Haggard (57 page)

'And what penalty would
you
prescribe for the destruction of another man's property?' Haggard inquired, his voice dangerously low.

'Well
...
a fine . . .'

'Which none of them could possibly pay,' Roger said.

'Or a brief term of imprisonment. But to take a man's life because he resents your taking his livelihood in the first place, why, 'tis barbarous, as I said.'

'Aye, well, we have none of that here,' Haggard said. 'Derleth is a happy place. You've seen that, Roger?'

it seems so, Father. And as my father says, my lord, there has certainly been no frame breaking here.'

'You should congratulate yourselves.' Byron leaned back to allow his plate to be removed, it does not really alter the situation. The country is being badly run, and there is an end to it.'

'And how would you change the system, my lord?' Haggard asked.

'Well . . . you've not met John Russell?' 'No,' Haggard said. 'He has Whiggish sentiments, I have heard.'

'Oh, indeed, so have I. You'll not object to a Whig sitting at your table, Mr. Haggard?'

'Of course not. Tell me what your friend Russell would propose.'

Byron leaned forward, his face suddenly animated. 'A reform of Parliament.' 'Eh?'

'Parliament, Mr. Haggard, is the most unrepresentative body in this kingdom. You'll not deny that. Great cities like Manchester, with no representation at all, little villages like Derleth returning a member. Why, man, you are a living example of the system. How many electors have you here?'

'Why . . . twenty odd.'

'All of whom work for you or are tenants of yours. The seat is therefore yours, and your son's after you, for so long as you care to take it up. Now, sir, do you really represent these people?'

‘I
do indeed, whenever there is a matter of importance to Derleth.'

'But do they have any
choice?'
Byron insisted. 'Why should they require a choice?'

'Why . . .' Byron leaned back again, looked firstly at Roger and then at Johnnie, who continued to stare at his plate. 'With the best will in the world, Mr. Haggard, you cannot really claim to
be
one of these people.'

Haggard was frowning. 'And
you
would claim to be one, you mean?'

'By no means. I would never dream of standing for the Commons. I happen to have inherited a barony, and I will take my place in the Lords, to be sure. But in defence of the common man. The man who is being trodden underfoot year after year to pursue this senseless war against Bonaparte.'

The greatest man of our age,' Roger said drily.

'Quite.' Byron did not appear to notice the sarcasm.

'And you consider that if more people had the vote,' Haggard said, leaning forward, 'a different spectrum of the nation might be elected to Parliament, a spectrum which might well choose not to fight the French?'

'I would consider that a certainty,' Byron said.

'And I, sir, think that a slander upon the good name of the British people. What, not fight the French? By God, my lord, was there ever an Englishman who did not wish to fight the French?' He pointed at Roger. 'Tell him.'

Roger considered the matter, remembered the men with who
m he
had worked and fought for so l
ong, men who only wished to be al
lowed to go home. Would Corcoran really want to fight a Frenchman, were he not dragooned to it? Come to think of it, he -ealised, do I really wish to fight a Frenchman? Or anyone?

Byron was smiling,
‘I
think perhaps Captain Haggard agrees
w
ith me.
’

'Roger?'

'I suspect Lord Byron may be right. Father,'
Roger said. The n
ation's policies might well undergo a considerable change were he basis of parliamentary election
be more widely spread. I would h
esitate to say it would necessarily be for the better.'

'Oh, come now, Captain Haggard. Could you honestly sa
y it w
ould be for the worse?'

'Stuff and nonsense,' Haggard shouted. This nation is the
gr
eatest on earth, and shall I tell you w
hy, sir? It is because for the p
ast thirty years the Tories have held power, undisputed. They lave known what is best for the country, sir, and they have guided
i
t to prosperity. The Whigs, sir, are th
e party of disgrace. I'll have n
one of it. I'll have no more of this subject.'

Byron continued to smile,
but now he bowed his head. 'Of c
ourse, Mr. Haggard. My apologies for provoking
an argument. B
elieve me, sir, I shall not mention the matter again.'

A gentle tap on the door, and
Johnnie Haggard's head jerked, h
e knew who it was, of course.
Who it had to be. But would he d
are come here, in the middle of the night?

Byron closed the door behind him
. 'Your father is every bit as fi
erce, and as reactionary, as you painted him.'

'Byron . . . can you imagine w
hat he would say should you be d
iscovered in my room at midnight?'

'He should be grateful. I see yo
u, sitting on the edge of your b
ed, your head in your hands, as you sat throughout dinner, with 'our head in your hands, at l
east metaphorically speaking. W
hatever is the matter? Or do the ghosts of your ancestors rise up o strangle your desires whenever you enter your own home?'

'No jests, I beg.'

Byron sat beside the boy, threw
his arm around his shoulders, g
ave him a gentle hug.
‘I
was not j
esting. I offered to ride home w
ith you, and you accepted with
joy. Now you act as if I am a dr
ag. I shall leave tomorrow.'

'No.' Johnnie turned, viol
entl
y.

'Aha.' Byron kissed him on the nose. 'Things are not so bad as I supposed. Yet shall I leave, anyway. You'd not have me quarrel with your father?'

'Father.' Johnnie pulled away, paced the floor. 'If you
knew.'

Tell me. Else why am I here at all?'

Johnnie stopped, faced the bed. That business I told you of.' Byron nodded.

'I spoke with Alice tonight. She's not as demented as they suppose. She has proof that it was Father commanded the attack on Meg Bold.'

‘I
had never doubted it for a moment.'

Johnnie Haggard frowned at him. 'You never said so.'

'Would you not have punched me in the eye?'

'Well . . .' Johnnie's shoulders slumped. 'Father. I can hardly believe it. And yet . . .'

'It makes sense on every count. It is the sort of thing your father
would
do. Instinctively. Not that you didn't deserve it. Taking up with a serving girl. My dear Johnnie . . .'

'Don't start that again,' Johnnie said. 'I'm in no mood for it. It was a beastly thing to do. If it hadn't happened . . .
’

'You might well have married the wench, and regretted it every minute of your life.'

'Oh . . .' Johnnie's shoulders rose and fell. 'Alice says I should kill him.'

'Who?'

'Why, Father.'

'Kill your own father? Fratricide, amongst the English landed gentry? There would be a tale. Your trial will attract everyone in the land. Standing room only, for twenty miles each side of Derby. I promise you I shall write such an elegy as shall never have been heard before.'

'Must you jest about everything?' Johnnie shouted.

'You'd best lower your voice, or I shall have to compose some more jests, and in haste. If I amuse myself, my darling Johnnie, it is because I never heard anything more silly in my life. You, kill your own father? You, kill John Haggard even if he were
not
your own father? Do you suppose, Johnnie, that if you held a loaded pistol and that redoubtable old man pointed at you and said, drop it, you would not obey him?'

'Oh, Christ.' Johnnie Haggard sat on the bed, then slipped from it and knelt, his head on Byron's knees. 'What am I to do? To live here, knowing what he has done, knowing . . . what am I to
do?'

Byron stroked the boy's hair, it's an unjust business, living. So let us see. Your dad has been an utter scoundrel. But you'll not bring him down by legitimate methods. Not while he backs the Tories and they control the country. Revolution? There would be fun, eh, Johnnie lad? Rape and pillage and murder. Your father hanged in his own porch. Oh, what
fantasies
it conjures up. The trouble with revolutions is that you never can tell where they will end, who will eventually be cut down. I'll wager Desmoulins never supposed he'd lay his head on the block. But still, the old monster should be punished . . .'He snapped his fingers.
'Hit him where it will hurt most.'

'Eh?' Johnnie raised his head.

'Money. Your father worships only money, so you have told me, and so I have heard from other sources. Why, it is said he only reigns supreme in this valley because everyone is in his pay, in some form or other. So there is how you can hurt him, with no risk to yourself.'

'How?' Johnnie was frowning with bewilderment.

'Smash his frames.'

'Eh?'

'Oh, go the whole hog. Burn his mill.' 'You're joking.'

'I'm not. What could be better? He prides himself on having his people well in hand. Why, you yourself say he manages Derleth as if it were Haggard's Penn in Barbados. Believe me, to have his factory destroyed would shake him up. He'd never be the same again.
That
would be a punishment.'

Johnnie Haggard slowly pushed himself to his feet. 'Bum Father's mill? We'd be hanged. You heard him at supper.'

'Oh come now. He may be an old monster. He'd hardly hang his own son. Anyway, how could he possibly know it was you? Another case of Luddism.'

‘I
'd need help,' Johnnie said.

'You'll not lack for that, surely. What about these Bold people?' They hate me.'

They hate you because of what happened to the girl. But if you were now prepared to avenge her . . . you told me they were spinners themselves. They have a grudge on that score as well.'

'He'd cut me off without a penny.'

'Only if he catches you, Johnnie. Who's going to even
suppose
it could be you? It could be Luddites from anywhere.'

Johnnie Haggard sat on the bed, chewing his lip.
‘I
suppose it
could
be done.'

‘I
t could and it shall. Listen. Strike while the iron is hot. You want to get over to Plowding first thing tomorrow morning, see these Bold fellows, and tell them what you plan. I'll wager they'll follow you.'

'You'll come with us as well?'

Byron smiled at him. 'I'd be no help to you, Johnnie boy. What, with my game leg? But I'll be here to make sure you have an alibi. It'll be as simple as falling off a horse.' He threw his arm around Johnnie's shoulder. 'It'll be great sport. And it'll make you a man again. And your father will never
know,
there's the beauty. He'll think it was a judgement from Heaven. Damn, we'll
tell
him it was. Oh, it will be sport.'

CHAPTER 5

THE MAGISTRATE

A twig snapped, and Johnnie Haggard shuddered. What dreadful memories that sound brought back to him, memories which had in any event been clouding his brain throughout this journey. But he made himself remain still in the saddle, although it was difficult not to shiver in the early morning chill. His horse pricked up his ears inquiringly.

'By all that's holy,' Harry Bold said.

'Maybe he's coming after Meg again,' Tim remarked.

'Aye, like a dog after bitch's scent,' Harry growled.

They carried cudgels as well as their fowling pieces, were spaced as usual, one to either side of the nervous horse.

'Weil not let him go, Pa?'

'Not 'til he's felt the weight of my stick,' Harry said. 'You'll get down, Mr. Haggard. And don't suppose we'd not drop you.'

Johnnie dismounted. Sweat was pouring from his shoulders. But he kept his teeth gritted so that the men would not see his chin tremble.

'Weil treat you better than what you let happen to Meg,' Tim said. 'You may use your fists. Against me. You let me. Pa. I'll tan his hide for him.'

'You can have first go,' Harry agreed.

Johnnie licked his lips. 'Please,' he said. 'I came here to see you. To speak with you.' To his relief his voice did not shake. 'Oh, aye?'

'What brought you, then?' Tim demanded, it's about Meg.' 'Oh, aye?'

Once again his throat and lips were dry. He licked, and swallowed,
‘I
know who attacked her.' They gazed at him.

‘I
t's true,' he said desperately. 'Alice found out. She . . . she and I have been hunting for them these past two years, and we've finally found out.'

'Who are they, then?'

'They're not important,' Johnnie said, it's the man who paid them to attack Meg. To attack me. It's him you want.'

That makes sense. And your sister has found this out as well, has she?'

'Yes.'

'Well?'

‘I
t's . . . it's Father.'

Once again Bold exchanged glances with his son. His fingers tightened on the stock of his gun. if I really thought that . . .' it's true.'

Harry Bold's brows drew together. 'Haggard? Don't give me that. You're his son."

'But he knew I was courting Meg. He wanted to end it.'

'You could have been killed.'

‘
I could have. But they didn't harm me.'

Bold looked at his son. Tim shrugged. 'Could be.'

'Proof,' Bold said. 'Where's your proof?'

'Would I accuse my own father if I didn't know for sure?'

'Who were the men did it?'

'Well, Peter Wring, and the gamekeepers.'

'Wring,' Harry Bold growled.

'But you don't want them,' Johnnie insisted. 'It's Father you want.'

'Your own Pa?' Tim inquired. 'You want us to kill your own Pa?'

'Kill him? I said nothing about killing him.'

'Oh, aye,' Bold remarked. 'You'd not have him killed. What do we do, write him a letter of protest? Take Squire Haggard before Magistrate? He is Magistrate, boy.'

'Listen.' Johnnie found himself panting. 'Don't you think I thought of killing him, too, when I first found out? Don't you think I hate him as much as you do? I know now that Alice was always right, that he is a horrible man. I want to hurt him. I want to avenge Meg as much as you do. But killing him isn't the answer. For one thing, you'd . . . we'd be caught. We'd be hanged. What kind of revenge would that be? Don't you see? We must do something which can't be traced back to us. We must smash his frames.'

'Smash frames?'

'And burn the mill, as well.
’
Bold frowned at him. 'Bum mill?' That'll hit him where it most hurts.'

'And you don't suppose arson is a hanging offence? So is frame breaking, nowadays.'

'But he'll never suspect us,' Johnnie said urgently. 'It'll just be a case of frame breaking spreading to Derleth. He's sure it could never happen here. It'll really upset him when it does.
’

'Burn mill,' Tim said, half to himself.

There's watchmen,' Harry Bold said.

'One man. And I'll tell you something else; the watchmen for the mill are Father's gamekeepers. So we'd be getting our own back on them as well.'

Harry Bold pulled his beard. 'You'll be riding with us, Mr. Haggard?'

'Of course I will. I'll set the torch with my own hands. But there must be no guns. No bloodshed.' 'Oh, aye?'

'Sticks. No one must ever suspect it wasn't just a case of frame breaking.'

Harry Bold hesitated, then nodded. 'All right, Mr. Haggard. We'll do it next time Peter Wring is watchman.'

'I said there's to be no killing,' Johnnie insisted.

'Who said anything about killing?' Harry demanded. 'But you'll not stop me blacking his eye. You find out when he'll be there, and tell us.'

Johnnie chewed his lip in indecision. But having taken them into his confidence, he
had
to trust them. 'All right.' 'Where'll we meet?'

'In the woods beyond mi
ll. At one in the morning.' 'We’l
l be there. Mr. Haggard. Just name the day.'
‘I’ll
let you know.' Johnnie Haggard mounted his horse, rode into the trees.

There's a turn up,' Tim commented.

'Aye. Little bastard.
1
don't know what he's at, Tim, boy, but we're going to damn well make sure we gets what
we
want, eh? You leave it to me.
’

Roger Haggard sat his horse in the trees, used his telescope to watch the turnpike and the wood beyond, and the little cottage. Carrying out a military reconnaissance, he thought. Captain
Haggard, on duty. His heart pounded more painfully than at any time in Spain.

And his arm was free of the sling, today for the first time. He could move the fingers; the severed tendons must be on their way to mending. It really was a quite miraculous cure, but it carried with it the concomitant that he must soon return to the Army. Only a week ago he would have been happy to do so. Time enough to come home to Derleth for good when the war was over, when he had had a little more time to acclimatise himself to the prospect of spending the rest of his life here, of being squire. For the moment he felt like a fish out of water. His mind told him that everything Father did was right, that only by creating wealth and more wealth could England remain as strong as she needed to be; and he knew wealth could in the main only be created by wealth. But his heart told him there was something wrong with the way Father was doing it. There had always been something wrong. It was surely wrong to extract the wealth of sugar from the sweat of slaves, just as it was surely wrong to extract the wealth of cotton and the wealth of coal from the labours of people prevented from ever enjoying noonday sunlight, from playing cricket when the weather was fine, from enjoying life in proportion to the work they put into living. And the two were irreconcilable. Therefore it would be best to go away again and return when he had decided irrevocably on which side of the fence he wished to take up his position.

As if there could ever be any doubt on which side of the fence Roger Haggard would have to take up his stance.

But that had been last week. Now he wished to stay here forever. Now the thought of returning to the horror that was Spain lay across his happiness like a leaden bar.

His happiness. He had not supposed ever to use such a word again. But he was happy. He could laugh, and he could sing. And he could sit his horse here, for nearly an hour, waiting and watching, feeling the slow growth of pleasure as he watched her come out of the back door of the cottage, her chores completed, and walk, with apparent casualness, across the little vegetable garden, before stepping into the wood.

He touched his horse with his heels, and it obediently moved forward. No drumming of hooves to alarm Emma. He had been prepared to do that, had Meg decided against coming. But she was there.

Meg Bold. A small, red-headed elf, whom life and his own brother had treated abominably. How could he hope to put that right? And why, indeed, after his fine words, had he not forced Johnnie to accompany him to kneel before the girl and humbly beg her pardon. He had not really wanted to do that, had been relieved to learn that Johnnie had already left the Hall this morning, saddled up and gone no man knew where. He had leapt to horse himself, supposing that the young scoundrel might have anticipated matters and ridden over to Plowding. But he had not possessed even that much courage.

He was a strange lad. Certainly quite lacking in spunk. He would sit at dinner, thinking to himself, for the most part ignoring everything that was said around him. Roger doubted they could ever be friends. Certainly not after last night's quarrel.

He had entered the same stand of trees as Margaret. Now he drew rein, and waited. She was the country girl. She would find him, when she was ready. If she wished. A fine sweat gathered on his brow.

'Good morning, Captain Haggard.'

He dismounted, released the reins. Cavalier was too well trained a mount to wander far.

Meg came through the trees, pushing auburn hair from her forehead with her right hand, threadbare blue skirt held from the ground with her left. Her feet were bare, the toes dusty. He had a sudden agonised thought that no doubt she went barefoot in the rain and the snow as well. But they were beautiful feet.

Thank you for coming,' he said.

'It is a long ride, from Derleth,' she said seriously.

'A worthwhile one.' She was close enough for him to take her hand. She looked down at it, curiously, lying in his, but made no effort to withdraw it.

'You've news of Alice?'

'She will be well.'

‘I
can't stay long,' she said. 'Ma will miss me.' 'You'd not make me ride twelve miles, just to turn round and go back again?'

She made no reply, and very gently he rested a hand on each shoulder.

'Johnnie hasn't been here? Has he?'

'Johnnie?' She stepped backwards so suddenly and so violently he had no time to release her; his hands scraped across the bodice of her gown, and she gave a little shiver. But she did not move away, and his hands once again settled on her shoulders.

'He came home yesterday,' Roger explained. 'And went out again early this morning.'

Her cheeks were pink. 'He'd not come here, Captain Haggard. Pa would kill him.'

'And what would you do in his defence?'

Her eyes flickered. 'I don't want him to come here, Captain.'

Still she had not moved, and Haggard's hands were on fire. He must either step away himself, or he must bring her into his arms. Her face was only inches away; he could feel her breath.

'What
do
you want, Meg?'

Her eyes came up, great blue-green pools.

'Suppose . . . suppose I were a wizard, Meg,' Roger said, 'and could grant you any three wishes. Now, there is something to think about.' He attempted a smile, but the girl's face was entirely serious. Her lower lip sucked in beneath her teeth for a moment. Tell me,' he said.