Devil Water (4 page)

“And the devil may have him,” said Charles absently. “Where are those Faws you spoke of?” He was tiring of sights and wishful of getting Meg to a more secluded spot. Once, on the quay, he had put his arm around her, but she had slipped away.

They remounted the mare and went along Pilgrim Street, where there were many fine shops, but the young people scarcely glanced at the silks and furbelows to be glimpsed through the twinkling-paned windows. Charles had no taste for shopping and Meg no acquisitiveness at all. They passed through the city wall at Pilgrim Street Gate and presently came to the town moor. Soon they saw an encampment of brightly painted wagons around a fire and heard the skirling of the small Northumbrian pipes.

“Ah--” whispered Meg on a deep breath. “The bonny sound! Why ‘tis the very band o’ Faws who were camped near our burn yesteryear. Mother had them do tinkering fur us. The piper’s called Jem Bailey. Hark! He’s playing ‘On Cheviot side the wind bla-aws wide --’ Is’t not beautiful?”

Charles did not think it beautiful at all, he distinguished no melody in the shrill squealing of the pipes, but he saw that Meg’s face had melted into a look of yearning and exaltation.

“You’re homesick?” he asked, startled.

“Aye, hinny,” she answered without thinking, using to him the Tyneside pet name, which Dick often used to her. “Homesick fur the winds and the moors and the hills, fur the sound of the pipes through the mist on Ravensheugh.”

Charles slid off the mare and helped her down. “Don’t think of all that now!” he said with sudden petulance. “You’re here with me. Can’t you think about
me?”

She was startled. It was true that she had forgotten him while the pipes evoked her father’s stern face, the rough-hewn ones of her brothers, and the aching memory of her mother’s smile as they had once all gathered around the hearth by the flickering light of the peat fire. If only the bitterness of exile in the stifling pit-hovels of Gateshead could be over. If only she might go home. Meg was overcome with hopelessness. Dick would not let her go. And her father would not let her come back either, for he had decided that she must stay south three years. To better herself -- by which John Snowdon meant going into good service at Newcastle. There was a secretly dissenting minister there, Mr. Smithson. Snowdon had heard of him through Mr. Dean, the Presbyterian minister on the Border at Falstone. They had exchanged letters. Mr. Smithson had agreed to take Meg into his home after Christmas to teach her the Gospel, while his wife taught her sewing, brewing, and cookery, of a refinement unknown in Coquetdale. It was all arranged, and John Snowdon never changed his mind.

“Well --” said Charles, who had been watching her face darken and the pink mouth droop at the corners. “Cat got your tongue, Meg?”

“No, sir.” She tried to smile up at him. “I’m sorry. ‘Tis only that m’heart is heavy because I can’t be hame.”

“You mean you’re going to wed Dick Wilson?”

She sighed. “I’ll have to -- or into service as m’faither wants.”

They had begun to walk towards the Faw wagons, but the pipes had stopped. Charles put his arm again around Meg’s shoulders, and squeezing her to him said, “You don’t love Dick, or you wouldn’t talk like that.”

“I divven’t knaw,” she said after a moment, but she did not draw away. The tingle of closeness, and the pleasure it gave her caught her unaware. She began to breathe faster. Charles heard it and, bending, gave her a quick awkward kiss on the cheek. At once they both blushed, and moved apart. “Look at that old crone,” said Charles hastily at random.

A skinny woman in a dirty pink skirt and brass earrings made beckoning gestures in their direction, while she sat on a three-legged stool by the campfire. Jem Bailey, the piper, stood watchfully behind her. He wore a large black felt hat with a sprig of heather stuck in the buckle. The small Northumbrian pipes dangled from their red plush bag, the bellows were fastened around his waist and right elbow.

“The Faws tell a body’s fate,” said Meg doubtfully. “She wants ye to gi’ her silver.”

“Why not?” Charles cried. “I’d like to hear my future!” He walked up to the Faw woman. “Here’s sixpence for you. Tell me something fine.”

The old woman took the sixpence, bit it between her two remaining teeth, then dropped it down her dirty bodice. She peered up at the tall youth, and stiffening spoke quickly in Romany to the piper, who gave an exclamation. A dozen swarthy men who had been currying their horses and donkeys behind the wagons, now glided up to the campfire. They said nothing. They stood silent and watched.

The sun had set, gloaming stole across the heath, and Charles had an uneasy pang as he saw the piper eying his mare avidly.

The Faw woman’s beady eyes remained fixed on Charles. She said something unintelligible in a soft hissing voice. The piper stopped gazing at the mare and translated what was obviously a command. “Maria says we’ll not harm thee, or thine. She sees the white rose on thy brow. We Faws follow the white rose.”

The old woman nodded and suddenly grabbed Charles’s hand. She squinted at it, poked along one of the lines with her cracked fingernail, then dropped the hand. She folded her arms and looked again at Charles with what seemed to be pity and fear.

“What does she see?” asked Charles uncomfortably. “What does the old hag see?”

The piper himself appeared astonished and questioned Maria rapidly. She shook her head, and finally said a few reluctant words. The piper translated with the same reluctance. “She sees the white rose wither and turn black. She sees a sword. She’ll not say more, she’s afraid.”

“What of?” said Charles tossing his head. “All flowers fade, and as for swords, I expect to do some fighting in my time, ‘tis a gentleman’s calling. Can’t she do better than that? What about love?” He squeezed Meg’s waist.

The woman understood him, and was annoyed by his tone. She spoke again, and the piper drew a quick breath. He stared at Meg, then turned to Charles. “The royal blood in thy veins is accursed. True love cannot flow in it. No sweetheart need hope for true love from thee.” He glanced again at Meg and shrugged. “Also Maria says that in thy palm she saw an axe -- a red axe.”

Meg gasped and tugged at Charles’s arm. “Come awa’, sir. They’re out to frighten ye.”

“Bah!” said Charles. “Not with that folderol!” though he had barely prevented himself from making the sign of the cross. He turned on his heel, the girl with him, and they mounted the mare.

The Faws watched them go. After a few paces the piper squeezed the bellows with his elbow and a mournful wailing pierced the twilight. Meg shuddered. It was “The Lament for a Dying Chieftain” that the piper played; her heart was full of fear, and another feeling, which centered on the boy who rode in front of her. But she said nothing.

Charles spurred the mare to a canter, and they soon left the heath and passed again through Pilgrim Street Gate, where they slowed down.

“I dislike your Faws,” said Charles angrily. He had recovered from his momentary disquiet, and dismissed the crone’s vaporings. Yet the tender mood had vanished, and he saw no means of regaining it.

Candles now gleamed in the city windows, the streets were dark. Meg would be in trouble if he did not get her home. For that matter, so would he. It was many miles back to Dilston, and long before this Sir Marmaduke would be pacing the courtyard, and Cousin Maud likely as not ringing the alarm bell and sending out grooms to find him. “I wish I was of age,” he said through his teeth, “and my own master.”

He had not spoken to Meg, but she heard and laid her cheek quickly on his shoulder in sympathy. The little gesture touched him, who had never known simple affection, and he said “Meg, sweet, you’ll meet me again, won’t you? When can you be free?”

She did not answer at once, and thought of all the reasons why she should not meet him again. When she spoke it felt to her as though someone else were speaking. “Sunday I might get out. Dick, Geordie, and wee Rob all go to their bed-fast mother at Shields. Nanny won’t question my leaving.”

Charles gave a happy laugh and they made plans in whispers. When the Newcastle bells pealed for services she would come to the riverbank west of the Bensham staith. This would shorten his ride a trifle, and she would wait until he came. Rain or shine.

When Charles put Meg down before the Wilson hovel, he took her chapped grimy little hand and gave it a fumbling kiss. Then he rode back to Dilston, his mind so full of Meg and the delightful though formless emotion she inspired that he was impervious to the exasperation of his guardians.

“This sort of vagabonding simply
will not do!”
cried Sir Marmaduke, his periwig askew with indignation. “Where have you been, sir, since early morn? Answer me at once!”

“Yes, where have you been, Charles?” echoed Cousin Maud. Her nose was red, her pale eyes even waterier than usual, for she had been much alarmed.

“Oh, I rode into Newcastle,” said Charles airily. “Nothing to make such a pother about. You
said
it was a good thing for me to get to know the country up here, and I’m not the child you think me. I can take care of myself!”

Sir Marmaduke continued to argue and threaten above a sense of growing helplessness. Short of locking Charles permanently in his room there seemed no way of making him promise to stay on the estate. Charles had changed of late. He was no longer a biddable lad, who only indulged in little pranks which a thrashing soon checked.

Finally in desperation the Constables called in their new chaplain. George Brown was a hard-working and scholarly Jesuit who had been attached to the Durham missions until his superior decided that he would be a suitable priest for the Earl of Derwentwater’s reopened chapel at Dilston. Mr. Brown, therefore, had known the Constables and Charles but a month, and was impartial. When a servant had summoned him, he walked into the Hall with his breviary in his hand, his sober black suit loose on his gaunt body. Like all priests during these uncomfortable times he neither wore a cassock nor was addressed publicly as “Father.” He listened to Sir Marmaduke’s account of Charles’s insubordination, then turned to the culprit, who looked decidedly impenitent. “Well, my son, I regret to hear that you refuse to obey the commands of the good people God has put in authority over you!”

To Charles’s astonishment there was a twinkle in the priestly eye. Charles said quickly, “I don’t, sir, at least nothing reasonable, but it’s dull here at Dilston, and I don’t see why I can’t ride out when and where I like.”

Nor did the priest. He glanced from the tall stubborn lad to the two fussing elders, saw with an inward sigh the eternal battle of the generations in progress, and said mildly, “But you are very late, my son. Lady Constable feared you had been set on by footpads.”

“Oh fiddle,” said Charles. “Nobody’d dare, they all seem to know the Radcliffes. Besides I can defend myself.”

“So everyone knows your high birth,” put in Sir Marmaduke with fresh grievance. “And dressed like a filthy plowboy, unattended, without even a sword, do you think people consider you do
justice
to your birth -- and your brother’s rank?”

“I’ll dress better in future,” said Charles to Mr. Brown, whom he perceived to be an ally.

“I think,” said the priest to the Constables, “that if Master Charles will promise to watch his attire and not be out so late, he might be allowed a little freedom. Exercise is beneficial.”

Sir Marmaduke gave an angry grunt, his wife fluttered and dabbed her eyes, but neither dared dispute their chaplain’s decision. Cousin Maud, however, had the last word, and she flung it in Charles’s triumphant face. “How glad I shall be when dear James comes home,
he
will know how to control a forward boy who is barely out of the nursery!”

A chill dampened Charles. He bowed silently to his cousins and the priest, then escaped to the kitchen, where the cook glumly fed him cold meat pasty and a mug of ale.

This episode, while it secured Charles’s immediate freedom, also emphasized the need of making the most of it while there was time.

Two days after Charles’s ride to Gateshead a messenger arrived with a letter from the Earl to the Constables. It was written in a disconcerting mixture of French and English, and Sir Marmaduke had to call in the chaplain for help in deciphering the sprawling hand.

Then the purport was clear enough. On the twenty-fifth of July, Queen Anne had finally granted permission for her noble kinsman and his party to return home. The party included the Earl’s next youngest brother, Francis Radcliffe, his elderly bachelor uncle, Colonel Thomas Radcliffe, a priest-tutor, Father Benjamin Petre, and a Newcastle attorney, Roger Fenwick, who had crossed over to Holland to acquaint the young Earl with his Northumbrian affairs. All these people, and their servants were gathered at Rotterdam awaiting suitable passage to London. They proposed, when they finally arrived in London, to stay with a distant cousin, Dr. John Radcliffe, who was a court physician and thought it well that the Earl should see something of his native city before proceeding North. The Earl finished by sending greeting to:

le petit Charles, mes hommages to my kindsmen, Sir Marmed: & her Ldyship, whoume I estime profondement,

Yr humble & obedient servant

Darwentwater.

“And so,” said Lady Constable anxiously when they had all heard the letter, “it won’t be long before he comes, but I wonder
when!
Will it be for Christmas? Dear, oh dear, I’m sure I don’t know how to plan. All those people -- the bedrooms in a shocking state too, and I must find another cook, the only thing this one
can
properly make is that disgusting mess of entrails they call haggis.”

The men quickly vanished, Sir Marmaduke to worried consultation with the steward, the priest to his austere little room in the gatehouse, Charles in quest of his mare, while passionately wishing that it were Sunday and he could see Meg. He had dreamed of her each night, startling virile dreams of a kind he had not had before, and from which he awoke sweating, excited, and somewhat ashamed.

On Sunday morning Charles arose before five and slipped out of the castle before anyone awoke. He would miss Mass and there would be a fearful hullabaloo, but no matter. Later he would gracefully accept whatever penance Mr. Brown gave him. He avoided the wood where the thief hung in the gibbet, and cantered fifteen miles along tracks and muddy lanes towards the trysting place. He crossed the Derwent River, then began to look for the abandoned windmill Meg had told him of. He found it easily. It had been abandoned because of its situation next to a way-leave on which ran tracks from Sir Henry Liddell’s colliery near Ravensworth to his staith three miles away on the Tyne. The farmer had exacted enough rent for the way-leave across his property to enable him to buy a new farm he coveted.