Devil Water Read online

  The Earl’s tenants were jubilant. There had been many fears before he came. Fears of a Catholic landlord who might compel his people to attend the popish Masses in Dilston chapel. Not by law, of course, but a lord of the manor had no need of law to enforce his views. There were subtle ways. Land might be suddenly confiscated, rents might be trebled, roads might be barred so that access to markets became difficult. Some of the village gaffers had prophesied just such distresses when they heard that a second priest was to be quartered at Dilston and saw that the chapel was refurbished with a crucifix, candles, and images of saints.

  But the young Earl pressed his beliefs on nobody, and it turned out that the new priest, Mr. Petre, was no trouble at all. Mr. Brown continued to minister to the scattered Catholics on the estate, and continued to offer most of the Masses, while Mr. Petre was scarcely seen. The castle servants averred that he spent all his time by his bedroom fire, huddled in a fur-lined cape, sipping hot sack, jabbering to the Earl’s French valet, Pierre, and writing interminable letters to France. He did not even accompany the Earl and Charles and Sir Marmaduke on their hunting expeditions or on the initial round of visits to great Northumbrian Catholic houses. Mr. Petre said that his constitution would not stand freezing in the dankness of old Border keeps, or stand a diet of burned mutton. Anyway, since the Earl seemed forgetful of France and the plight of then-rightful king, someone must keep in close touch with St. Germain.

  James did not deserve the rebuke. He prayed constantly for his cousin, James Stuart; nightly he toasted him. Once, in response to a ciphered letter which the priest decoded, he had sent a hundred pounds to James Stuart’s mother, Queen Mary of Modena. But James was too honest not to admit to himself how much he preferred this way of life to the anxious intrigues at the exiled Court, and preferred as companions these staunch Northumbrians, many of whom were his kin, and all of whom made him feel welcome.

  He visited the Erringtons at Beaufront, and then the Swinburnes at Capheaton Hall. He was charmed with the gay Lady Swinburne, played his guitar for her, and even sang French madrigals at her request. Every day he was in the saddle, and whenever there was a thaw during the winter snows he went fox-hunting. He was thrown several times, he injured his leg, his small hands reddened, then cracked and oozed with chilblains, but he never flinched.

  “Wey now,” cried the old Chief of Beaufront, “‘tis a canny laddie wi’ a lion’s heart, a tr-rue Northman we’ve got for Ear-rl!” And nobody gainsaid him.

  James, Charles, and their entourage visited the Thorntons at Netherwitton and then rode to Morpeth, where on Saturday, February 18, they turned North for Widdrington. Lord Widdrington had invited them to spend the Shrovetide at his castle. It was the culminating visit, and Mr. Petre had dislodged himself from Dilston for the occasion. He joined the Earl’s party in Morpeth. The priest was glum, sneezing, and red-nosed yet determined to do his duty. The Earl of Derwentwater was Northumberland’s first Catholic peer, but Lord Widdrington was the second, and the priest had received instructions from St. Germain. His Majesty wished to know all about Lord Widdrington -- the size of his estates, the number of men at arms he might command in case of need, the strength of his loyalty to the Stuart cause. Particularly since the Lord Chancellor’s wife, Lady Cowper, was related to Widdrington, and one wondered if so strong a Whig influence had unsettled the Baron’s allegiance. These matters were known and brooded over at St. Germain.

  Neither the Earl nor Charles shared Mr. Petre’s speculations. Both young men were in high spirits, and eagerly anticipating the Shrove Tuesday ball which Lord Widdrington had promised them.

  “ ‘Twill hardly be like Mardi Gras in France,” said James laughing, “but I’m curious to see how Northumberland holds carnival. Ah,” he added as they saw a forbidding gray stone pile looming up on a hill so as to command a view of the coast as far south as Tyne-mouth, “a splendid stronghold, I see, though a trifle old-fashioned.”

  Mr. Petre snorted. “If it’s had so much as a new window since the time of the Conqueror I’ll eat my cassock.”

  Charles stared with some interest at the stark crenelated fortress, noting the tiny slit windows. Behind them many a bowman had doubtless sheltered in the troubled days when the Scots menaced from the north or there was constant danger of invasion from the sea by whatever enemies England had at the moment -- Saxons, Danes, Frenchmen.

  James, following the same thoughts, said, “They were a brave race -- the Widdringtons. D’you remember ‘The Ballad of Chevy Chase’?”

  “For Widderington my heart is woe,

  That ever he slain should be;

  For when his legs were hewn in two,

  Yet he kneeled and fought on his knee.”

  “I trust,” said the priest dryly, “that this representative of the family would be as zealous in a good cause.”

  Charles, remembering the peevish gouty baron who had played ombre with Francis at Dr. Radcliffe’s, wondered too.

  Widdrington greeted his guests in the great castle Hall. He was flanked by his two young brothers, Peregrine and Charles, and was trailed by his wife -- a faded little woman who cast anxious, spaniel looks at her lord -- and by some of his children, all dressed in new scarlet clothes for the occasion.

  Lord Widdrington still had gout, he leaned on a stick, and he had other ailments which kept his wife and a resident apothecary busy brewing a succession of potions and liniments, but his pinched face was as amiable as his dyspepsia would allow it to be, and though he was already wishing the visit ended he was resigned to the demands of hospitality.

  There were great wood fires burning at either end of the Hall, there were hearth rugs, and velvet chairs, and tapestries over the draughty little windows. There was a tremendous bowl of usquebaugh punch, with toast and scones to accompany it. There was an ample supply of snuff and tobacco in canisters, and Mr. Petre, stuffing his clay pipe, gave a sigh of relief. Not so uncivilized after all, and many signs of the wealth he had heard imputed to Widdrington. Now to sound out his loyalty.

  Lord Widdrington lowered himself into his armchair, waited irritably until his wife had placed a stool under his gouty foot, shoved her away with a sweep of his hand, then said to James, “Well, my lord, we’ve a great company invited to do you honor at the ball. Everyone of merit in the North Country, saving of course such as the Percys and Greys who wouldn’t come if I asked ‘em.”

  Mr. Petre seized his chance. “Why not, my lord?” he asked. “Are they Whigs? Anti-Papists? Or anti-Jacobites?”

  Widdrington jerked his head. His swimming eyes glared at the priest. “Let’s say they don’t see as we do!” he snapped. “And, Petre, a word of advice. Discretion, sir! No awkward questions. Least said soonest mended on -- on any topic which might offend some of our neighbors. You know what I mean?”

  “Certainly, my lord,” answered Mr. Petre with an angry flush. “I doubt anyone has ever thought me a troublemaker, but in this household I thought--”

  “Don’t think,” said Widdrington. “Lent’ll come on Wednesday and you can think for six weeks. Derwentwater,” he turned his back on the priest and addressed James, “I trust it won’t distress you, but we’ve a couple of Scottish noblemen visiting here.”

  “Why, no,” said James smiling. He had been amused at his chaplain’s discomfiture and quite agreed with Widdrington’s obvious wish to avoid political discussion. “I’ve known many fine Scots in France.”

  “Well,” said the Baron, “we don’t like ‘em much in Northumberland, but they turned up here last night on the way to Scotland and I couldn’t very well refuse hospitality. Lord Kenmure’s all right -- a gentle old laird, spends most his time pottering around his place in Galloway, but I’m not so sure of the other one.”

  “Oh?” said James politely, noting that Charles and young Peregrine Widdrington were having a wrestling match in the corner of the Hall and regretting that both his dignity and his size prevented him from joining them.

  “The other Scot’s a Seto
n,” said the Baron. “A very odd fish, seems to have spent his life lurking on the Continent, living like a peasant, even took up blacksmithing, I believe. But he’s just been served Earl of Winton after considerable fuss. Has a woman with him too, he calls his Countess, though old Kenmure say Winton’s not bothered to marry her, unless it’s by one of those flimsy Scotch rites -- Protestant folderol of some kind. Damn it, m’lady,” cried the Baron suddenly turning on his wife, “where’s my posset? There’s the castle clock striking six, and I’ve not had my posset yet!”

  Lady Widdrington gulped nervously and flew towards the kitchen.

  James perceived that his interview with his host was over, and he went to join the other young men who were now playing with a litter of hound pups.

  The Shrovetide passed agreeably for everyone except Lord Widdrington, who retired to his chamber to nurse a new discomfort in his belly, and for Mr. Petre, who was annoyed at his failure to discover the precise state of his host’s Jacobite sentiments. Lukewarm, the priest thought angrily. Even Derwentwater. As for the Scottish lords, they were both Protestants, and tended to avoid the priest altogether. Petre had no opportunity to question them, and he decided that the visit was a failure and there would be nothing of any importance to report to St. Germain.

  He was, however, too pessimistic, and the Shrovetide ball produced developments, one of which changed the whole course of Charles Radcliffe’s life, though it had little to do with the Jacobite cause.

  Shrove Tuesday morning dawned fine and clear. At six all the Catholics went to the Widdrington chapel to be shriven, as was the old custom, and after Mass the “pan-cake” bells began to ring. While the company assembled in the Hall to eat the ritual flapjacks and drink spiced ale, guests began arriving. All day long they came by horseback, in carts, or in heavy lumbering coaches. They came from all over Northumberland; Charltons and Herons from Tynedale, the eccentric Jack Hall from Otterburn, Swinburnes and Middletons and Fenwicks, Shaftoes, Collingwoods, and Claverings. The Forsters came too from Bamburgh -- Thomas Forster, the fat hobbledehoy Protestant squire whom Charles had met in December before setting out for London. Forster brought his beautiful sister, Dorothy, with him and all the young men were enchanted. She had chestnut curls, great wide brown eyes and the prettiest roseleaf complexion in Northumberland. Dorothy was something of a coquette, and when the young people trouped to the village green to watch the rustics play their Shrove Tuesday football game, and then burn a straw effigy called “Jack-o’-Lent,” she was surrounded by a crowd of admirers. Peregrine Widdrington and George Collingwood fought for a place beside her on the bench. James sat on her right and smiled at her with a softness Charles was astonished to see in his rather ascetic brother. Charles, spurred by all this rivalry, was only deterred from trying his own wiles on Dorothy by the fact that his elders had the field. It was only later as he dressed for the ball that he remembered Betty.

  He thought of his betrothed with compunction. Mr. Petre had brought a gay, ardent letter from Betty which had arrived at Dilston. Each day Charles had meant to write her, but the busy moments slipped by. He might start a letter now -- if he could find a writing desk and implements. He turned his head and looked towards the little window, distracted by a noise from outside. A piercing, squealing racket which at first he didn’t recognize. He went to the window, which opened towards the North Sea, but the sound came from the field below the castle. He peered down and saw the light of fires, the shadowy outlines of tents, and figures moving among a herd of donkeys. The Faws, he thought. And one of them was playing the pipes. They all had pipers or fiddlers. He and James had encountered several bands of these wandering tinkers in the last weeks of travel. The first time this happened he had naturally been reminded of Meg and their expedition to see the Faws on Newcastle town moor. But as he disliked reminders of Meg, the impression soon passed, and he did not think of her now while he hurried to prepare himself for the pleasures of the ball.

  This ball at Widdrington Castle was actually a “hopping,” in which the young people romped through country dances or jigged together to the boisterous music of fiddles and cymbals and drums. Charles enjoyed it far more than the decorous minuets he had stumbled through in London, and when he grabbed Dorothy Forster’s hands and bounced her through a lively hay he laughed with exultation. He did not see a swarthy tinker come to the door of the Great Hall and stand quietly watching the dancers. Charles would not have recognized Jem Bailey if he had seen him. It had been dark on the Newcastle moor; Bailey then had worn a large felt hat, and anyway most of the Faws looked alike. But Jem Bailey recognized Charles. His shiny black eyes stared at the boy’s laughing face.

  Lord Widdrington was sitting in his chair, chatting with the Scottish Earl of Winton, a rugged middle-sized man with the pointed face of an otter. Winton’s Seton relations considered him eccentric to the point of lunacy, and were ashamed alike of the tales he told of his wandering life as a laborer and of the mysterious young woman he had suddenly produced as his countess. Magdalen, her name was, and many thought it apt. Lord Winton cared not a fig what anyone thought. He had always done as he pleased, and now in new possession of his title he could jeer at the world when it suited him. “Ye’ve invited a tinkler to your dance, my lord?” he asked in his dry ironic voice, indicating Jem Bailey. “I congratulate ye; they’re better company than most of the gentry.”

  Lord Widdrington turned in his chair, saw Bailey, and rapped sharply with his cane. “Come here you! What’re you doing here?”

  The Faw walked over to the Baron. “Wouldst have me play the pipes, master? I’ve brought m’pipes.”

  “I would not,” cried Widdrington. “Get out! You and all your dirty tribe. I didn’t give you leave to come here.”

  Bailey’s thin lips curved. He went on as though the Baron hadn’t spoken. “M’pipes play bonny tunes, master, that ye might like to hear -- ‘Walton-le-Dale,’ now, is a fine tune.”

  The Baron’s prominent eyes flickered, and he stiffened. “I never heard of any such tune,” he said after a moment.

  “But ye must’ve, master,” pursued Jem softly, “since ‘tis such a favorite o’ your own Townley kin in Lancashire. ‘Twas there I learned it!”

  Mr. Petre had been smoking by the fireside, but he had been watching, and he saw that there was something going on. He edged up close to the scowling Baron, the unperturbable Faw, and to the Earl of Winton, who was himself studying the scene with amusement.

  “Yet after all ‘tis not so much to thee, master, I would play ‘Walton-le-Dale,’“ continued Bailey. “ ‘Tis commanded I play it for the Earl of Derwentwater. Be so kind as to point him out.”

  “That I won’t!” cried the Baron. “Be off wi’ you and your mischief-making!” He brandished his stick.

  “There’s Lord Derwentwater yonder -- dancing with my Lady Winton,” said the priest suddenly, for he had every intention of getting to the bottom of this. “I’ll summon him for you, tinker.” And he went straight to James and tapped him on the shoulder. Widdrington gave an angry grunt, shrugged, and turned to Lord Winton. “That nest of hotheads down in Lancashire, always brewing up new mysteries. Damn-fool rites and ceremonies they have, too. Most of ‘em not even Catholics, bloody Anglicans -- begging your pardon, my lord. I forgot you were one.”

  Lord Winton laughed. “No offense. I take it that Walton-le-Dale refers to some Jacobite fraternity? With which my sympathies are supposed to be engaged, since Setons always have fought for Stuarts. Yet I’m no follower of tradition as yet and, like you, my lord, turn a lackluster eye on plottings. Ah, I see that Derwentwater’s been lured away from my charming Countess; with your permission, I’ll claim her for a dance.” The Scottish earl stalked over to his lady, who was a blowzy blonde so furbished with paste brilliants and tags of laces and tawdry ribbons that she seemed to have dressed from a scrapbag.

  Mr. Petre drew James into the service hall, where the Faw was waiting and idly fingering his pipes.

  “Ma
ster--” said Bailey, regarding the small, resolute, and very young Earl with some astonishment. “I mun talk wi’ thee. Not here.” He glanced at the passage, where servants were running to and fro.

  “In the old guard room then,” said the priest eagerly, and he hustled Bailey and the bewildered James into an empty room made in the thickness of the walls, and furnished only with rusty muskets, some moldering crossbows and a pike or two.

  “What is all this?” said James, when the door banged behind them. “What are you doing with this tinker, Mr. Petre?”

  The priest shrugged, and said, “I’ve sharp eyes. I believe I see a tiny J stitched on his shirtsleeve.”

  “Oh,” said the Earl on a long sigh. One of the secret Jacobite marks, like a white rose petal or like the famous limp that some of the agents used for identification and which stood for the four royal names -- Louis, James, Mary of Modena, and the Prince. Many agents had turned up for orders at St. Germain, and here was apparently also one in the wilds of Northumberland. “Well,” said James, “what is it? You’ve a message from France?”

  “Not from France, master. From Lancashire, from Walton-le-Dale. They’ve sent for thee.”

  It took James some minutes to understand that there was a zealous society in Walton-le-Dale, a tiny village outside Preston; that the Duke of Norfolk was the president, and the members, both Protestant and Catholic, were all Tories and fierce Jacobites. They wished James to visit them as soon as possible, since there was something new afoot. News that could not be written, nor indeed confided to any of their messengers. The important thing was that James must obey the summons as quickly as he could.

  “To be sure he will,” said the priest, when Bailey had finished his story. “Lord Derwentwater’ll start straight away.”

  “No,” said James. “I will not travel about in Lent, nor travel to Lancashire until I’ve seen my estates in Cumberland. Later I will go to Walton-le-Dale. You may tell them that, tinker, and here’s something for your pains.” He tendered Bailey a sovereign. “I can think of no urgency that won’t wait a few weeks,” he added firmly to the simmering priest. “You may go if you wish.”