Death be Not Proud (11 page)

“Henry had brought up his surviving son and heir to be a dutiful and God-fearing young man who believed it his Christian duty to serve God, his father and his country, using the gifts he had been given. After graduating from Cambridge, he came back to help run the estate but, when things were looking sticky – politically, I mean – he joined one of the military bands in the area, much to his father's dismay. He became a formidable swordsman and had the respect of officers and men alike. Well, in 1642 tensions grew between the king and Parliament – I'm sure you know all this – but trouble was also brewing between the brothers. William used his allegiances as an excuse to threaten the family seat by the River Chater. The house has long since gone, you know – there was only a pile of rubble when I was a girl, and that must be almost a century ago.” She sighed and I nearly bounced in my seat in an agony of anticipation. “William drew together a band of hotheads and their men – they gave the Royalist cause a terrible name – such a shame…” I groaned out loud. “Yes, yes, I'm getting to it, my dear. William and about forty men marched on the house one night; the flames from their torches could be seen from here, you know; they quite lit up the sky. Henry was too ill to do much more than stand, but his son…”

“Matthew,” I whispered, seeing him there.

“Yes, Matthew – met them at the gatehouse with as many men as he could muster in the short space of time. He had
little warning – the gatekeeper had fallen asleep; he was an old man and Henry had kept him on out of pity. Anyway, William liked his nephew and had no quarrel with him and invited him to join him as his heir. Matthew, of course, declined and made a counter-offer that, if William withdrew immediately and sought terms of peace with Henry, then the matter would be forgotten. William had been drinking as usual and he was full of bravado and, in any case, he didn't wish to lose face in front of his comrades, who were happily cheering him on since it wasn't
their
fight to lose. William jeered at Matthew and threatened to give him a thrashing, but Matthew stood his ground, although the household staff were outnumbered. William grew more and more angry with his nephew, who still refused to give way; it seemed that he would defend his home with his life, if that was what it would take – how dashing! The scene became increasingly hostile, when Henry at last rose from his sickbed to plead with his brother, fearing for his son's life. He promised William half his estate if he would withdraw, but William saw Henry's weakened state and pushed the advantage. There was a harsh exchange between the brothers, with Matthew trying to make peace, but then a trigger-happy bandit let loose his pistol and the bullet struck the wooden bridge, just missing Henry. Well, my dear, all hell broke loose, so to speak. Matthew drew his sword and would have killed the man there and then if he had been given free rein, but his father stopped him. William lunged forward to attack his unarmed brother, but Matthew leapt between them, although he'd only had time to don a leather coat and neckpiece – oh, what's it called, the bit that protects the neck?”

“Do you mean the gorgette?” I offered.

Mrs Seaton nodded and her whole body shook with her
vehemence. “I do so hate getting old – it quite turns one's head to porridge. Anyway, as Matthew turned away to protect his father, his uncle struck him from behind, like the coward he was… are you all right my dear?”

I could feel my eyes staring in abject horror, my hands covering my mouth to prevent a moan of alarm from escaping. My voice strained where I had been holding my breath.

“Yes – carry on.”

“If it hadn't been for the leather… oh, what
do
you call it… the jerkin thing they wore beneath their armour…?”

“Buff coat.”

“Ah, yes, well, if it hadn't been for the buff coat and William's inebriated state, Matthew would have been killed outright. As it was, the weight of the blow knocked him to the ground, but he managed to turn just in time to raise his sword to ward off the next strike. By now, the whole bridge swarmed with William's men. But Matthew had trained the household staff well over the previous months, and they took defensive lines, protecting Henry on Matthew's orders and taking him back behind the walls. Gradually, with a few guns on the defensive wall, William's men were driven off the bridge – they didn't have the guts for a protracted fight. But William was as stubborn as his nephew and at last they faced each other. Now, William had been drinking, it's true, but he wasn't so far gone as to not be able to put his years of brawling to good use. Matthew was younger and well trained, but not as heavily built as his uncle, and he had a damaged shoulder from the first blow – he couldn't use it properly. He was quick on his feet though, and he dodged the sword as his uncle brought it down on his head. William tried to wear Matthew down by raining blows on him in quick succession, but Matthew was too quick and too skilled for him and, as
his uncle raised his arm to strike again, he thrust his rapier up into his unguarded shoulder, and down William went.”

I breathed a sigh of relief but Mrs Seaton hadn't finished. She adjusted her posture and pulled the sleeves of her worn cardigan down over her bony wrists.

“Everyone thought the fight over and William's men retreated – even his so-called friends – disappearing without waiting to see what happened to their leader. Matthew hadn't intended to kill his uncle, just stop him, and he went to help him get up, but at that moment, William struck, piercing Matthew through the lacing of his leather coat, stabbing straight into his heart with his long knife – it had a special name, my husband said – main…
main gauche
. Matthew collapsed and his uncle actually laughed at him as he lay dying in front of him. Can you believe it, my dears?
Laughed
at him.”

The blood drained from my face as I watched Matthew bleed to death in front of me, and my heart faltered; it wasn't Matthew – at least not
my
Matthew – after all. If this man died in the seventeenth century, as it seemed he did, what wild goose had I been chasing, and what sort of insane fool did that make me? I drew my hand across my eyes, willing my mouth to work.

“But… but then, why wasn't his death recorded in the parish records, since everything else had been so well documented?”

“But that's just it!” Mrs Seaton exclaimed, clapping her hands in delight. “He
didn't
die. His men carried him into the house with the knife still in his chest, expecting him to take his last breath at any moment. His father sat by him all night and the following day. And the next. And the next. Matthew remained unconscious but alive for weeks and weeks, and then, one day, over a month later, he woke up and spoke.
People thought it a miracle, my dear, and he even had a visit from the bishop and a special service of thanksgiving.”

The goose wasn't looking quite so wild after all.

“He
survived
?”

“Yes, against all odds, and gradually – as he grew stronger – people began to forget the miracle. But then the rumours began.”

She paused to take a sip of her now cold tea, taking a lace-edged linen hankie from her sleeve and dabbing at the tide-mark around her lips. “That's better!” she exclaimed.

“Rumours?” I prompted, never for one moment taking my eyes from her face, as if doing so would break the spell she cast over us.

“Ah yes, the rumours, my dear. Matthew grew stronger and stronger and he began to take risks…” She hiccupped delicately. “Oh, I do beg your pardon.” She waited for it to settle, then continued. “It was almost as if he were testing himself to his limits – testing God, some said. It was the height of the witch trials and ugly rumours began to circulate, some saying that it hadn't been a miracle at all but that he had made a pact with the devil. Well, you can imagine – in a climate of fear like the one that prevailed at the time…”

Imagine? I didn't need to – it had formed the basis of my research for years. I shivered involuntarily. “What happened?”

She sank back against the upholstery. “Nothing.”

“Nothing at all?”

“Nothing. Matthew disappeared, and all the fuss died down. His father died sometime afterwards – in despair, it was said.”

Silence hung like a shroud, the gentle decay of the old building around us mirroring the decline of a once proud house.

She shook her head. “No wonder the tomb was desecrated and his name obliterated; his poor father.”

“Poor Matthew,” I murmured.

My father broke through our reflection for the first time since Mrs Seaton had begun her tale. We both looked up at him in surprise, forgetting he sat there. His thick-set shoulders hunched forward with a challenge in them.

“Who recorded it? How is all this known in such detail?”

That was a very good question and one I might have thought of myself if I hadn't been so preoccupied.

“There
were
lots of witnesses, of course, but the estate manager – the steward – oh, what was his name? – your grandfather did tell me…” She flapped an insubstantial hand, trying to conjure the name from the air.

“Richardson,” I supplied.

“That's the chappie – well, he was the main witness at the trial and he recorded everything.”

“Whose trial?” my father and I both asked simultaneously. Mrs Seaton plainly thought it obvious.

“William's, of course. He
was
the ringleader and the attack
was
unprovoked and the local Royalist families didn't want their cause tainted by his renegade actions. Even if Henry Lynes was a Parliamentarian, his reputation and standing in the area meant that William's behaviour caused outrage among Royalist and Parliamentarian factions alike. And as for the way he attacked his nephew – well, my dears, nobody tolerated cowardice on
that
scale. Richardson had William taken into house arrest, patched up and handed over to the local militia or magistrate or something, and held for trial.”

“You said that Richardson was the main witness and that he made a record of the event; where is it now?” I asked, thinking of the journal.

“Did I say
he
recorded it? Oh dear, how very imprecise of me. No, it was his
evidence
that they recorded, along with the other witnesses. I think it must be in the county archives, or it might not have survived the war – I'm not sure. Your dear grandfather would have known, of course. But it is part of our local history, as well as the family's, and it's what my husband remembered being told by his granny when he was a little boy, and she by hers. It was just considered a small skirmish at the time – outrageous, of course – but not important in the grand scheme of things.”

No, I could see that it would have faded into obscurity along with the family, both a footnote to the much more significant events of the time.

“So they executed William?” I said.

“Yes, and the male line died out, or at least it supposedly did. But you say you know a descendant? Where – is he local? I don't believe I've heard of anybody of that name around here.”

I felt my father fix his gaze on me, watching for signs that I might be cracking up, no doubt. Perhaps I was.

“No, the Matthew Lynes I know is an American doctor; I must have been mistaken. His name is just a coincidence.”

I saw, out of the corner of my eye, my father look askance at my lack of consistency.

Mrs Seaton's face took on the aspect of a disappointed child. “What a shame! Wouldn't it have been thrilling if he had been a descendant of
our
Matthew Lynes after all.”

“Or William Lynes,” I pointed out. Whatever my thinking, no way would I share those thoughts with anyone else, especially since my sanity was one white coat away from having me committed. “There might have been an illegitimate line through William.” A thought struck me. “Matthew
would have been what – thirty-two, thirty-three at the time of the attack; wasn't he married?”

“No, not married. He had been at Cambridge, you see, studying divinity – or was it medicine? – before he took up arms. Anyway, he hadn't married…” I drew a silent sigh of relief, “… but he was engaged. To a Harrington heiress, I believe.”

My relief was instantly replaced by a warm flood of unprovoked, indefensible jealousy that rose to burn in my cheeks. I looked down and pretended to fiddle with my shoe. Mrs Seaton went on, oblivious.

“By the time Matthew – I am
so
glad you've reminded me of his name after all these years – by the time he recovered, the girl's family had broken off the engagement and she married someone else.”

I couldn't help the trickle of satisfaction I felt, and silently admonished myself for my selfishness.

“If no male heir survived, what happened to the lands?” asked my father, ever practical in these matters, since he found himself in the same position. Last of the D'Eresby male line, our family name would die with him unless I married a man willing to adopt my name. I chewed my lip, thinking the likelihood of that looked distinctly remote.

“… And the lands were bestowed on the older sister and her heirs, but not the Lynes
name
, of course,” Mrs Seaton was saying. “But the house wasn't lived in again, and it fell into disrepair, with much of the stone robbed. I believe this building has a fair amount in the new wing. I like to think it lives on in this old pile, although for how much longer I really couldn't say. Once I'm dead, I doubt that my son will want the bother of the old place.”

She appeared quite matter-of-fact about the matter but, as she sat there all vital and sprightly, I couldn't imagine her
not being part of the building, a living embodiment of its history and nearly a sixth of its age. Perhaps she would imbue it with some of her spirit, as some of my forebears resonated in the walls of my own home.