessel,” said Armand.  “I’ll give you a letter to carry, sealed with a certain flower, to say that you are acting according to the wishes of the League – but do not abuse it, and do not get careless.”

“I won’t,” promised Louis. “I am never careless. It was the English lads who were careless, and easier to flee with them to this house they use than to try to get past the revenue cutter. Parbleu! It is your house!”

“Yes, and I am hoping to find the English boys better employment.  Be circumspect if you use my outbuildings.”

“Certainly milord!”