Chapter 16
Tatscombe Hall, Wealdshire. 1517
Elizabeth Houghton, the daughter of Sir James and Lady Jane, was pacing back and forth in her chamber. Although the servants kept the room as clean as possible, the floor boards had never looked cleaner than they did now, for Elizabeth's long skirt and robe had been sweeping the floor for the best part of an hour. Unlike her mother, Elizabeth kept her long hair uncovered. Normally well-brushed and glossy, it now looked more than a little unkempt as Elizabeth had been tugging it and chewing on the ends in her desperation. While the rest of the family were concerned about the fate of the silver goblet, Elizabeth was in torment worrying about what her father would do if he discovered that she had disobeyed him.
Sir James was a good and loving father but, in common with all well-born gentlemen in Tudor times, he believed vehemently that young ladies should never have any involvement with someone from a lower social class. Lady Jane may well have had some sympathy for her daughter's interest in handsome young men from any background, but she knew that no good would come of it if the relationship developed beyond a harmless smile.
Some months earlier, whilst taking the air by a small lake which was situated near Tatscombe Hall, Elizabeth had met a shy young man who hastily removed his cap, blushed as she approached, and seemed somewhat tongue-tied. Eventually, when he realised that she was not about to scold him for being on private property, he had managed to say, 'I know I should not be here, my lady, but I do so admire this lake.'
'Indeed, sir, it is an admirable lake, but pray tell me what it is about it that fascinates you so?'
'I . . . I am a poet,' he said nervously. 'That is to say . . . I like to try my hand at writing poems.'
'If you write poems, sir, then certainly you must be a poet.'
'If only that were so,' he said wistfully. 'I think my verse is fair but, as not one person has seen what I have writ, I have only my own humble opinion to rely on.'
'I am but a girl, and you may think my opinion counts for naught, but if you care to show me your verse, I would willingly venture an assessment.'
The young man's eyes lit up. 'If thou would'st do that for me, I would be forever in thy debt.'
After that first meeting, Elizabeth and Robin Miller had met regularly to discuss poetry, art, literature and all manner of other topics. Not once did Elizabeth even think to enquire about Robin's circumstances and social status, although just one glance at his clothes would have told her how much his background was less privileged than her own. She had found a kindred spirit, someone she could talk to, someone who shared her views of what was and was not important. For several weeks the couple enjoyed each other's company until that terrible afternoon when her brother Simon had tried to end their friendship in a manner which she would never forgive.
He had galloped up on his horse bellowing with rage and then, without dismounting, struck out at Robin with his whip. The lash left a cut on Robin's face which, Elizabeth knew, would leave a permanent scar. 'Zounds! How dare you misuse my sister, you scum! Get back to your hovel this instant! My father shall hear of this and, if ever you set foot on his land again, it will be the gallows for you.'
While Robin held his hand to his bleeding face and tried to leave the scene with as much dignity as possible, Simon had turned his wrath upon his sister. 'How can you bring such disgrace upon our family? Yon knave is but the son of a vulgar tailor. The whole shire will think of you as a trollop if they get to hear of this. Get thee home at once!'
Elizabeth had stumbled home crying with shame. She was not ashamed of her own behaviour, but deeply distraught at the sadistic way in which her brother had attacked Robin. She knew that Simon would inform their father — and she knew whose side he would take.
Even now, as she paced her room several weeks after the assault on Robin, Elizabeth felt her eyes burning when she thought of her brother's cruelty and her father's reaction when he heard about the incident. Sir James had made her swear an oath on the Bible that she would never attempt to see Robin again. So far, she had kept her promise, but she had not sworn never to communicate with him again. Every week Elizabeth and Robin exchanged letters. The go-between was Sarah's brother Caleb, one of the stable lads, the one who was now suspected of theft. He adored Elizabeth and would lay down his life for her if she asked him. On one day each week, Elizabeth would hand a letter to Sarah who would secrete it in her pinafore and then, when the opportunity arose, pass it on to Caleb. He, as soon as he was able, would slip away and run the two miles through The Great Wood to the hamlet of Shipfold where Robin lived with his parents and six brothers and sisters. There, Caleb would hide the letter in a hollow tree and retrieve any letter waiting to be delivered to Elizabeth. The arrangement had worked well — until now.
Elizabeth had given a letter to Sarah the previous evening. Sarah had duly given it to Caleb, and Caleb would have crept away with it at dawn. Since then, however, the sun had almost completed its journey through the heavens and was about to set — and Caleb had not yet returned. Not only was there no sign of Caleb but, as soon as he returned, he would be arrested and searched. If he had a letter from Robin — Elizabeth would be found out. 'Where can the foolish boy be?' Elizabeth moaned. 'He should have returned before breakfast.'
Although she was concerned for Caleb's safety she was, she had to admit, more concerned about her fate if the true reason for Caleb's absence was disclosed. Even if a letter from Robin was not discovered — would Caleb tell Sir James where he had been and what he had been doing? In normal circumstances, Elizabeth was sure that he would not. In fact she knew he would not. But if he could save his own skin by betraying her — perhaps he would have no option.
What Elizabeth could not know is that Caleb, having been busy moving hay all morning, had been unable to leave for Shipfold until the afternoon. He had raced through The Great Wood, placed the letter in the hollow tree at Shipfold, retrieved the one which was already there, and dashed back to Tatscombe Hall. He had gone straight to the stable but, instead of going inside immediately, had waited outside to catch his breath. It was as well he had not entered straightaway for, while he was recovering from his exertions, he overheard a conversation which scared him witless. Simon Houghton was announcing to the other stable lads that Caleb was a thief who would be hung when he was caught and that they, if they did not inform the master should the rogue return, would be soundly thrashed.
In a blind panic, Caleb had fled. He knew not what to do or where to go. For the best part of an hour he raced as fast as he could through The Great Wood, managing to ignore the scratches from brambles which reached out to catch him, but finding it increasingly difficult to ignore the pain in his legs. Having already sprinted to Shipfold and back, his muscles were beginning to ache. Eventually, feeling that he would collapse if he ran another yard, he slithered to a halt by a huge oak tree and leant his back against its massive trunk. He had no idea where he was and didn't know whether he'd been running in a straight line or going round in circles. He closed his eyes, flicked his head to shake off the runnels of sweat which were pouring down his face, and panted like a dog lying in the grate before a blazing fire.
What was that! His pumping lungs had barely had time to slow down when Caleb fancied he heard voices. He ducked down, crept on all fours towards a huge bramble bush and peered carefully through the tangled briery mass.
He could scarcely believe his eyes. Indeed, he could not comprehend what he saw. 'May God preserve me!' he whispered. 'What are those creatures?'
Terrified at what he had seen, Caleb pressed himself to the ground and wished that he could stop his heart beating so loudly. They cannot be of this world, he decided. They must be demons. They are riding steeds the like of which I have ne'er seen before. Gleaming steeds with no heads. Are they sent to seize me?
The voices grew louder. Oh no! They come closer!
Using his last ounce of self-control, Caleb raised his head slightly to peek through the bush. A split second glimpse was all he needed to see that the creatures were standing so close to the other side of the bush that he ought to be able to smell their foul odour. He dropped his face to the ground and froze as one of the creatures spoke.
'What is this I see before me? Methinks it is a fiendish monster.'
It can see me! I am doomed, thought Caleb.
The other creature spoke to its companion. 'Thou canst do magic. I command thee to use an incantation to destroy yon beast. Make it burn! Ignite it with the flames of hell!'
They mean to kill me! Caleb could restrain himself no longer. In sheer terror he leapt to his feet and sped off through the wood. Before he had taken more than a few swift steps, however, he found himself at the top of a steep slope. Unable to stop in time, Caleb flew through the air, hit the ground hard, and rolled over and over until he came to rest at the bottom of a valley. Despite a bruised shoulder and a stubbed toe, he struggled to his feet, shook his head a few times to clear the muzziness, and set off along the side of a river no slower than when he had sprinted to Shipfold. Although he was tired and in great pain, he was able to call upon the hidden reserves of energy which suddenly become available when demons are after your soul.
The sun had set and, as night spread its dark blanket over The Great Wood, it became more and more difficult for Caleb to find a clear path between the trees which were as densely packed in the valley as they had been on the higher ground. When he eventually stopped, forced to do so as much by the pain in his lungs as by his inability to see where he was going, Caleb knew not how far he had run, nor for how long. He fell to the ground in a crumpled heap and, with his chest heaving from the effort of running, gasped until his breath began to return — and then sobbed until he had exhausted his supply of tears.
'I am a fugitive,' he choked. 'How will I ever deliver the letter to Mistress Elizabeth now?'
The letter! He suddenly remembered that he had not checked if he still had it. He slipped his hand inside his jerkin. The letter was no longer there.
At nightfall, when Sarah had brought the candle to Elizabeth's room and placed it on the table, the two girls fell into each other's arms. Although servant and mistress, they felt the need to share each other's sorrow. For a while, neither said anything. Then Elizabeth lifted her head and looked at Sarah. She stepped back and began to wring her hands in despair.
'Sarah,' she cried, 'What is to be done?'
Sarah watched the twinkling of the candlelit tears in Elizabeth's eyes and knew that she could think of nothing which might help. 'I know not, mistress,' was all that she could say.
'Your brother is missing and we know not what may have befallen him. The goblet has not been recovered. Father will call the Sheriff if Caleb returns. My friendship with Robin may be found out.' Her lip quivered. 'I feel so wretched for 'tis all my fault.'
Sarah placed her hand gently on Elizabeth's shoulder. 'Hush mistress. The fault lies with whoever has stolen the goblet. Can you think who it might be?'
Elizabeth had not considered that the goblet might really have been stolen. She had simply assumed that it had been mislaid. Now that Sarah had suggested that there might be a real thief, she began to think who in the house could commit such a crime. It did not take long for her to come up with a name. Who was the most corrupt person she knew? Who cared little for the feelings of other people? Who spent all his money on drink and gambling? Could it be he?
Of course it could.
'It has to be Simon,' Elizabeth whispered as she slumped onto her chair. 'My brother. May God forgive me if I am wrong — but I believe my brother to be the thief.'
Sarah fought hard to prevent her face lighting up in glee. It was many hours ago that she decided that Simon was most likely the thief. Now her mistress was ready to point the finger of blame at the rogue.
'I am sure it is not he,' said Sarah, 'but, if he truly is the one who stole the goblet, how do we prove it? Perhaps we should seek help. Is there one who you can trust?'
Was there someone? Elizabeth thought hard. Perhaps there was. She brightened a little as she said, 'I can think of only one to whom we could tell our tale with no fear of betrayal.'
'Pray tell me who you mean, Mistress Elizabeth.'
'Father John. He is a good friend.'
Father John was the priest at the Church of St Mary in Frogley Heath. He was a kind and generous man who had often given Elizabeth sensible advice in the past. The church was less than an hour's walk from Tatscombe Hall.
It was decided that, on the morrow, Sarah would walk through The Great Wood to Frogley Heath and ask for his advice.