“But what are we to do?” demanded Francis. He sat down on the settle again, his head in his hands. “What are we to do?”
“I suggest,” said Eleanor, “that we hold the dinner—without Sybil, of course—and tell our guests the truth and ask their advice. Andrew Shearer can’t marry her, but perhaps they know of someone who will. Let’s be candid. Then the truth can’t creep up behind us years in the future and do any harm. These things…well, they do happen. Owen Lanyon’s father was a love child, after all. But everyone respects Owen well enough. He won’t refuse to know us, and nor will any of the others. I’m sure they won’t. They’re all our friends and some are kinsfolk. They’ll want to help.”
After a very long pause, Francis said, “Very well. Very well. I’ll get rid of the Shearers—that I will do. Sybil must stay in her chamber. I will neither see her nor speak to her. And we will tell the truth to our friends and family.”
Eleanor said reassuringly, “We will find a way through, my dear. Somehow. You’ll see.”
CHAPTER THREE
A Remarkable Occasion 1535
The four families who attended that remarkable gathering at Allerbrook House on 16 March 1535 all arrived in good time, in happy expectation of a festive dinner and the pleasure of congratulating young Sybil Sweetwater on her appointment to the court.
They were startled to discover that Sybil, who should have been the centre of attention, was nowhere to be seen, while their hostess, Eleanor Sweetwater, looked harassed and her husband, Francis, their host, had a distracted expression, a bruise on his jaw and a spectacular black eye.
The first to ride in, though their home at Mohuns Ottery in Devon was the farthest away, were Sir William Carew and his wife, Lady Joan. Lady Joan was a picture of elegance, but Sir William, though he represented a leading Devonshire family, was an earthy and outspoken individual with a broad Devon accent.
Having dismounted, aimed a kick at the gander and helped his wife to alight, Sir William came up the steps to where Eleanor and Francis were waiting to welcome them, looked in candid amazement at Francis’s face and said, “God save us, who’ve you been a’vightin’, then?”
“It’s a sorry story,” said Francis, leading the way indoors. “I’ll tell it in full when everyone’s here.”
“Ah, well, you’m still in your twenties—suppose you can still give an account of yourself. Wait till you get to your forties, like me.” Sir William actually looked older than that, his face too flushed to be healthy and his hair and moustache already turning grey. “What’s the other man look like?” he demanded.
Eleanor, who had been taught by her parents that a lady should always retain her composure, no matter what the circumstances, carried the situation off as best she could and tried to satisfy at least some of Sir William’s curiosity.
“My husband had occasion this morning to order one of our tenants, Andrew Shearer, who has—well, had—a farm of ours, on the other side of the combe, to surrender his tenancy. Master Shearer took exception and there was a fight. The Shearers will be gone by tomorrow, however.”
“Shearer looks worse than I do,” said Francis, with a certain amount of grim humour. “But not entirely because of my fists. His wife joined in. With a frying pan. Applied to him, I mean, not to me.”
“Good God! Reckon the story behind this must be interestin’, sorry or not,” said Carew and his wife said, “My dear Eleanor, how tiresome to have this happen just now. But where is your sweet Sybil?”
“The tale concerns her,” said Francis, “and that’s why I want to wait until the other guests are here before I explain in full. Meanwhile, my sister Jane will show Lady Joan to a bedchamber—ah, there you are, Jane. Look after the Lady Joan, please. But no gossiping!”
The next to arrive was Francis’s distant cousin, Ralph Palmer, who rode in alone. “Your father is not with you?” Francis asked, forestalling any comments on his battered face.
Ralph, who was young and good-looking, dark haired and dark eyed, was studying his host’s appearance with evident amazement, but took the social hint, restrained his curiosity and said, “No. Father is having an attack of gout and couldn’t make the journey from Bideford.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said Francis gravely. “Please convey our sympathy when you go home, and wish him a quick recovery.”
“Certainly, Cousin,” said Ralph, equally gravely. He added in a low voice, “It may be as well that he can’t be here. I am sorry for him, but he is still very interested in the Lutheran teachings and it can be, well, uncomfortable when he insists on talking about them to people he doesn’t know well.”
Ralph himself was a merry soul with a flirtatious reputation, but his father, Luke Palmer, at sixty, was a known blight on even the happiest occasions. Luke’s principal interest in life was religion and being what he called godly and most other people called tediously righteous. He disapproved of dancing and he hardly ever smiled.
His interest in the new Lutheran heresy which was beginning to be called Protestantism was also a worry to his relatives. It was an unsafe point of view, since some prominent Protestants had been put unpleasantly to death. Conversation with Luke Palmer could be embarrassing at the best of times, which this certainly was not. Francis Sweetwater would not have dreamed of saying so aloud, but he was not sorry to be spared both Luke’s tendency to heretical remarks and his probable comments on Sybil.
The next party to arrive was the Stone family, consisting of Master Thomas Stone, his wife, Mary, and their daughter, Dorothy. The Stones had just taken on the lease of Clicket Hall after the previous tenant’s death.
Clicket Hall, which stood on a knoll overlooking Clicket, a mile away down Allerbrook Combe, had once been called Sweetwater House and had been the home of the Sweetwaters until they decided that they liked Allerbrook House better. Francis had changed the name to Clicket Hall because first-time visitors were often confused into turning up there instead of riding on up the combe. The Stones had leased the hall because Mistress Mary Stone had cousins in the district and wished to see them sometimes. Thomas Stone, however, was actually the owner of extensive property in Kent and was better educated, better connected and a great deal better off than Francis.
Since the Stones were new to Clicket and had not hitherto met any of Francis’s womenfolk, the first thing Master Stone did was to assume that Jane was Sybil, and greet her with kind congratulations.
“I’m afraid this is my younger sister, Jane,” said Francis. “You will not after all meet Sybil today. A most unfortunate thing has occurred—involving Sybil and also involving me in a fight this morning, hence my half-closed eye. This is my wife, Eleanor…”
“Isn’t Sybil going to court after all, then?” asked Dorothy. She was sixteen, short and pale and somewhat overplump. She was dressed in crimson, which was too bright for her complexion. Her tone, regrettably, suggested pleasure in the girl’s trouble, rather than friendly concern for another’s disappointment.
Her mother and father frowned her into silence and Dorothy subsided, looking sulky. Francis, however, said, “Well, to my regret, Mistress Dorothy is right. Our plans for Sybil have had to change. Do please come into the hall. Seat yourselves around the hearth.”
Hard on the heels of the Stone family came the last arrivals, the dignified, bearded merchant Master Owen Lanyon, whose father had been the illegitimate Lanyon of bygone years. He had journeyed from the Exmoor port of Lynmouth, bringing his equally dignified wife, Katherine, and their fifteen-year-old son, Idwal. Both Owen and Idwal had red hair, and if Owen’s was fading now, Idwal’s looked vivid enough to set a house on fire. They civilly ignored Francis’s face but spoke approvingly of the pleasant aroma of roast mutton which was drifting out of the kitchen.
“One