The House of Allerbrook Read online

  In Lynmouth, Katherine and Owen had duly presented Sybil to their neighbours as a young widow and Stephen had been correctly baptized in the church at Lynmouth. But there had been no celebration to follow. Sybil, it seemed, was to be kept out of the public eye. One of the maidservants told her, spitefully, that Katherine had put it about that she had no dowry because her husband had been poor, and was in any case devoted to his memory and did not intend to remarry.

  Sometimes Sybil wished she were really a servant. They were paid and they had time off now and then. She did not.

  She was permitted to look after Stephen, but she was encouraged to begin weaning him as soon as possible.

  “Children should not be nursed for too long,” Katherine said. “Life is too busy for that.”

  Sybil’s constant busyness was Katherine’s fault, but Sybil was afraid to say so.

  By the time her second Christmas at Lynmouth arrived, he was nearly seventeen months old, toddling energetically, and making his opinions felt in loud, indignant roars every time he fell down—which was fairly often—or was denied something to which he had taken a fancy, such as a shiny knife or a gold coin carelessly left on a table.

  Both Katherine and Owen repeatedly told Sybil to make him behave and she tried, anxiously, but with little success. She had originally hoped that Idwal, who though younger than Sybil was certainly nearer to her in age than his parents were, might be a friend, but he frankly disliked both her and Stephen and if he could get either of them into trouble, he would.

  When that second Christmas came, she wondered wistfully if this time there would be some contact with her own family, but there was not, although the weather was good and there was no bar to travelling. The Lanyons stayed in Lynmouth for their Yuletide revels. They let her share in them, but in a limited fashion. It was taken for granted that she would help to wait on the other guests and though Owen, rendered genial by Christmas good cheer, gave her permission to dance, Katherine watched to make sure that no unmarried man danced with her more than once.

  The following spring, it was given out one Sunday in church that Queen Jane Seymour was with child, and the congregation were asked to pray for the birth of a healthy prince to be the heir to the kingdom. The Lanyons seemed pleased to hear the news and when they went home, Owen declared that they must have a special dinner to celebrate. “Kate, send someone out to buy a good haunch of something, and we’ll make an occasion of it.”

  If Queen Jane did have a boy, Sybil thought, church bells would ring throughout the land. A boy child born to a queen was a marvel, a joy. A boy child born to Sybil Sweetwater might well be stronger, more handsome, cleverer, but he would never be regarded as anything but a mistake and was condemned as a nuisance when he bellowed. That night she cried herself to sleep.

  She had done that before, of course, but this time her misery came from a new and greater depth. In the morning she brushed the best of her plain brown gowns, combed her fair hair back, put on a clean coif and went to speak to Master Owen.

  Owen Lanyon was preparing for another foreign voyage, and his packed belongings were piled just inside the street door. Idwal was down at the ship, making sure that all was ready. They were to sail to Bristol and then leave for Venice in company with other ships, as a safeguard against pirates. Owen himself was in the small room he used as an office, writing, which he continued to do even after he had answered her timid knock with the call to enter.

  Sybil closed the door behind her and stood hesitating, until at length he glanced around and said, “Sit down. I won’t be long. I’m writing to your brother, as it happens.”

  “Is there any chance of…of me seeing him? I never have, not since I came here.” Sybil sat down nervously on the nearest stool.

  “No, Sybil. There is not.” Owen sanded the letter and blew the sand off. “I’m just giving him some information, in haste, before I set off for Venice. I was in Dunster the other day and I heard some news that may interest your brother. Cleeve Abbey, near Washford, is going to be dissolved after all.”

  “Oh,” said Sybil a little blankly.

  “Come, now. You know, surely, that the English church has broken free from the Pope and that it has meant retribution at last for the monasteries which for so long have been places of scandal, as well as much too rich.” His sardonic tone suggested that he didn’t entirely sympathize with King Henry’s reforming zeal, or believe that its roots lay in a genuine desire for piety and morality.

  Sybil said, “Oh, yes. Father Anthony Drew explained it to us. It was so the king could be free to marry Queen Anne. Only, she didn’t have a son and so…”

  “Hush,” said Owen. “His Majesty has for many years been more and more shocked by the mismanagement of the church by Rome, and the sad laxity in the monasteries of England. Any other reason would be unthinkable. Anyway, it’s wiser not to comment on the king’s affairs, even in private, to members of one’s own family. It’s said that he has informers in many houses and who knows which? Never mind that now. The point is that the monks of Cleeve…you know where Cleeve and Washford are?”

  “Yes, up the coast, to the east of Minehead. The monks are Cistercians.”

  “Quite. They keep sheep and the abbot has a house in Dunster, where he stays when he’s there doing business in the wool trade. When the king’s receiver disposes of the abbey, the sheep will come up for sale along with everything else. It will be proclaimed, of course, but since your brother runs a big flock, I thought he might like to know in advance. Those monks are clever shepherds. Their sheep are some of the best in the county. Francis might want to buy some of them and I’m giving him a chance to get in first.”

  “Yes, I see,” said Sybil bleakly, understanding but not able to summon up any great excitement about extra sheep for Allerbrook.

  As though he had read her thoughts, Owen said quite gently, “You have just asked if you can visit your brother, or if he wishes to visit you. Perhaps I should explain why the answer is no. Francis has handed you into our care and—I am sorry, Sybil—but to him, you are as one who is dead. You are not badly off, living here, you know.”

  “That isn’t all that I came to ask,” said Sybil. “I…I just wondered…if there were any chance…that you and Mistress Lanyon might…might arrange a marriage for me. With someone who wouldn’t mind Stephen, who would be a father to him, of course.”

  There. It was out.

  “Marriage,” said Owen thoughtfully. “A husband and home of your own. A father for Stephen and a lawful father for any other children you might produce. Yes, a very natural wish and not impossible, for although, I’m sorry to say, most of Lynmouth knows or guesses by now that you are not a widow, there are men who would be happy to take you on, since you have proved yourself able to bear children, and that’s something to be valued. But…”

  “But?”

  “Your brother absolutely forbade it, and one thing that I value is my friendship with him. He and I meet quite often. His orders were that you were to remain in our care and that since you would be perfectly safe under our roof, he had after due consideration decided that you should not marry because—” his voice hardened “—once a girl turns wanton, she is likely to remain so and is not, therefore, fit to be a wife.”

  “But…”

  “No buts. Whether I fully agree with your brother or not isn’t the point. I will do nothing to jeopardize my friendship with him. Be glad that you and your child have a home here. Now, please leave me. I have much to do before I sail. Ask Perkins to come here. I need him to take this letter to Allerbrook.”

  “Couldn’t I even…?”

  “Write a letter of your own and send it with mine? No, Sybil. And that’s final.”

  So that was that. Sybil, ignoring the fact that she had a whole string of domestic tasks awaiting her, went up to the room where Stephen was playing with some little painted bricks which had once belonged to Idwal. She stood looking at him.

  She didn’t love him. She had attende
d to his needs, obeying ancient instinct, but it wasn’t love. There were times when she almost hated him. But for him, she would have gone to court. But for him, no one would ever have known that she and Andrew Shearer had coupled in the straw at that christening party. But for Stephen…

  He would be all right here. Katherine would look after him. She didn’t like him much, but she was a responsible woman, and she’d reared one son; she ought to know how to manage.

  Sybil had had enough. Maidservants were paid and had days off, and if they got a chance to marry, they took it. She’d rather be a maidservant than live like this.

  It was a busy time of year on farms, with the extra milking to do, more eggs to collect and weeds capable of choking a vegetable bed almost overnight. Next month there would be shearing and haymaking, too. It ought to be possible to find employment.

  She thought about the locality. Above Lynmouth towered the cliffs; she must begin by climbing up to Lynton, the little town at the top. Beyond that, if one went on, inland and uphill, lay the open moor and there were few farms there, but there were some in the combes around the edges. If she turned east and followed the East Lyn River, surely she would come to farmsteads, to places where extra hands might be needed.

  They could have Sybil’s hands, and pay for them. She was leaving. First thing tomorrow morning.

  “Gone?” said Eleanor after she and Jane had listened in horror to Francis as he stood in the hall and read them the contents of the second letter in two days to come from Lynmouth.

  Perkins, the Lanyons’ hardworking manservant, had on returning to Lynmouth after delivering Owen Lanyon’s news about the sale of Cleeve Abbey, found himself obliged to go back to Allerbrook again the very next morning, bearing a further missive, penned by Katherine in frantic haste. Owen and Idwal had left for Bristol and would probably have sailed for Venice before the news could catch up with them but Sybil’s family at least could be informed. “She can’t have gone!” Eleanor protested. “Where would she go? What happened?”

  “Aye, what? It’s not right, a young girl like that, wanderin’ on the moor all alone!” Peggy gasped. She and the maids were also present and listening with scandalized expressions. “It’s dangerous, that sort of thing,” Peggy added.

  Perkins, standing deferentially to one side, spoke up. “The mistress thinks that the girl ran off early today. She was in the house last night, right enough. But today the little boy Stephen started calling out for his mother, and we found Mistress Sybil wasn’t there. Her things were gone from her room and some food from the kitchen and a water flask.”

  “Someone must search for her!” Jane cried. “Somebody will have seen her. She shouldn’t be hard to find, surely?”

  “Yes. She must be found, before something happens to her!” agreed Eleanor anxiously.

  “Mistress Katherine is getting a few folk together and sending them to enquire up in Lynton and round about,” Perkins said.

  “Quite.” Francis nodded. “I certainly hope she will be found and brought back. But there’s nothing we can do from here. There never is anyone to spare at this time of year. We’ll pray for her, naturally. She is even more foolish than I thought. First she throws away her chances of going to court. Now she throws away the only home and shelter that she has. However did I come to be saddled with such a ridiculous sister?”

  “Oh, how can you be so unkind!” wailed Jane.

  Francis looked at her coldly. “There is no unkindness. On the contrary, she has always been treated more gently than she ever deserved and see how she repays it. Peggy, take Perkins to the kitchen and see that he has refreshment. His horse must have some rest, as well.”

  “You care more for the horse than for Sybil!” Jane shouted.

  “Mind your manners, sister,” said Francis. “And yes, an honest horse is to my mind worth more than a silly, lightskirt wench.”

  At Stonecrop Farm, just above Porlock, the days at this time of year began at cockcrow. Bess and Ambrose Reeve rose as usual shortly after the sun, splashed their faces and dressed quickly. Bess dragged a comb through her greying hair and bundled it under a cap. Downstairs, their daughter Alison and the maidservant Marian were already astir, waking up the banked fire in the kitchen, while the farmhands were pulling on their boots, about to go and feed the plough oxen and the pigs. Ambrose went to help them.

  The morning was fine, the grass asparkle with dew. Bess and Alison collected pails and set off for the field where the cows were grazing, to milk them out of doors. Two of the dogs went with them, not barking loudly, because they had been trained to be quiet when near the sheep and cattle, but sometimes woofing softly, running here and there with noses to the ground.

  Until, as they passed the haybarn, one of the dogs stiffened, pointed his pewter-coloured nose at the barn, and in defiance of all his careful training, started to bark very noisily indeed.

  “Now, what’s amiss with you? Be quiet!” Alison seized his collar.

  “He never does this as a rule. Now Brindle’s started! There’s something wrong in that barn,” said Bess. “Be a vagabond or something in there, if it b’ain’t a fox. Put thy pail down, Alison, and come along.”

  “But Mother, if there’s a wild man in there…an outlaw…”

  “We’ve got the dogs. Go and fetch a hayfork! That’ll be enough.”

  Sybil, curled miserably in the hay, had barely slipped beneath the surface of sleep, because her empty stomach wouldn’t let her. She woke suddenly, to find two women, both in brown working gowns and white aprons, standing over her. The younger of the pair was grasping a two-pronged hayfork. The second one was middle-aged and standing with arms akimbo. A grey lurcher and a brown-and-white sheepdog stood beside them, growling. Sybil sat up, pulling herself farther away from the threatening points of the hayfork.

  “It’s all right, Alison. It’s just a lass,” said the older woman. “Quiet! Down!” she added to the dogs.

  They stopped growling and lay down, but Alison continued to hold her hayfork at the ready and demanded, “What be you a-doin’ yur?”

  “I just…I just wanted somewhere to sleep. I was cold and it was so late. I meant to come to the house this morning.” Sybil was trembling.

  “What be you at, wandering about and sleepin’ in barns?” Bess asked, though not roughly. The sunlight slanting in behind her through the open door had shown her how young Sybil was, and how white her face.

  “I…I ran away,” said Sybil. “I took food with me but I’d eaten it all by yesterday morning. I’ve been looking for work, but I couldn’t even find a farm till last night. I saw candlelight…from one of your windows, but it went out before I got close. The barn wasn’t locked. I’m sorry. Oh,” said Sybil, bursting into tears, “I’m so hungry!”

  “Well,” said Bess, “young wenches dyin’ of starvation in one of our barns, that’s somethin’ we wouldn’t care for. ’Ee’d better come in for some breakfast. Then we’ll hear thy story. But it had better be the truth, now. Liars b’ain’t welcome at Stonecrop.”

  In the kitchen Bess despatched Marian with Alison to see to the milking, telling them to send Ambrose back indoors while they were about it. She then fried a piece of bread and an egg, filled a beaker with ale and handed it to Sybil. “But eat slowly, or thy guts’ll complain,” she warned.

  Ambrose, large, gaitered and puzzled, appeared while Sybil was in the midst of eating and Bess did the basic explaining while he listened, pulling off his cap and scratching his thin white hair. At the end, by which time Sybil had finished, he, like Bess, asked for her story.

  Sybil was too tired and frightened to lie, and didn’t, except that she begged them not to ask where her original home had been, and clung to the name of Sybil Waters, which the Lanyons had given her. “I walked and walked,” she said, coming to the end of her account. “Miles from Lynmouth, miles up the East Lyn, trying to find somewhere. All day I walked and then when it got dark, I tried to sleep in a patch of trees, but there were things rustling
, and I saw eyes….”

  “Fox or weasel, no doubt,” said Ambrose with a snort. “Christ, girl, you were a fool to run off like that. And leavin’ thy babby!”

  “No one’ll hurt Stephen. They’ll look after him in Lynmouth,” said Sybil. “But I can’t go back. I won’t go back! I’d rather walk into the sea and finish it all. I was used as a slave, just a slave, not a penny in wages and nothing was going to change, ever, for the rest of my life!”

  “All right, be calm,” said Ambrose.

  “We don’t need help in the house,” Bess said. “Wouldn’t mind help with the milkin’ and the dairy. You any good at that?”

  “I can milk and make butter,” offered Sybil, who had occasionally done so at Allerbrook. “But can I have a proper job? With a wage, and if anyone wants to marry me, can I say yes?”

  “What do you think this here place is?” Ambrose enquired. “It b’ain’t no dungeon. From what ’ee’s told us and the way thee speaks, our farmhands won’t be thy kind of bridegroom. But work, and ’ee’ll be paid, only there’s to be no more gettin’ thyself into trouble. We don’t stand for that here. Decent folk, we are. Today ’ee’d better take some rest. Got any clothes apart from that grubby lot ’ee’s wearin’?”

  “I had some in a bundle….” Sybil looked confused.

  “I’ve got it here,” said Bess. “The bundle, I mean. It wur with her in the hay.”

  “Then ’ee’d best change, take a bit of rest and wash all them messy clothes,” said Ambrose. “Tomorrow, we’ll see.”

  “She’s at a farm called Stonecrop, just above Porlock, on the west side,” said Francis, coming into the dairy where Jane and Eleanor were skimming cream. He was holding yet another letter from Katherine in his hand. “She got herself taken on as a dairymaid there, it seems. She told them that Katherine treated her like a slave. She’s still calling herself Sybil Waters.”

  “The mistress is furious,” said Perkins from the doorway behind Francis. “Says she won’t have Mistress Sybil back, that she never used her as a slave. She says she cared for Sybil like a daughter and she can hardly believe in such ingratitude. She’ll keep the boy, Stephen. Seems Master Owen thinks he might be trained up as a sailor….”