The Grove of Eagles

  “No, father.”

  “Ralegh shall hear of this: we’ll laugh over it together! And Cecil. It will show how high my position and responsibility is rated by Spain.” He hesitated a moment, sat again in his chair, which creaked a welcome to the familiar weight. “ No, well, well think of that … In the meantime breathe no word of this outside.”

  “I am sworn not to.”

  “For see, Maugan, I have malicious enemies whose tongues, given taste of this offer, might wag to bad effect. So have a guard on yourself.” He laughed again, again lightly, but the timbre was metallic. “It is as well if Godolphin does not hear of it or he might have some fear for his estates. And Hannibal Vyvyan …”

  I said: “There is one more thing I was charged to do. It was to give you this.”

  “What have you there—an amulet?”

  “No, it is a ring with a seal on it of the Spanish royal arms. I was told to give it to you and to ask you to return it with your reply. This will prove that it comes from you.”

  “So they expect an answer? And who’s to carry it?”

  “That they would not say. I was afraid for my life they would wish me to carry it back, in which case I should have been no better off for the journey. But they did not. They would send a messenger when the time comes.”

  “When the time comes … From that I’d gather they mean no attempt on England this year. Or perhaps it is a trap to lure us to sleep—as in ’ 88 when the news was spread deliberate that they had given up the attempt, just as they set out.”

  “It will come,” I said. “They are all set on it. It is the one thought in their minds.”

  “Ah. As Ralegh said. Unless they can be stopped. The forward party at Court presses for a preventive raid on the Spanish ports—such as Drake performed seven years ago. But whether it will come to fruit I don’t know. Cecil plays for time and peace. Essex breathes fire and would fight the world. Ralegh brings up his new-born son and plants trees at Sherborne. We shall see.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “A knighthood, indeed,” said my father. “Godolphin and Trelowarren, Enys and Trefusis …”

  Now that the message was out I felt immensely lighter—and relieved. And the relief, though in part because the message was safely delivered, had also to do with its reception. I would not have admitted it then in so many words, for to be a traitor is unthinkable. So one did not think of it. All one thought of was the many men in financial straits or torn by conflicts of conscience who would not have flung such an offer contemptuously away. And although Mr Killigrew never suffered with his conscience, there was no question but that he was in straits. More servants had gone since Christmas and meals were the poorer by half. Of course, having been myself in straits often since, I can see now that his economies were half-hearted and without method. He had the true attitude of the aristocrat towards money: he was never really able to learn to see his wants as governed by his means; it was always his means which had to be adapted to his wants. He would buy an expensive horse or a jewel that took his fancy or dice with anyone who called. Only the best wines passed his lips. I soon discovered that he was involved in another complicated affair of the heart with a Mistress Margaret Jolly of Tregarden and spent much time and money in her pursuit. These were activities he made little effort to curb. Yet his smaller economies cut into the comfort of the house, and there is no doubt that he intended them to save more than they did.

  “Yes,” said Meg Levant. “We all thought you was dead. Drowned or killed or put to the galleys which is death deferred. I cannot b’lieve tis you safe, unharmed by all they foreigners. Did you get to know the Spanish girls?”

  “Some. They seemed much the same as ourselves.”

  “Fancy. And how you’ve growed! And how thin y’are. I mind tis no time since you was below my shoulder. Now I’m beneath yours.”

  “There’s been times, Meg, when I’ve wished you were.”

  “Naughty. But twas always your way to put on some mock.”

  “It is not all mock. So you’re wed to Dick after all, eh?”

  “What d’you mean, after all? We was pledged at Christmas and wed proper in Church St George’s Day. There’s no after all ’bout that!”

  “Dear Meg, it was but a turn of speech: He is away today?”

  “The old wagon broke Saturday, so he’s gone to Truro with Tom Rose to buy some new axle pins. He’ll be ’ome ’ night.”

  “He’s a fine fellow, Dick. I’m sure he’ll make you a good spouse.”

  “Ah, hark at the old man! Give me your blessing, will you, Maugan? Dear life, I mind you since you toddled and you was always old-fashioned. This Spanish time has not changed you. But then all our babies be growing up.”

  Ever since I first knew her, Meg would retreat behind a superiority of age if I took liberties. Yet today there was a shrillness in her voice as if she meant it—or wanted to mean it—as if she were willing herself to draw away from me. Now she was married there could never be the same easy comradeship again. Something in her look today gave the impression that all was not well about the withdrawal, or as if perhaps she was not quite at ease with her new life. Dick was very likeable, but perhaps the vein of buffoonery in him took the romance out of his love making. Meg was a romantic girl, living when her endless duties allowed in a world of knight errants and fair maidens imprisoned in castle keeps. If a story-teller came to the house she was always the first to listen.

  “All our babies are growing up.” I saw this on the next Sunday, a week after my return, when we walked to church. John was already as tall as his father. Thomas, a year younger, was square-shouldered and squat with his father’s cleft chin and a rolling bandy walk, a musical boy who played the lute well and sang; Odelia, auburn-haired and frail-looking—yet in fact a tomboy—pretty with dimples and a wide bewitching smile; Henry, aged 11, had eyes so thin-set over a hawk nose that he looked sinister and sometimes the oldest of the lot. Then came Maria, just six, bulging with puppy-fat that squeezed up round her eyes and swamped her pudgy nose; nobody could detect the beauty she was going to be. The last to walk in the procession was Peter, not quite 4, and he cried because it was so far, but as his mother was not there no one took notice of him until I set him on my shoulders, and then Father glowered. Perhaps he knew that Peter cried often and got his way. Perhaps he foresaw that Peter in some measure would always get his way. The two youngest of all, Elizabeth and Simon, were permitted to stay home.

  I wonder now what my father would have thought if he could have seen into the future that Sunday morning as he strode vigorously along followed by his clutch of young eagles. Would he have been surprised and pleased to know that three of his sons would receive the knighthood which he had missed, and whose missing he so much resented? And would he have guessed which? Stiff, sober, formal John for whose betrothal he was already scheming? The morose but artistic Thomas, half doer and half dreamer? The acquisitive Henry, old before his time and full of claws? The sinewy Peter, slender and quick and noisy as a weasel? Simon, now attached to life so insecurely but later to be the fighter? William yet unborn?

  Perhaps he could more easily have foreseen his own shabby end.

  Chapter Five

  Directly after church I told my father about the letter I carried for Thomas Arundell’s sister and asked permission to deliver it. Mr Killigrew was then much occupied with a Baltic hulk which had just been brought in by a Plymouth fly-boat. The hulk was carrying pitch, tar, woodland cordage; these being contraband of war were subject to seizure, and my father was in haste to go down in case there might be some pickings for us, so he nodded impatiently to my request.

  Mrs Killigrew, down for the first time since the birth of her eleventh child, said I might borrow Copley, her favourite pony. I was at the ferry by six, but the ferryman, a black-bearded dwarf with hands like squids, at first refused to get the larger boat out. We wrangled but when I had paid him fourpence he pulled the boat away from the side and I led Copley trembling into
the box at the back. Then I had to help row, for the tide was strong.

  The sun was sunk into the trees before the thatched roof of Tolverne showed. The last hundred yards of the path was much overgrown with brambles as if it hid been scarcely used this summer, and Copley was nervous as small animals stirred in the undergrowth and birds twittered in the low branches above his head. Even though there had been no rain today the track was miry, and ferns and weeds were rank with moisture. In the yard of the house the cobbles were slippery with mud, and a great pool submerged the half of it. As I jumped down Jonathan Arundell ran out. When he saw me he stopped and looked nonplussed, but by now I was used to this greeting.

  “Maugan! But we took you for dead. You were taken by pirates or Spaniards!” He peered past me. “ This is a happy surprise. Since when are you home?”

  “Seven days ago. You see I’ve not waited long to call.”

  “No …” He looked past me again as he patted my shoulder. “This is good news. Come in, come in. Did you come by the ferry? You saw no one on the way?”

  “Except the ferryman who scowled like a murderer. You were expecting visitors?”

  “Yes. My uncle. And Thomas. They should be here before night falls. What brought you safely home?”

  I told him as he led the way in. The house was dark and seemed empty, but while talking I hoped and prayed Sue would suddenly step from some doorway. He stopped to call a servant, who came with a lighted candle and began to light others. Jonathan looked thin and ill. In the galleried hall the remains of a meal were on the table. The candles stained the greying daylight, and portraits grimaced on the panelled walls.

  “Is Sue here?” I said, breaking into his talk because I could wait no longer.

  “Sue?” He frowned and rubbed a hand over his forehead.

  “Sue Farnaby.”

  “Oh … No. She left. She left in May. Maugan, there is much to explain, and since you must lie here the night I shall try to explain it. Throw your bag on that chair. Sit down. You’ve eaten?”

  “Not since dinner. But I can take something later. Why did she leave? What is wrong?”

  “All is wrong, Maugan. Our lives have been sliding downhill for two years. You remember how Sir Anthony was at Christmas when you were here. Well, it has gone from bad to worse. Thomas swears he is mad, but that’s not true; my father is torn apart in conscience and belief, and his struggle has become our struggle so that we as a family are torn also, brother against brother, sister against sister-in-law!”

  “It is all to do with religion? What had Sue—”

  “As a young man my father was as staunch a Protestant as any Killigrew; but as the years have passed the old religion has attacked him like a canker, creeping upon him and upon us.” Jonathan twisted his face. “For my part, Maugan, I cannot seem to feel religion that deep—if the truth were told I do not find myself hostile to some of the old forms and beliefs: for me they have a beauty that the new way of worship lacks … But I would not live or die for either. Perhaps it’s a weakness of mine. Thomas thinks so. All I’m concerned for is a happy home, especially for Gertrude, my wife, who has the feelings of her father. So …” He shrugged. “So it went on for a time, a smouldering pot sending up the occasional bubble of steam. As Thomas has grown to manhood he has hated all the things my father is now devoting his life to. A sterner Protestant than Thomas never drew breath … Oh, he has some reason on his side. Sir Anthony has become less cautious; people have talked; it’s a matter of time before he comes into conflict with the sheriff’s officers … Thomas has lived on tenterhooks, says it should not be left to a sick man to lead his family into disgrace. My mother … well you can see how she is torn. Then in January a Godfrey Brett came to stay. He is still here and pretends to be my father’s secretary. I trust I can tell you this without fear of its being repeated?”

  “Of course.”

  “He came, and—well one has to acknowledge that he is a fine man, and little Elizabeth has been much influenced. Her father naturally encourages it. So that is the way of it. Gertrude at loggerheads with my sister. I with my brother. He with my father. Oh, I tell you, it is a picture of a united family that I draw for you, Maugan!”

  “And in all this,” I said, “why did Sue Farnaby leave?”

  “Her aunt at Malpas was ill, and she went to nurse her. But I think she wasn’t happy here. Who would be?”

  “And she is there now?”

  “I don’t know. Maugan, things have come to the boil this week. Thomas has become more and more restive, and yesterday he made some discoveries which set him blazing. He stormed off to Uncle Francis with the idea of having Sir Anthony put under restraint. It’s an impossible position for us all, Maugan! In a manner I agree that Thomas is acting in the best interests of the family; yet it is not his place to do it! Neither mother nor I will move; but Thomas has no love or respect for anyone—except himself. Sometimes I feel I would rather go to prison with my father than prosper in Thomas’s company …”

  A servant came in. “ There are horses, coming, sir.”

  “It will be them, I imagine. Stay here, Maugan, I’ll go and greet my uncle.”

  I had not seen Sir Francis Godolphin since he came to Arwenack with Mr Trefusis. With him was Thomas, grown almost as tall as I and half as broad again, Thomas of the round soft face and the bland, eyes and the hard mouth. They exclaimed at sight of me, and then when the ladies came downstairs there were more cries of surprise and pleasure. At least, give Thomas his due, he put on no pretence of being pleased to see me; I think he had no feelings either way; there was other business on hand.

  All the women looked haggard. Gertrude was still not with child: it was going to be perhaps as Thomas had predicted. Elizabeth’s eyes were red, and her mother’s too. Lady Arundell, although she must have borne the brunt of all this trouble, greeted her brother with composure, indeed rather coolly. It became clear that Sir Francis was here at his young nephew’s invitation not at hers. After their first congratulations to me there was an awkward silence which was broken by an offer of food and wine, which Sir Francis refused until he had seen his brother-in-law.

  “Oh, Anthony?” said Lady Arundell, as if her husband had been far from her thoughts; “ He is upstairs. He’s well, though he was not quite in the best of spirits when my—my son rode for you yesterday. Yes, he’s well enough. You shall see him presently.”

  “Thomas brings me sombre tales. It is true, is it that Godfrey Brett is still here? He must be taken, Anne. It’s no longer safe to house such creatures, as you must know …”

  He stopped at the sound of a foot on the stairs. Sir Anthony in a long blue silk housecoat led the way, and behind him, stepping on his shadow, was a tall thin man of about forty in the correct black milan fustian of a secretary. Sir Anthony walked with a stick now and in some obvious difficulty, but he would accept no help and greeted his brother-in-law in a composed and controlled way.

  “Maugan, too? But I thought you were lost to us. Well, happy that you’re not. Let Thomas take your cloak, Francis; you must be tired after so long a ride. I trust all’s well with you.” To a servant: “Cover the table, Banbury, and bring food and wine, and water for washing.”

  We talked a few minutes, and they all found some outlet in questioning me, until two servants returned with a basin and ewer and towels. In this Sir Francis washed, and after him Thomas and I, while the table was set. Presently we sat down to eat, while the others stayed at the table talking to us. In all this Godfrey Brett sat politely at Sir Anthony’s elbow, not speaking but discreetly present.

  It was not until I mentioned that I had met Thomas Arundell in Madrid and had a message for his sister that Sir Anthony showed any signs of stress.

  “Ah, so Thomas is well. We parted in anger many years ago. Perhaps now we should see things more as one.”

  “It is on that subject that I come to talk to you, brother,” Sir Francis said. “Later when the meal is over we should retire together and talk it o
ver.”

  “Talk now if you wish,” said Sir Anthony. “I have no secrets from my family. Maugan Killigrew is the grandson of my guardian. Godfrey Brett is my close confidant.”

  “Too close,” Thomas muttered, but Godfrey Brett, though he must have heard, did not even raise his eyes.

  “Thomas,” said Sir Anthony, “ though yet 18, thinks to grasp the reins I hold—though if they were to drop from my hands they would go to Jonathan. Thomas affects to believe that the stresses I have been under have affected my judgment. Oh, do not deny it, boy, I’m not blind yet, nor deaf.”

  “I don’t deny it, father,” said Thomas grimly. “ It is why I went for Uncle Francis.”

  Sir Francis Godolphin stroked his, grey beard. “I think, Anthony, in spite of what you say, that we would do better to talk of this in private.”

  “It will not be without Brett, that I can tell you.”

  The servants had gone from the room. Elizabeth was breathing sharply as if she had been running.

  “Then so be it,” Sir Francis acknowledged patiently. “ But since it must be in front of Brett, then I have to tell you that for the sake of your family you must be rid of him.”

  “You presume to dictate whom I shall employ as my secretary?”

  “Oh, come, brother. You know he is more than that.”

  I saw Sir Anthony’s hand begin to tremble on the stick he still held. “What passes between Brett and me is the concern only of ourselves.”

  “There you err. In these days it cannot be. To rid yourself and your household of his—his tutelage must be the first step.”

  “A first step to what? To eternal damnation?”

  “I’m not expert at theological argument; but I know, as you do, the laws of this land. We know what happened to Tregian when he was found harbouring a papist priest.”