Devil Water (20 page)

“Wait!” said Ann putting her hand out with a groping gesture. “He needs your loyalty, and Charles, you think only of fighting. He sees many things clearer than you do. Wait, I beg you.”

“Bah!” cried Charles angrily. Then he heard her give a strangled sob, and he heard a choking whisper, “Holy Mother, I cannot understand James either.”

It was nearing dusk when James rode back from Hexham. It had been a sultry day, and there was thunder in the air, but James had no thought of the weather. The interview with Mr. Bacon had been reassuring. The magistrate made scandalized denial of any possible charges against the great Earl of Derwentwater. Why should there be? Oh there was the temporary inconvenience about the horses, of course, and --said Mr. Bacon shrugging -- one must expect muddled restrictions and misunderstandings from a new ministry, mustn’t one! And one must not credit the perpetual rumors of unrest, which moreover nobody could possibly connect with Lord Derwentwater, whose beneficence, popularity, and loyalty were known from the Tweed to the Tyne -- and farther.

James had made suitable rejoinders and taken a courteous leave of the magistrate, but his mood had not lightened nor had his headache gone. Outside Hexham he passed a tavern and on impulse went in and ordered a brandy. He had no wish to talk and had hoped to be unnoticed. A ridiculous hope. The innkeeper was so awed by the honor of serving the Earl that his hand shook. The taproom drinkers all stood up bowing and God-blessing him. Most of these were his own tenants, and James had to force himself to respond easily to their greetings. Then he must buy them all drinks. He escaped after the third brandy. His head was spinning slightly. His thoughts shimmered and blurred, yet were no longer stamping on the ceaseless treadmill which had clattered in his brain for weeks.

When he reached the bridge over Devil Water, he hesitated, aware of a great reluctance to return to Dilston Hall and its reproachful inmates. He turned the horse instead and followed the rough path up the burn. For years he had loved riding through the wild glen, with its steep mossy rocks speared by ferns and bordered with alders and willows, while the bright brown waters tumbled in musical cascades beneath. The glen darkened as he climbed through a copse of ancient beeches and lost sight of the burn. There were fallow deer bounding among these trees, it had been the Dilston Deer Park for how long? For centuries. These trees had seen his ancestors -- Radcliffes, Claxtons, Cartingtons -- ancestors who never doubted themselves, who had been as ready with their swords as with their prayers. With half-closed eyes James let the horse pick its way through the wood, and seemed to feel them near him, the multitude who had once loved and owned this place as he did. But they weren’t
Stuarts,
he thought. And what have I to do with Stuarts except through a King’s chance light o’ love! “Yet what of your cousin?” came the inexorable question again. However it came, you share the same faith and blood. You swore fealty to James Stuart long ago. Long ago -- too long ago . . . The wind caught up the echoing words and sighed them through the fir trees on the bank.

The old nag stumbled along the path out of the wood, and down to the burn again, where the ground spread out in a grassy level nearly surrounded by a horseshoe of rushing water. A few trees grew on this open space, a couple of willows, an oak. There was also the remnant of a crumbling wall, some fallen stones, and a rude cross lying on its side against the oak. Here had been the nunnery in the olden days. Here in this gentle shadowy place had been a cloister. James dismounted and stood near the broken cross, watching the stream as it swirled by. He lifted his head and gazed unthinking at the oak tree, dim green in the failing light.

There was one rusty spot in that mass of green, one leaf that had obeyed the commands of autumn before its brothers. As James noticed it the leaf quivered, it detached itself and floated, balancing and swaying, until it rested on the grass at James’s feet. He recoiled, staring down at the little ruddy spot. Sweat broke out on his forehead. His heart hammered and then seemed to stop. He fell to his knees and crossed himself while the verse he had read in the Radcliffe papers, and then forgotten, jangled in his mind:

When a green oakleaf shall turn red
The last earl shall die in his gory bed.

The fox and the owl shall inhabit his halls,
The bat and the spider shall cling to his walls.
His lands from his house the strong arm shall sever
And the name of his race be extinguished forever.

“Kyrie eleison,”
he whispered, “Lord have mercy on me.” He covered his face with his hands, and crouched on the grass. The minutes passed, shadows deepened under the oak tree. Then mingling with the sound of the burn he thought he heard another voice. It spoke gently the words of the Mass.
“Misereatur tui omnipotens Deus, et dimissis peccatis mis, perducat te ad vitam aeternam.”

James lifted his head in wonder, for the voice seemed not inside him as had been the cruel prophecy. A nebulous gray shape shimmered by the fallen cross. Its flowing robes were nunlike, its face misty against the wavering leaves, and from the figure with its uplifted face James felt an outflowing of peace. He moved, his arms stretched in supplication.

He implored in his heart, “Speak to me again!” and heard the far echo of the gentle voice repeating “May Almighty God have mercy on thee, forgive thy sins, and bring thee to life everlasting.”

“Aye, but what do you mean?” he whispered, his eyes straining to see. There was nothing standing beside the cross. Nothing but the tree trunks and the flat grassy little plain. After a while he got to his feet, trembling. He bent over, picked up the red leaf, and held it in his palm for a moment, then he walked to the brink of the water, and stood looking down. He tossed the leaf in and watched it carried swiftly away by the tumbling ripples. He knew then what the Devil Water had come to mean to him, why it referred not to this beautiful burn but to the black waves which had been swamping him. The devil’s water was uncertainty. No. The devil’s water was fear.

At Dilston Hall the family were gathered uneasily in the smaller drawing room, waiting for the Earl’s return. Ann was on the cushioned seat in the bay window so that she might watch the drive. Charles paced the floor, except when he paused occasionally to take a reviving pinch of snuff -- a fashionable habit he had acquired in London. Lady Mary sat ramrod stiff by the empty fireplace, and fanned herself with rhythmic clicks. It was still hot, the threatened storm had not broken. The old lady’s vast displeasure with James had quite unfairly transferred itself to Ann and Charles, since her inborn reverence for the head of the family had as yet curbed her tongue where the Earl was concerned. So she had ceased speaking to anyone but Mr. Brown, who hovered near her chair and racked his brains for topics which might not lead to the thoughts in all their minds.

“I believe I’ve a new convert,” said the priest brightly. “Will Purdy, my lord’s coachman, has been coming for instruction.”

“Humph,” said Lady Mary. “Pity there aren’t more of ‘em, though I expect you try. By the way, I think, Father, you should know of Peggy, the baker’s wife’s scandalous --”

Whatever Peggy’s sins, the priest was not destined to hear them. Alec Armstrong, Charles’s valet, suddenly appeared in the doorway and said, “By your leave, sir!”

Charles turned in astonishment. Alec was originally a Dilston lad, but he had spent these London years with Charles, and being quick, shrewd, and adaptable had become the perfect valet, and knew his place -- which was not the drawing room.

“What’s ado?” said Charles, staring at the sandy-haired freckled young man whose wide mouth had a humorous quirk to it.

“A young woman ter see ye, sir,” said Alec with the suggestion of a wink. He had assisted at several of Charles’s amours, and knew how to have a bit of fun himself. “Very urgent she is. Won’t tell her business, she’s panting wi’ haste --
must
see ye, sir!”

Ann was so anxiously watching the driveway that she paid no attention, but Lady Mary snorted. “I sincerely trust, nephew, that you’ve not been indulging your deplorable whims up here.”

“If you mean women, Aunt, I have not,” Charles snapped. These troubled weeks at Dilston had provided neither the mood nor the opportunities for dalliance. He preceded Alec into the passage. “Who is she?”

“Haven’t a notion, sir. But she would speak to ye private, so I put her in the brewery.”

There was one candle lit among the great kegs and fermenting vats in the brewery; the light flickered over a woman in a black shawl and patched dress. She gave a cry when she saw Charles, and whispered, “Where’s his lordship? Ye mun warn him! They’re after him, no more’n an hour behind me. I’ve galloped all the way fra Gatsheed.”

“What are you talking about?” said Charles sternly. Then her shawl slipped down and he recognized her. “Nan Wilson?” he said, taken completely aback. “Is it Nan Wilson, Meg’s sister?”

“Aye, and divven’t stand there gawking. Warn his lordship. There’s three deputies from Lunnon, and that foul blackguard’s own bailiffs coming wi’ ‘em to arrest the Earl.”

“He’s not here yet,” said Charles frowning. “And, Mrs. Wilson, how do you know this so positively?”

“Because I wark as servant for Squire Cotesworth, damn his black heart, but I need the pittance, now Geordie’s been sick sae long wi’ the lung rot. Those Lunnon deputies was at table terday wi’ the Squire and I heard ‘em plotting.”

“Sir!” interrupted Alec urgently, turning from the window where he had had his nose pressed to the panes. “His lordship’s here now!”

“Come with me then,” said Charles to Nan. “Tell
him
your story!” For he was not quite convinced by this warning, and he had scant reason to trust the Snowdons, or indeed the Wilsons. He remembered how little Rob had spied on him for days before the Snowdon men abducted him.

Nan nodded desperately. She knew what Charles was thinking.

When they got up to the drawing room, James looked even grimmer than when he had started out for Hexham, but he was patiently answering his wife’s nervous questions. “No, my dear. There was nothing to the rumor, Mr. Bacon assured me . . .”

“I don’t know about that,” said Charles, pushing Nan forward. “Here’s Mrs. Wilson with a different tale.”

“They’re after ye, m’lord,” cried Nan twisting her fingers. “A whole posse o’ ‘em, Squire William Cotesworth’s sending wi’ the London deputies. They’ve a warrant wi’ ‘em. They’ll put ye in jail.”

Ann gave a gasp and ran to her husband, who stood frowning on the hearth rug. Before he could speak Lady Mary rose up to her full height and cried in a great voice, “No doubt my lord would
rather
be safe in a quiet jail than fight for the cause! No doubt that’s what he wants! Here, nephew,” she shrilled, “give me your sword so I may fight for my King, and take my fan instead, ‘tis the only weapon fit for you!” She flung the fan at James’s feet.

His pallor deepened, his jaw clenched. He looked at the fan and he looked at his shaking aunt.

“Your little drama, my lady, is unnecessary,” he said in a steely tone no one had ever heard from him. “I had already made up my mind to join the Rising. And ‘tis no part of my plan to be taken now before I can be of use to it.”

“Thank God,” said Charles, and gave a nervous laugh of supreme relief. The priest touched his crucifix, and expelled his breath in a long sigh. Ann was murmuring brokenly, “Oh, my dear love, I’m glad and yet--oh, I can’t think what ‘twill mean!” Lady Mary’s withered cheeks reddened, moisture came to her sharp eyes. She leaned over with difficulty and, picking up the fan, retired silently to the window seat.

“Ye mun
hide,
my lord! Hurry! ‘Tis why I’m here to warn ye!” cried Nan in anguish, not understanding everyone’s behavior.

“Why
do you warn me?” said James quietly. “I don’t even know who you are.”

“He
does,” she cried, pointing to Charles. “I’m sister to his wife who’s not a wife, I’m aunt to his bonny bairn. Yet not for this do I warn ye, Lord Darntwatter. ‘Tis because I hate Black William wi’ all my soul, and I wish to balk his clarty tricks.”

“She’s speaking truth, James,” Ann whispered, staring at the woman. “Oh, my dear, what are we to do? Where can you go?”

“I know where to go,” said James. “But I’ll need some help. Mrs. Wilson, did you hear them speak of arresting anyone else here?”

She shook her head. “Only you, m’lord.”

“That’s fortunate,” said James with his first smile in weeks. “For alas, Mr. Brown, I was stupid enough to close up the priest’s hole when I rebuilt. As for you, Charles, I’ll need you for a while; then come back here to the others, and receive this posse courteously, telling any lies your fertile brain can invent as to my whereabouts. And you, Mrs. Wilson, I beg you to accept this. I’m deeply grateful.” He held out a gold sovereign, but she stepped back. “I’d rather die,” she said with a toss of her head. “D’ye think a Snawdon’d tak’ money fur a thing like this!”

“Well, no, now I think of it, I don’t,” said James with another smile. “You must not be found here or on the road, they’ll search thoroughly.”

“I’ll to the kitchen, and play beggar woman till they’ve gone,” said Nan. “But they wouldna knaw me if they saw me. Folk divven’t notice sarvants.”

“Where are you going?” Ann cried again to her husband. “I must know where you’ll be!”

“Not now, dear.” James gave her a quick kiss. “Nobody but Charles shall know, you’ll hear later. Come,” he added to his brother, and they hurried from the drawing room.

There were a dozen fully armed men in the posse which arrived at Dilston twenty minutes later. They used guile in their attempt to capture the Earl. An under-sheriff ascertained at the gatehouse that Lord Derwentwater had recently returned from a ride and was in his Hall. At the great front door, they told the footman that they were a delegation from Newcastle come to solicit the Earl’s help in founding a new almshouse. The footman innocently showed them to the drawing room. Here they found a quiet family scene. Two ladies embroidering, the priest and Mr. Charles Radcliffe playing chess in the corner, and no sign of the Earl.