Tales of the West Riding

by

Phyllis Bentley

Faithful and True (1434)

Episode in the Tower (1641)

Malice of the Soul (1845)

An Old Maid's Story (1880)

A Question of Background (1930)

The Hardaker Affair (1962)

A Note on the Author

William de Greenwode and Thomas de Askrode, men of like age, had always been friends, though their social position was somewhat different, Thomas living on his rents and being Constable of Askworth, and William earning his livelihood as an ordinary cloth-maker. Moreover, an unlucky fall from his horse a few years ago—in 1430 to be exact—had left William with a limp and a slightly distorted arm, which made his weaving slower; sometimes indeed for days together he could not weave at all, for the pain in his arm. He had no son to help him, so his circumstances were rather diminished from what they had been in his youth, while Thomas's had flourished.

For though the two had married quite suitably in the same year, William had married for love and Thomas for interest. At the time of the weddings, Thomas thought William's wife Agnes a pretty, silly little piece, always in a flutter and though a goodish cook having no sense about money, and he had seen no reason to change his opinion in the past twenty years, during which several childbirths—the children all died but two—and a few miscarriages had faded Agnes's golden hair and drawn lines on her fair foolish face. On the other hand, William at the time of the weddings thought Thomas's wife Joanna a shrewd capable woman but hard and pompous and plain as a piedish, and he had seen no reason to change his opinion in the past twenty years, during which her scanty hair became scantier, her plain face plainer, and her liking for the last pennyworth out of every penny and her high view of her own dignity, more and more notorious. Each man knew the other's opinion about his wife, though they never referred to it; both occasionally gave a rueful chuckle in admission of its correctness, but concluded that on the whole they were each pretty well satisfied.

The results of their matrimony were in William's case a strangely beautiful girl named Sybille and another girl, Elfride, and in Thomas's case one child only, a handsome, lively, carefree, rather dashing son, good at all manly sports, the darling of his mother and indeed of the whole neighbourhood, called Richard.

“I would pay you for her board, Will,” said Thomas.

The two men leaned on the wall—Thomas's gold chain clinked against the stone—and gazed at William's oats, which were ripening nicely.

William flushed.

“Are you trying to do me a charity?” he said.

“No, no,” said Thomas. His denial was so calm that his friend believed it. “I am asking you for a service. Where she is now she is not well at her ease, you understand. It is not suitable for one of her birth, now that her mother is dead.”

“She is a bastard, you said,” observed William.

“Aye, that is so. But she is my cousin's child, after all. I ever liked my cousin Richard well, you remember.”

“You called your son after him,” said William.

“I did. Perhaps that was not very wise. I should be unwilling that my son should take after my cousin,” said Thomas. His tone was perhaps slightly interrogative.

“Richard is a good lad and will settle in good time,” said William firmly.

“I am indeed in hopes of it,” said Thomas. “But meanwhile, he is wild at times. His mother spoils him.”

“And my wife too.”

This exchange meant, on Thomas's part, “It were well for you to look to your daughter,” and on William's, “I have an eye to the matter.” Both men nodded, understanding each other and satisfied with what they understood.

“This girl—I have forgot her name—”

“Emmott.”

“This Emmott—is she coarsely nurtured?”

“No, no! She is a gentle, well-mannered girl.”

“Comely?”

“Well, yes and no. Not plain, you understand. Pleasant. Of a fair complexion, with brown hair, mild in speech. She governs
herself well. But no beauty. Later we can find a match for her, some decent honest poor man. I will dower her.”

“But, Tom, why do you not take her into your own house? You have more room there than I at Greenwode, it would cost you less, and the girl would be useful to wait on your wife.”

“My wife will not have her,” said Thomas with a grimace.

“Ah,” said Will, acknowledging the efficacy of this obstacle. “But why?”

His mind's eye went back over the years and he saw himself and Joanna and Thomas and Thomas's cousin Richard in the days of their youth, before cousin Richard went off soldiering to France and got himself killed there. It came to his mind that in those days Thomas's handsome dissolute cousin had almost laughed Thomas out of his proposed marriage with Joanna. “She cannot bear to house her enemy's daughter,” he thought. “Such wounds never heal.” He wished he had not asked: “Why?” But Thomas was already in his reply.

“She says folk will say the girl is my bastard, if we house her.”

“They are more like to say that if you put her with us here.”

“I do not mean that anyone shall know aught of the matter, or who put her here. I had thought, Will,” said Thomas, looking aside, “that she might be known by the name of Greenwodes You can call her cousin.”

“Humph!” said Will with a grin. “My wife will think she is
my
bastard.”

“Nay, Will, she knows you too well.”

“Thomas, you are acting unwisely in this affair. The girl is your cousin's bastard; say so frankly and have done. Folk will respect you if you take her into Askrode; they will make endles guesses if you put her here.”

“But my wife—there is Richard, you see,” said Thomas. “A young girl always about the house—you know, Will, how opportunity can give rise to error. Our serving maids are always chosen to be elderly.” He chuckled in spite of himself, then checked into a sober tone. “My wife will not have this Emmott, and that is that.”

“And what about
my
wife? I must tell her the truth, Thomas, and her tongue is not always well guarded.”

“I will pay you handsomely for the girl's board, Will, and if
her fatherhood becomes known in the neighbourhood, I will move her. Discretion should, therefore, still your wife's tongue.”

William exclaimed angrily and struck the wall with his hand.

“Money does not buy everything, as you believe, Thomas,” he said. He looked his friend straight in the eye. “Tell me, Thomas, tell me true. Is the girl your child?”

“No, no,” said Thomas wearily. “By Our Lady, on my soul, Will, she is my cousin's.”

“Well—I will take her. When will she be here?”

“She is in York. I desire you should fetch her. I will pay for all, of course.”

“I must do it, I suppose. But, Thomas, I warn you, no good will come of this.”

“On my head be the evil,” said Thomas soberly.

“Nay, Tom, in truth it is on your wife's.”

“I think it is on my cousin Richard's,” said Thomas Askrode with distaste.

Meanwhile Sybille and Richard were having a teasing match in the barn.

Sybille was supposed to be looking for eggs laid “out” by a hen which had lately developed this tiresome habit, but in reality she was merely stooping about here and there in graceful attitudes. Richard leaned against the open door watching her, his fair good-humoured face sparkling with laughter. He was not unconscious of the agreeable figure he made in his best figured houppelande, fashionably short, belted in blue to match his hose, with the wrists of his blue doublet showing just an inch or two below his huge hanging sleeves, furred with martin. He had donned this finery for Sybille's benefit, but was more interested in Sybille's appearance than his own.

He could never quite make up his mind whether Sybille was truly beautiful or no. Her slender body was certainly very shapely; he was well aware, thought Richard, grinning cheerfully, that all this stooping and stretching was done to reveal its shapeliness to him—but her colouring was odd. Sometimes her thick smooth hair seemed a glorious dark red-gold, like the sun on a misty morning, but sometimes it merely appeared a rusty red. Her
eyes were undeniably green, but beneath her thick long red-gold eyelashes, had a strange fire; her cheek, oval, not plump, was golden in hue and a miracle of smoothness. Richard desired greatly to touch this cheek if he could do so, as he expressed it to himself, without putting the wrong thoughts into the girl's head. But perhaps they were the right thoughts? Richard was not sure, and an honourable man owed it to himself to be scrupulous.

Sybille on the other hand was entirely sure. The thoughts that it would be good to marry Richard de Askrode, good because of his handsome person, better because of his good lands and substantial rent-roll, had been firmly established in her sharp little mind for some time.

“You are not very successful in your search, I fear, Mistress Sybille,” said Richard in a teasing tone. “After all this searching, only one egg to reward you.”

“Those who do not help should not carp,” replied Sybille, pouting.

“You refused my assistance when I offered it.”

“Should the heir of Askrode hunt eggs?”

“You know how I dislike to hear such words,” said Richard, colouring.

“From everyone or only from me?”

“From you most of all,” returned Richard with his best air of gallantry.

“Alas, you do not mean what you say.”

“Now you accuse me of falsehood?”

“I did not mean to wound you, Richard,” said Sybille, very soft and serious of a sudden.

She looked up at him meekly, her green eyes shining. Richard took a step into the barn. It was dark and warm within; and through the air floated sweet-smelling motes from last year's hay.

“I am sorry if I gave you pain,” said Sybille. She put a hint of a sob into her voice, and as she had hoped, this drew him nearer.

“Do not think of it again, do not think of it at all,” said Richard, alarmed and ashamed that he should have brought her to tears. “I was jesting merely. Do not think of it, Sybille.”

“Ah!” breathed Sybille on a note of relief. “Thank you, Richard.”

She looked up at him again and gave him a very sweet smile, then lowered her glance modestly. Richard stepped close and laid one hand on her arm.

“He will kiss me,” thought Sybille, and she felt triumph, mingled with a kind of contempt for his open boyish face, now so near to hers. He was easy prey. “Still—he will kiss me.”

And this indeed might have happened, but for a sudden giggle by the door. Sybille, furious, started back from Richard's arm; her sister Elfride's long pale face was there, her pale smooth hair dripping over her shoulders, her eyes merry, her mouth gaping with laughter.

“What are you doing there, you half-wit?” cried Sybille, bounding forward. “Spying on me! Be off with you!”

She struck her sister a sharp blow on the ear; Elfride squealed and gazed at her from astonished, not-understanding eyes, like a scolded animal. She put a hand to her ear and vanished. Scarlet and breathless, Sybille turned back to Richard, who, she saw, wore a look of some distaste.

“I'm sorry, Richard,” she said. “That stupid oaf!”

“She didn't mean any harm, Sybille,” said Richard soothingly. (He thought privately that Mistress Agnes had probably sent her.) “She doesn't quite understand, you know. She's not quite, not quite—”

“You mean she is a half-wit.”

“Well, yes. It is not her fault. I have heard my mother say that her birth was difficult.”

“If you knew what I have to suffer from her, Richard,” said Sybille, weeping. “She spoils things for me.”

“Well, that is how things are,” said Richard vaguely, moving towards the door of the barn. “Forgive me, Sybille, I must take my leave. I have an errand to make for my father in town.”