“No, it isn’t. I should think the stonemason hated the prior.”
“I think that, too, but Father Meadowes doesn’t know any more. Liza, I can’t bear it. I can’t go on to become a priest. I’ve made some enquiries, discreetly. It’s unlikely that I can get legally free of the church but I can still run away from it. Will you run away, too, and come with me?”
At any moment the group of girls might move away and her family would see her talking to a young man. Christopher, pointing up at the roof, was apparently instructing her on history or architecture, but that would be a poor protection if the whispers her parents had heard had hinted at the identity of her illicit suitor. But she couldn’t answer him quickly, not over a thing like this. She must say, “Christopher, I need time to think.” She must be sensible….
Christopher…
The sensible thing to do was to say, No, we mustn’t. It’s wrong. The church would hunt us down. My family would never forgive me. I’m sorry, but I can’t.
Unfortunately—or fortunately, and only time would tell which estimate was the right one—she had lost the fight to be sensible. Liza-in-Love and Liza-the-Sensible had striven one with another all through the summer, and Liza-in-Love had won. She and Christopher belonged together. They had met as though they had been moving toward each other since the beginning of time and there was nothing to be done about it. And yet—to leave her family, to abandon her good name for an unknown future with a man she could never lawfully marry…that was as terrifying as jumping off a cliff. Even though she would be hand in hand with Christopher.
She stared at him, poised equidistant between two opposites and unable to speak.
“We could make for London,” he said. “I’ll have to shave this tonsure off on the way—and keep a cap on wherever I go till my hair grows again. I do have some money, if not much. I’ve been saving my pay all summer…half planning. We’ll get to London. London’s very big. We’ll be lost in all the crowd. We might even marry eventually, though not yet because they’ll be looking out for us. The church has a very long arm. We’ll have to find a small church to attend on Sundays and stand modestly at the back. We’ll take new names and for the time being we’ll just say we’re married. Or we might go to France. I speak French well. Sweetheart, don’t be afraid. I’ll make my way. I understand merchanting. I was brought up in the midst of it. I’ll find a merchant somewhere who needs a clerk. Believe me, I will make a life for us!”
There it was again, that vigorous grin. “It’ll be just lodgings at first, but one day we’ll rent a little house. Here or in France, we’ll manage. There’ll be children. Just an ordinary, everyday life, but we’ll be together. If that’s what you want.”
“It’s all I can imagine wanting,” said Liza. And closed her eyes for a moment, so as not to see the rocks at the foot of the cliff, and jumped. “Yes,” she said in a low voice. “I’ll come. But Christopher…even if we can’t marry, can’t we at least take vows?”
He glanced around. The girls were still chattering together; beyond them, the prior was still monopolising the Luttrells and Father Meadowes, and Liza’s family was still deep in conversation with their friends. Rapidly, in a low voice, he said, “I, Christopher Clerk, promise before God that I take thee, Liza Weaver, as my wedded wife.”
Also rapidly and in an undertone, Liza said, “And I, Liza Weaver, promise before God that I take thee, Christopher Clerk, as my wedded husband. There!”
“It’s not valid,” said Christopher. “Not in the eyes of the church. But it’s valid for me, my love. When and where can we meet? I’m often free for a while after dinner, just as I always was, though I do more study now, so the best time would be later than it used to be. About three of the clock would be right, I think.”
“Won’t we need horses?”
“Horses!” For a moment he looked appalled. “Horses—of course! My wits are going, I think. Well, one thing I daren’t do is steal horses from the Luttrells. Can you get hold of any horses?”
“My father has three ponies. We all use them. They’re family animals…as much mine as anyone’s. I don’t think they’ll come after us for horse theft! But Christopher, they suspect something—they watch me these days. Yesterday they wouldn’t let me go out for a walk alone. I can go into the garden, though!” She was thinking aloud. “I could get away over the meadow at the back. That’s easy for you to reach, too. You mean we’d set off at once?”
“Yes.”
“We could meet and go straight to the paddock. Tomorrow?”
“No, Tuesday. Mondays I do some study with the chaplain after dinner and if I don’t appear, he’ll look for me. We need a head start if we’re to get away safely. But Tuesday, yes, unless it’s pouring with rain. If it is, then the first day when it’s not. If Tuesday is dry—then that’s the day.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
FLIGHT
Ned stayed overnight but didn’t broach the matter of Peter’s love affair. Richard did not discuss his visit to Lynmouth, either, and Peter, though he knew well enough where his father had been, asked no questions. The next day Ned left. Peter still asked no questions. Richard, grimly, knew what the boy was up to. He was just going to blank Liza Weaver out of his mind and pretend she didn’t exist. Well, that ploy wasn’t going to succeed. Even if Liza had never been born, Marion Locke was an impossibly unsuitable bride for Peter Lanyon. It was time to talk to the boy again.
This, however, was the day when they and their neighbours went to fetch the ponies in from the moor, to check their condition, separate the foals from their mothers and choose the ones to be sold. It meant rising early and snatching breakfast on one’s feet, with no time for family wrangles. Afterward they would dine with the Rixons, whose farm adjoined theirs farther down the hillside. It would be a late dinner and they’d come home tired, with a dozen chores to do before a hurried supper. There would be no good opportunity in the evening.
However, the matter was so urgent that Richard finally blurted it out when he and Peter were riding close behind the herd as it trotted, all tossing manes and indignant white-ringed eyes, through the narrow lane that led to the Clicket pound. Just then, they were out of earshot of their fellow herdsmen, who were some way behind. Richard seized his chance.
His son’s reaction was pure outrage.
“You’re lying!” Peter said fiercely. “Telling me that Marion’s betrothed herself to others beside me! She wouldn’t! She couldn’t! Betrothal’s serious—it’s nearly as binding as marriage, and—”
“I’ve seen the girl and I’ve talked to her father. I don’t blame you for going head over heels for her, boy, but she’s not for marrying. What you’ve got,” said Richard brusquely, “is an attack of sex. We all get it. It’s like having the measles or the chicken pox. If you wed her, the day would come when you’d be sorry. She’s a lightskirt. I tell you—”
“No, I’ll tell you. If when you were betrothed to my mother someone had called her a lightskirt, how would you have felt? What would you have said?”
“No one would have said such a thing, that’s the point, you damned young fool—can’t you see it? Why, your mother’d hardly as much as kiss me until we’d both said I will. Can you say that of Marion?”
“I’m not going to talk about this. I’m betrothed to her and that’s the end of it,” said Peter, and spurred his mount up onto the verge alongside the track, shouting at the herd to hurry them up, his face averted from his father and likely, thought Richard bitterly, to remain that way for a very long time indeed.
It was all the more annoying because the fury emanating from Peter had almost intimidated him, and Richard was not going to tolerate being bullied by his