Tales of the West Riding (3 page)

Richard turned rather pale.

“I regret that I have offended,” he said stiffly. “Mistress Agnes, I commend me to you and so farewell.”

He bowed himself out without further word.

No sooner was the door closed behind him than Emmott turned to Sybille and thrust the black lace into her hands.

“Take it. He meant it for you,” she said.

Her voice was hoarse, her pleasant face distorted. Suddenly she gave a deep, heart-rending sob and fled up the stairs.

“Take your filthy lace—I won't touch it!” cried Sybille.

She threw down the black lace and stamped on it and kicked it aside. Elfride, who was crouched by her father, spreading her white lace over his knee, gave a shrill scream as her sister trampled over her to the stairs.

In her room Sybille paced backwards and forwards in uncontrollable rage—not that she tried to control it; she revelled
in it, re-enacting the scene with Richard over and over again and exclaiming aloud in fury. Every thread of the pattern of that hateful lace was stamped indelibly on her mind. The light had faded, but her anger was still hot, when her mother came in carrying a candle.

“Your father is displeased with you, Sybille,” she said in an uneasy tone, setting the candlestick down on the kist.

“Is he indeed?” said Sybille grimly, her anger now swelled by grief.

“Yes. Emmott is alone in the world, she has no father or mother, you should be kind to her, your father takes it ill that you are not.”

“No father or mother!” raged Sybille. “Nobody would think so who saw her here. She is treated as the daughter of the house, it seems to me, while I—” A slight change, a flicker of expression, in her mother's timid face suddenly set every thought in her head jangling. “Is that how it goes?” she whispered hoarsely. “She is my father's bastard, is she not?”

“How dare you!” cried Agnes. “How dare you so insult your father! He is a good man. You are a wicked girl, Sybille.”

Her thin voice was strong with anger, she held her head up, her faded face and her stringy throat showed patches of angry red. Sybille was as astounded to see her weak mother in such a rage as to see a lamb daring a bull. Her anger fled at once, replaced by fear.

“She is someone's bastard, however,” she snivelled. “Do not deny it, mother.”

“That is nought to do with us,” said her mother firmly. “We at Greenwode are decent God-fearing folk. Look to your Richard's kin whom you think so much of, if you want to know.”

“She is Thomas Askrode's child—Richard's half-sister?” cried Sybille with glee.

“No, no. Thomas Askrode's cousin's.”

“Then why is she consigned to us?” demanded Sybille sulkily.

“It is Dame Joanna's wish and we are glad of the money. It is not Emmott's fault, Sybille. Bethink you, you have father and mother and a good dower and much beauty. Emmott hath none of these. Pity her, then.”

“If she hath my father's affection,” began Sybille—in her
heart she added, “and Richard's,” but could not for shame speak it aloud. “If she hath my father's affection and yours,” she said instead, allowing her voice to shake a little as if with emotion, “she hath all that I desire.”

“You are our very dear daughter,” said Agnes, weeping. “That is why we grieve so when you conduct yourself ill.” She enfolded her daughter in her arms. Sybille submitted and managed a sob or two which sounded very convincing.

On Sunday as they came out from Mass Sybille contrived to walk beside Richard.

“I wished to walk with you, Richard,” she began with a great air of frankness: “I wished to tell you my regrets for my misgovernment the other evening. I do not know what demon hovered over me—had you not every right to make a gift to your cousin?”

“Cousin?” said Richard, perplexed.

“I understand that Emmott is distant kin of your father,” purred Sybille.

“It is the first I have heard of it,” said Richard bluntly.

“Why,” said Sybille, looking modestly down: “She is—she is—on the wrong side of the blanket, as they say. But Askrode kin.”

“You are mistaken, I think,” said Richard coolly, looking back over his shoulder to where Emmott walked with Elfride, who was babbling to her.

“It was my mother who told me,” said Sybille. “So we should be very kind to her on account of her misfortune.”

“Indeed you are right,” said Richard.

His tone was rather dry, but Sybille was not dissatisfied. The barb was planted.

“Father,” said Richard.

“Yes, my boy,” said Thomas. It was vexing to be disturbed when he was busy with his accounts, but (rather to his surprise) he found he loved his son better than his rents, so he put a finger
on his place in the column of figures and looked up. Richard was leaning forward with his arms on the back of a chair facing his father. “Yes, my boy,” repeated Thomas.

“I am told that Emmott de Greenwode is some bastard kin of ours.”

“Who told you that?” said Thomas, frowning.

“Sybille.”

“It is an ill matter for a young maid to know, and much more ill for her to speak of it to a young man.”

“Mistress Agnes is not the wisest of mothers, I trow,” said Richard shrugging.

“That is so.”

“Then it is true?”

“Aye, it is true.”

“Whose child is she?” said Richard sharply.

“My cousin Richard's. Her father was killed in France. Her mother died lately.”

“Why is she not here with us at Askrode? It is a shame to us that she is not in our household.”

Thomas hesitated. He did not wish to be disloyal to his wife, but could not bear his young son to think ill of him.

“It was your mother's wish,” he said at last.

Richard frowned.

“She is not well at ease where she is,” he said. “Emmott, I mean. Can you not persuade my mother to change her mind?”

Thomas considered. “Not in this matter, I fear,” he said. “Be content, Richard.”

Richard exclaimed and left him.

“You avoid me, Emmott,” said Richard.

It was Christmastide, and there were many guests at Askrode. Down in the great hall there was dancing; up in a corner of the musicians' gallery Emmott and Elfride sat and watched.

“Elfride and I like to watch the dancing,” said Emmott.

“Do you not like to dance yourself?”

Emmott hesitated, and Elfride said with a giggle:

“She is afraid to vex Sybille.”

“I am not afraid, Elfride,” said Emmott quietly.

“Sybille dances beautifully,” said Elfride on a wistful note.

“Sybille is very beautiful in every way,” said Emmott with sincerity.

“That is so. And yet, I do not wish her to stand at my side all my life,” said Richard.

His voice was low, and he bent to Emmott's ear that she alone might hear him. Emmott looked up at him, her great brown eyes wide with astonishment and some other feeling. For a moment they gazed at each other. Then Richard spoke.

“Do you lack courage to dance with me, Emmott?” he said.

“No!” said Emmott.

“Then come,” said Richard.

He offered her his wrist; very quietly she laid her fingers on it—they were slender, well-formed fingers, Richard noted with satisfaction. He led her down to the hall. Elfride, leaning over the balustrade, giggled happily.

“But it is absurd, it is ridiculous, Richard,” said Dame Joanna. “You who might marry anyone in the county! You, an Askrode, to marry some little bastard in rags. Come, son, it is beyond belief. You will be the laughing-stock of the neighbourhood.”

Richard, who stood before his parents in an easy attitude with his arms folded, laughed cheerfully and said nothing.

“Why should you want to marry this Emmott?” said his mother crossly.

“She is my fancy, mother,” said Richard.

“I do not admire your taste.”

“You do not know Emmott, mother.”

“I have seen her in church. If she resembles that little vixen Sybille!”

“She does not resemble Sybille in the least,” said Richard impatiently. “Why should she? She is an Askrode, mother; do you remember?”

Joanna looked aside.

“If there is love between them, wife,” murmured Thomas.

“You are too soft-hearted, husband,” said Dame Joanna sharply.

But she felt a moisture in her eyes. She had always loved Thomas and he had never loved her; though Thomas was a kind and courteous husband she knew what it was to experience wedded life without love. It seemed perhaps he knew what it was, too.

“Have you said aught to the girl, Richard?” she asked.

“Yes and no,” said Richard cheerfully. “I have not mentioned marriage, but I think she knows my meaning.”

“You think!” said his mother in scorn.

“She knows,” said Richard, colouring.

“She will have no dower,” lamented Thomas.

“I did not know Askrode was so poor, sir,” said Richard easily.

“We do not know her well enough, Richard,” said his mother, gazing at him fondly. How could any girl resist a youth so fresh, so fair, so well-spoken!

“But you can easily come to know her, mother,” said Richard eagerly. “She is a good embroidress; you can invite her to visit us, to help fill in the background of that altar cloth about which you are always complaining.”

“You have arranged it all between you,” snapped Dame Joanna.

“No; it was my own thought,” said Richard.

“Leave it a while, Richard, and we will give it consideration,” said Thomas.

“Oh, father!” said Richard impatiently.

“Meanwhile I will ask the girl for a day or two to help me with the altar cloth,” said Dame Joanna.

“My thanks, madam!” cried Richard, jubilant. He bounded forward and kissed his mother's hand, then bounded out of the door. His pleasant young voice could be heard outside the windows, whistling cheerfully as he crossed towards the stables.

“Well, at least it will not be that ill-governed little vixen Sybille,” said Thomas. “But it is disappointing.”

“He may change his mind after a day or two in the house with her,” said his wife grimly.

“There are so many other marriages in the neighbourhood, more suitable,” said Thomas, beginning to enumerate them.

“I am disappointed in you, Richard,” said Sybille, in a haughty disapproving tone.

Richard coloured. Agnes, looking daunted and perplexed, had gone to seek Emmott to make Dame Joanna's invitation known to her, and Elfride having trailed after her mother, Richard and Sybille were left alone. He had expected to receive coldness from Sybille, reflected Richard, swearing silently to himself, but an open attack like this was awful. However, he had flirted with her perhaps a little more than was entirely decorous, so he must take what she chose to give him, as best he could. He bowed, and feeling truly sorry for the girl if she had laid any hopes on him, blurted out with all the sincerity of his warm heart:

“I regret it most truly if I have caused you vexation, Sybille.”

“Oh, there is no vexation to
me
,” said Sybille. “It is no concern of
mine
. But you do wrong, Richard, to court a girl you cannot marry. It is not fair to Emmott.”

“And why can I not marry Emmott?” He spoke calmly, but he was furious.

“She is your cousin. You are within the fourth degree of relationship—indeed I almost think you are within the third. Marriage within such relationship is forbidden by the Church.”

There was a long pause.

Richard stood motionless. But his face changed before her eyes. His jaw set, his lips tightened, his cheek paled, his eyes lost their laughter, a frown appeared across his brow. He held himself more stiffly. The lively careless boy had grown into a man. Sybille gazed at him, appalled.

“How did you discover this, pray?” he said at last.

“I thought of it—and asked Sir John,” faltered Sybille, using the customary formal title for a parish priest. As Richard said nothing, she regained a little courage, and continued: “It does not matter whether the paternity is legitimate or not. You are still blood kin.”

“You know all the words,” said Richard.

“It was in confession,” panted Sybille. Suddenly she threw all
discretion to the winds, and screamed: “Your children would be illegitimate!”

There was another long pause.

“I am infinitely grateful to you for this information, Mistress Sybille,” said Richard at length. His voice was harsh and cold. “Much distress has thereby been avoided. Now, if you will excuse me, I will escort Mistress Emmott to my mother.”

“That is what Sir John says. So you see we shall have to obtain a dispensation,” said Richard. “It has been a rule these two hundred years, and before that the rule was even stricter.”

“What is a dispensation?” asked Dame Joanna.

“Permission to set aside our impediment of blood kinship and marry, from the Pope.”

“From the Pope? In Rome?” cried Dame Joanna, aghast.

“Even so.”

“Richard, you should give up this marriage,” said Thomas soberly. “It is not that we would not welcome you, Emmott. You have become dear to myself and my wife. Is it not so, Joanna?”

Dame Joanna snorted but did not say nay; Richard gave a rather grim smile.

“It is not fair to Emmott,” said Dame Joanna. “To obtain a dispensation from Rome will, I am sure, require months, perhaps years.”

“Will you wait for me, Emmott?” said Richard, looking directly at the girl.

“Yes.”

“And it will be very costly,” said Thomas, shaking his head. “I remember meeting a man in Hudley once who knew a man who obtained a dispensation from Rome to release him from a mere betrothal, and this man said his proctor in Rome asked for a thousand ducats.”