The House Of Lanyon

CHAPTER THREE

THE BUSINESS OF MARRIAGE

Nicholas and Margaret Weaver’s home in the coastal village of Dunster had a characteristic smell, a mixture of oiliness and mustiness with a hint of the farmyard. It was the smell of sheep fleece, and it pervaded the whole house, even the bedchambers. Which was natural, for wool was their world.

Rents from sheep farmers accounted for much of the wealth of the Luttrell family, who lived in the castle overlooking the village. The spinning of yarn and the weaving of cloth were the main trades of the village, and the monks of Cleeve Abbey, a few miles to the east, close to a village called Washford, were industrious shepherds who brought their fleeces regularly to Dunster and did so much business there that they had a fulling mill at the western end of the village and a house of their own in North Street. The abbots of Cleeve spent nearly as much time in Dunster as they did in their monastery.

The Weaver family, who had taken their surname from their trade generations ago, were as prolific as the Lanyons were not. Nicholas, who had had some schooling and knew many well-travelled merchants, said that he had heard of people in far-off places who lived in communities known as tribes, which had usually grown from an original large family. His own cheerful, noisy, crowded family, he was wont to say, was almost a tribe.

It was a fair summing-up. They all knew how they were related to each other and they all, more or less, lived together, although sheer necessity had obliged them, eventually, to spread first of all into the house next door when the tenancy chanced to fall vacant, and later to rent the house opposite, as well.

By that time Nicholas’s cousin Laurence and his richly fertile wife, Elena, had a family of formidable dimensions and it was their branch of the tribe that moved across the road, where they took to carding and yarn spinning as distinct from the actual weaving. At one time, like many other families, the Weavers had bought yarn from other cottagers, who made their living by spinning. Until it occurred to Laurence that they had hands enough to do both jobs, whereupon he set his side of the family to creating yarn. Only the fulling and dyeing had to be contracted out. Otherwise, the family bought raw fleeces and did the rest themselves.

Under Nicholas’s roof, only Margaret now spun yarn. She had a knack for creating a thin, strong woollen thread which she sold, undyed, on market days, a small but useful addition to the household coffers.

Renting the third house was a wise move from every point of view. The various cousins, uncles and aunts who had been squeezed in with Nicholas and Margaret could now occupy the next-door premises. Meanwhile, as time went on, Laurence and Elena brought their family to ten, plus a daughter-in-law and three grandchildren. As yet, the youngsters were too small to be useful, but they would soon be big enough to learn to spin. They would also take up space. Laurence eased the congestion as best he could by building a workroom on to the back of his house. Nicholas likewise constructed a weaving shed to the rear of his. These additions made little difference, though. The Weavers remained much as they always had been: amiably argumentative—and crowded.

With so many mouths to feed and three rents to be paid, their prosperity had to be carefully nurtured. They grew vegetables and reared poultry in the long back gardens of the three houses and Nicholas now rented a meadow on a hillside at the seaward end of the village, where he kept not only his three ponies but also two cows. He had built a byre-cum-stable there as shelter for the animals and somewhere to store tack and winter fodder. Margaret was good at dairy work as well as spinning thread, and they had cheese and cream for everyone.

It was also a family custom to marry their daughters off early, taking their youthful appetites for food into other people’s households. Sometimes even surplus boys were exported. Nicholas and Margaret had two young sons and one of them, eventually, might have to leave home. “A good rose bush needs regular pruning” was the way Nicholas put it.

And the next one to be pruned, thought their daughter Liza, is going to be me.

From the moment her parents arrived home from George Lanyon’s funeral, she had sensed that something was in the air, though at first it wasn’t clear what the something was. The return of Nicholas and Margaret chanced to coincide with a busy time. New orders for cloth had come in, and there had been a problem at the Cleeve Abbey fulling mill, which the Dunster weavers used as well as the monks, to get their cloth cleaned with water and fuller’s earth before dyeing. A thunderstorm on the moors had sent quantities of peat down the Avill River and polluted the water supply. “It’s always happening. Nature wants us to dye all our cloth dark brown,” Nicholas grumbled. “We’ll have to send it somewhere else till the river clears. Can’t go delaying orders from new customers. That’s bad business.”

But concerned though the family had been with these matters, there had been something else on their minds. Twice Liza had walked into a room to find her parents talking to other family members, and the conversation had stopped short the moment she appeared. And she had noticed her parents glancing at her, pleasantly enough, but thoughtfully, too, as though they were wondering…

Wondering what? Liza could guess the answer to that. Indeed, she had been through all this before and was fairly sure that she recognised the symptoms. They had a marriage in mind for her and were asking themselves whether she would be pleased with it or not.

She had been expecting something like this. After all, she was the eldest daughter. She was twenty-three now and should have been wedded long ago. Three of her younger sisters were married and the little one, Jane, the infant of the family, was single only because she was as yet only seven years old. Liza had stayed unmarried so far because first one thing and then another had interfered with her parents’ plans. They had arranged a very good match for her when she was sixteen, but the young man inconsiderately died of a fever before the wedding day. Another proposal came in quite soon, but the prospective bridegroom, though well-off and good-natured enough, was nearly fifty. Liza objected and neither Nicholas nor Margaret were easy about the matter, either. The argument—put forward by Aunt Cecy, one of the older family members—that she would probably become a wealthy widow before long and could then please herself, failed to convince either Liza or her parents and the negotiations died away.

There had been others, too—a suitor who changed his mind and another whose parents changed it for him because they had found a better prospect. Time had gone on.

“And now,” said Margaret indignantly when at last the business problems had been overcome and the family had gathered together—without Liza—for a full-scale discussion of the proposal which she and Nicholas had brought back from Allerbrook, “and now there’s gossip. Folk have such vile minds.”

She broke off to cough, because during the summer they did not light the fire in the big main room and now, when autumn had set in and they needed warmth, the chimney was smoking. She had pulled her spinning wheel out of the way of possible smuts, but was still using it, important though this gathering was. The steady whirr formed a background to the business in hand.

“Liza’s a good wench,” she said when the coughing fit was over. “And we’ve said naught to her about these hints we’ve heard, that she’s been meetin’ a man in secret, because hints is all it is, and we reckon they come from jealous old women with clatterin’ tongues and naught better to do than make up nasty stories about young girls who still have pretty faces and all their teeth! But it’s time we got her settled—that’s true enough. She’s got a right to depend on us for that.”

I knew it. Flat on the planks of the floor overhead, with one ear pressed to a chink between two boards, Liza felt her stomach clench in fright. Earlier that day she had heard her name mentioned in a conversation among her elders and had without hesitation done some deliberate eavesdropping. She had guessed right, it seemed. Her marriage was being planned and it seemed that her future was to be discussed this morning, in her absence. Slipping away from duties in the kitchen, she had gone to her chamber just above the main living room, and then, having taken the precaution of bolting herself in, flattened herself to the floor to eavesdrop for the second time that day.

It wasn’t the sort of behaviour her parents would have approved of in any of their daughters; in fact, they would have been appalled. But then, they would be even more appalled if they knew about Christopher, Liza thought, and by the sound of it, they had heard something. She could guess the source of the rumour, as well. That wretched woman who had the cottage down by the packhorse bridge. She had seen Liza and Christopher together and must, after all, have recognised them.

Lying flat, her left cheekbone in danger of being grazed by the floor, Liza felt tears pricking behind her eyes. She tried to blink them away. She had known this was coming. She had known that, sooner or later, arrangements would be made for her and all her dreams would be destroyed. She had thought she was prepared. But now…

Oh, dear God. Oh, Christopher, my dear love. I can’t bear it.

A few feet away, below Liza, Aunt Cecy was staring coldly at Margaret, who stared back in an equally chilly manner. They all addressed Cecy as Aunt, but she was actually the wife of Nicholas’s oldest cousin, Dick Weaver, who was the son of Great-Uncle Will, the most ancient member of the tribe. Her virtue was as rigid as her backbone, and her backbone resembled a broom handle. Her mouth and body were overthin, and alone among the women of the family she had had trouble giving birth. Her two daughters had been born, with great difficulty, eight years apart, with several disasters intervening. They had both been married off at the age of fourteen and had seemed glad to leave home.

“If that girl b’ain’t wed soon,” Aunt Cecy said now, “her pretty face’ll get lines and her teeth’ll start going. Margaret, do you have to keep on with that everlasting spinning when we’re talkin’ over summat as solemn as this, and what in heaven’s name is wrong with that there chimney?”

“I think birds must have nested in it since the spring-cleaning. We’ll have to clear it. The men’d better lop a branch off that birch tree in the garden to push down it. As for spinnin’, I like keepin’ my hands busy,” said Margaret. “I can spin and talk, and listen.”

Aunt Cecy snorted. Laurence, who had come across the cobbled road with Elena and others of his family, threading their way past the permanent market stalls which occupied the middle of the street, said reasonably, “Never mind the tales. Nicholas here says he’s had an offer. If it’s a good one, where’s the problem?” He was very like Nicholas, with the same hearty voice and the same robust outlook on life. “Even if she has had…let’s be charitable and say a friend—in secret—what of it? Who didn’t, when they were young? All that’ll be over. Who is it you’ve got in mind?”

“Peter Lanyon,” said Nicholas. “Grandson of George, whose burial Margaret and I have just been to.”

“Liza’s older than Peter, isn’t she?” Elena said. “Does it matter, do you think?”

“Er…” said their daughter-in-law, and her husband, Laurie, a younger version of Laurence, grinned. Laurence burst out laughing and so did several of Nicholas’s cousins.

“Our Katy here’s two years older than young Laurie and who cares? Didn’t stop them having twin sons inside of a year!” Laurence said.

“Liza ought to be married,” Nicholas said. “And I’ve called you all in here to discuss this proposal from the Lanyons. Peter’ll do as far as I’m concerned. He’s good-looking and good-natured, and Richard’s offered me a deal. He got me in a corner at his dad’s funeral and put it to me. I’ve a good dowry put by for Liza, but he’s suggested something more. He wants to be cut in to our business. We’ve always bought about half his wool clip—he sells the other half when the agents come round from the big merchants. Now he says we can have the wool for a discount if he can have a regular cut off the profits when we sell the finished cloth and yarn. He asked a lot of questions and we went into another room and he clicked a few beads round his abacus, arriving at a figure. I reckon he’s judged his offer finely. He’ll come out on the right side more often than not. In effect, we’ll pay more for his wool, not less, only not all at once, but…”

“Looks as if he’s takin’ advantage.” Great-Uncle Will didn’t like to walk far, so he spent his days sitting about. At the moment he was in a bad temper because the smoking fire had driven him from the settle by the hearth, where he liked to sit on chilly days, driving him back to his summer seat by the window. His voice was sharp. “We want to get Liza off our hands. He’ll oblige if he’s paid!”

“Quite. We’ll have to look on his cut from our profits as part of Liza’s dowry,” said Nicholas. “Getting the wool cheap won’t offset it, most years anyway. But he also pointed out that once we’re all one family and one business, there are things we can do to help each other. Put opportunities each other’s way—things like introductions to new customers, or brokering marriages. Word to each other of anything useful like new breeds of sheep. He’s thinking to buy a ram from some strain or other with better fleeces. If he does, we’ll gain from that after a while. Meanwhile, we’ll have got Liza settled and she’ll be eating his provender, not ours.”

“You must admit the man’s got ideas,” said Laurence, and Dick Weaver nodded in agreement. “What of the girl herself?” he asked. “Has this been mentioned to her?”

“Why should it be?” demanded Aunt Cecy. “She’d be well advised to do as she’s told.”

“Not yet,” said Margaret. “But she won’t be difficult. When was she ever? She’s a good girl, is Liza, whatever silly gossip may say.”

“She’d better not be difficult. If ’ee don’t get that wench married,” said Great-Uncle Will, “she could get into trouble and then what’ll ’ee do? Get her shovelled into a nunnery while you rear her love child? I’ve heard that there gossip, too, and if there’s truth in it, the fellow can’t wed her anyhow. In orders, he is. That’s what the clacking tongues are saying.”

The entire family, as if they were puppets whose strings were held by a single master hand, swung around to look at him.

“I’ve not heard this!” Nicholas said. “You know who this fellow is that Liza’s supposed to be meeting? Well, who is he and how did you find out so much?”

“Gossip!” said Margaret, interrupting forcefully and snagging her thread in her annoyance. “Liza’s a sensible girl, I tell ’ee!”

“She knows all the ins and outs of the business,” said Nicholas. “I grant you that. She’s handy with a loom and an abacus, as well. She understands figures the way I do and the way that the rest of you, frankly, don’t! But she gets dreamy sometimes. Don’t know where she gets that from. And now folk are asking why’s she still single and is there some dark reason? Sounds to me as if there maybe is and the whispers have something behind them after all! Well, Uncle Will? What have you heard?”

“I sit here by this window on warm days and folk stop to talk to me,” said Will. “I didn’t want to repeat the talk. Not sure I should, even now. These things often fade out if you leave them be. Don’t matter if she’s had a kiss in the moonlight or a cuddle in a cornfield, as long as she don’t argue now.” The fire belched again, swirling smoke right across the room, and he choked, waving a wrinkled hand before his face. “Devil take this smoke!”

There were exclamations of protest from all around. “That won’t do, Great Uncle!” said Nicholas bluntly. “If you know a name, then tell us. Who does gossip say the man is?”

“Young fellow working up at the castle, studying with the Luttrells’ chaplain, that’s who,” said Great-Uncle Will. “I don’t know his name, but I know the one they mean—he’s stopped by to talk to me himself. Redheaded young fellow. In minor orders yetawhile, but he’ll be a full priest one of these days. So he b’ain’t husband material for Liza or any other girl. You get her fixed up with Peter Lanyon, and quick.”

“I can hardly believe it.” Margaret had stopped her spinning wheel.

Aunt Cecy gave her a look which said, I told you you couldn’t keep on with that and attend to this business as well, and said aloud, “Where is Liza, anyway?”

“In the kitchen,” said Margaret. And then stopped short, looking through the window. Liza, far from being in the kitchen, must have slipped out the front door only a moment ago. She was crossing the road, going away from the house on some unknown errand.

Uncle Will turned to peer after her. “There she goes. Well, let’s hope all she wanted was a breath of air and that she b’ain’t runnin’ off with her red-haired swain yetawhile. You take an old man’s advice. Say nothing to her about him. Pretend we don’t know. No need to upset the wench. But get her wed, and fast. Get word off to Richard Lanyon tomorrow and tell him yes. That’s what I say.” Another wave of smoke poured out of the fireplace and he choked again. “Can’t anyone do something about this? Put a bucket of water on that there fire and get to sweeping the chimney!”

CHAPTER FOUR

ONE MAGICAL SUMMER

Peter’ll do as far as I’m concerned. When Liza heard her father say those words, she had heard enough. She sat back on her heels, miserably thinking, while the murmur of voices continued below her. At length she rose quietly from the floor, picked up a cloak, unbolted her door and stole out. The stairs were solid and didn’t creak. She went softly down them, glad that in this house they didn’t lead into the big main room as they did in many other houses, but into a tiny lobby where cloaks and spare footwear were kept, and from which the front door opened.

She could hear a buzz of talk and a clatter of pans in the kitchen. If anyone saw her, she would probably be called in to help and chided for having left it in the first place. She opened the front door as stealthily as she could, darted through, closed it and set off, crossing the road, trying to lose herself quickly behind the stalls in the middle of it, in case anyone should be looking from the window.

Bearing to the right, past the last cottages and the Abbot’s House opposite, she hurried out of the village. Then she turned off the main track, taking a path to the left, crossed a cornfield and emerged onto the track that led to the next village to the west, Alcombe, two miles off.

She felt uneasy as she crossed the field, for here, as at Allerbrook, the corn had been cut and a couple of village women were gleaning in the stubble. Although they were some way off and did not seem to notice her, she was nervously aware of them.

Beyond the cornfield stood a stone pillar on a plinth, a monument to the days of the great plague in the last century. Villages then had kept strangers out in case they brought disease with them, but commerce had to go on; wool and yarn, cloth and leather, butter and cheese, flour and ale must still be bought and sold and so, outside many villages, stone pillars or crosses had been set up to show where markets could be held.

“I’ll be by the plague cross at ten of the clock on Tuesday,” Christopher had said at their last meeting. “I’ll have an errand past there that day. The Luttrells send things now and then to an old serving man of theirs in Alcombe. He’s ailing nowadays. They often use me for charitable tasks like that, and lend me a pony. Meet me there if you can. I’ll wait for you for a while, though I’d better not linger too long.”

It was only just past ten o’clock, Liza thought as she slipped out of the field, out of sight of the gleaning women. Had he waited? Would he be there?

He was. There was his pony, hobbled and grazing by the track, and there was Christopher, his hair as bright as fire, sitting on the plinth.

“Christopher!”

He was looking the other way, perhaps expecting her to come along the main track instead of through the field, but he sprang up at the sound of her voice, and turned toward her. She ran into his arms and they closed about her. “Oh, Christopher! I’m so glad to see you!”

“Are you? What is it, sweeting? Something’s wrong, isn’t it? I can always tell.”

“Yes, I know you can!”

That was how it had been from the beginning, when they met in the spring, at the May Day fair in Dunster. It had been a fine day, and the fair was packed and raucous. There were extra stalls as well as the regular ones, offering every imaginable commodity: gloves, pottery, kitchen pans and fire irons, hats, belts, buckles, cheap trinkets, questionable remedies for assorted ills, lengths of silk and linen from far away as well as the local woollen cloth, sweet cakes and savoury snacks cooked on the spot over beds of glowing charcoal. There were entertainments, too: a juggler, tumblers, a minstrel playing a lute and singing, a troupe of dancers and a sword swallower.

And, creating an alleyway through the crowd and inspiring a different mood among the onlookers, an unhappy man stripped to the waist except for a length of undyed cloth slung around his neck. Splashed with dirt and marked with bruises, he was escorted by the two men who that year were Dunster’s constables. Ahead of them walked a boy banging a drum for the crowd’s attention and announcing that by order of the Weavers Guild of Dunster, here came Bart Webber, who had been mixing flax with his woollen yarn to make his cloth, and selling it as pure Dunster wool, and had been fined for it at the last manor court.

It could have been worse. The hapless Master Webber hadn’t been whipped or put in the stocks, and the crowd was good-humoured and not in a mood for brutality. Many of them knew him socially, which inclined them to restraint or even, in some cases, sympathy. He was still drawing a few jeers, though, and an occasional missile—handfuls of mud and one or two mouldy onions, which had caused the bruises. His situation was quite wretched enough and his face was a mask of misery and embarrassment. Liza, distressed, turned quickly away.

Her parents had often told her she felt things too deeply and ought to be more sensible. They clicked regretful tongues when she persisted in going for walks on her own or when they found her in the garden after dark—“mooning after the moon,” as her father put it—or being stunned by the splendour of the constellation of Orion, making its mighty pattern in the winter sky. Yes, Nicholas said, of course the moon looked like a silver dish—or a lopsided face or a little curved boat, depending on which phase it was in—and yes, of course the stars were beautiful. But most people had more sense than to stand outside catching cold, especially when there was work to be done indoors.

Sometimes Liza felt that she was dedicating her entire life to appearing sensible when inside herself, she often didn’t feel sensible at all, but wild and vulnerable, like a red deer hind, fleeing before the hounds.

Now she wanted to get well away from poor Bart Webber. Elena and Laurence, who were with her, stayed to stare but Liza, abandoning them, edged back through the crowd. Then she realised that a young man who had been standing next to Laurence had turned away, too, and was beside her and seemed to want to speak to her. She looked at him in surprise, and he said kindly, “You didn’t like seeing that, did you?”

She stopped and studied him. He wore a clerk’s black gown and a priest’s tonsure. The ring of hair left by the tonsure was an astonishing shade of flame-red. “I know him,” she said. “Bart Webber. He’s dined with us. No, I didn’t like seeing him—like that.” It occurred to her that the young clerk had been watching her and that this was impertinent of him. With a rush of indignation she said, “You were looking at me?”

“Forgive me,” he said mildly. “But when I saw you move away alone—well, in such a throng, you shouldn’t be on your own.”

“I was with cousins, but they’re still back there. I’ve other relatives somewhere about, though, and my home is over there.” She pointed.

“Let me walk with you to your door, or until you find some of your family.” His voice was intentionally gentle, cooling her flash of annoyance. “You never know. There could be cutpurses about.”

She let him escort her and as they walked, they talked. He was Christopher Clerk, halfway to priesthood, studying with the chaplain at the castle. She was Liza Weaver, daughter of Nicholas Weaver who, with his family, owned three Dunster houses and was head of a business which carried on both spinning and weaving. “Our cloth’s quite well-known, and so is my mother’s special fine thread.”

“You sound as though you’re proud of your family,” he said.

“I am! And you must be proud of your vocation, and of living in a castle! Is it very grand, with paintings and carpets from the east and silken cushions for the ladies?”

“All those things, but my quarters are plain, as they should be. I wouldn’t have it otherwise. I felt called to be a priest, and once that happens, a man doesn’t seek to live in luxury.”

“Do you mean you give it up even though you miss it, or you somehow don’t miss it because you don’t want it anymore?” Liza asked, interested. She often caught sight of the Abbot of Cleeve and his entourage of monks coming and going from their house and had many times wondered what made them choose such lives. Were they happy, always wearing such plain white wool garments and never marrying?

“Some of us cease wanting the pleasures of the senses,” Christopher told her, “and others give them up. They are the price. But if you really value something, you don’t mind paying for it.”

“But which group are you in?” Liza asked acutely, and privately marvelled at her own outspokenness. He might well accuse her of impertinence! Yet it seemed easy to talk to him, as easy as though she had known him all her life.

“I’m among those who have to make an effort. But as I said, the price is worth it.” She turned her head to look at his face and he gave her a grin, a tough, cheerful, entirely masculine grin, and she found herself smiling back. His eyes, which were the warm golden-brown of amber or sweet chestnuts, glowed with la