We then played merrills, a game variously known as three men’s morris or, in its more complicated form, nine men’s morris, and yet again Ronan and I were defeated. We did, however, manage to win at fox-and-geese, but when we all threw for ourselves at raffle, Anthony won hands down. But as he insisted on playing with his own dice, which he produced from his pocket, I couldn’t help wondering if they were loaded. I noticed the same gleam of suspicion in Ronan’s eyes, and I thought he was about to say something when a diversion was created by the sudden and breathless arrival of the chaplain.
‘M-Master An-Anthony! Playing g-games on th-the Sabbath! N-no! It w-won’t d-do, you know!’
‘You p-p-p-prosy old f-f-f-fool!’ Anthony mocked, looking furious. ‘I’m master here now, and I’ll do just as I like. And don’t you forget it!’
I could see that Sir Henry was trembling and that his knuckles had whitened where his hands were so tightly clasped together, but he bravely stood his ground.
‘I-it’s n-not r-right,’ he said, his stammer becoming more pronounced than ever. ‘You sh-should be r-reading the Scriptures.’
Anthony leapt to his feet. ‘You stupid old man! Go away and leave me alone!’ He seized a heavy wooden box, full of chessmen, and heaved it with all his might at the chaplain. But it missed its target, felling instead the steward who, with two servants, had entered the hall unobserved in order to oversee the preparations for dinner. It caught George Applegarth on his right forearm, knocking him to the ground.
Immediately, Anthony was all contrition, vaulting over the table and jumping from the dais.
‘George!’ he exclaimed in horror. ‘I haven’t hurt you, have I? Holy Virgin! You haven’t broken that arm again, have you? Can you move it? Tell me you’re all right.’
‘I’m winded, that’s all,’ the steward gasped, struggling to sit up. ‘I daresay I’ll have a bruise as big as a plate, but otherwise there’s no harm done that I can tell.’
‘Th-that w-was meant for m-me,’ the chaplain quavered. ‘Y-you m-might have k-killed me.’
Dame Audrea swept into the hall, attracted by the disturbance, demanding to know what was the matter and followed by Simon, still looking extremely pale.
She was promptly informed of the trouble by Sir Henry.
‘He won’t be satisfied until he’s crippled the lot of us!’ Simon declared shrilly.
‘It certainly would appear so,’ Dame Audrea agreed, her patrician features a mask of disdain. She turned on her elder son and said in a low, furious voice, ‘Haven’t you more pride than to behave like a lout in front of guests? What Master and Mistress Bignell must think of you I shouldn’t care to guess.’ She glanced over her shoulder at George Applegarth. ‘Are you all right, Master Steward?’
He tenderly felt his right arm and then nodded. ‘All seems well, Mistress. No bones broken.’
‘Well, you’re lucky,’ Simon snarled. ‘Mother, can’t you make him go away again? Why doesn’t somebody get rid of the bastard? If I had the use of both arms, I’d do it myself.’
The Bignells looked, if it were possible, more shocked than before, and Dame Audrea said hastily, ‘That will do, Simon! I’ll have none of that wild talk, if you please.’ She waved a hand at one of the servants and then indicated the jumble of games on the top table. ‘Clear these things away and prepare the hall for dinner. George, I will oversee the laying of the trestles if you wish to retire to your chamber and rest your arm.’
‘What a fuss about nothing!’ Anthony exclaimed angrily, aware of having lost face in front of Rose, who had retreated to her parents’ side, looking frightened. ‘George is made of sterner stuff than to complain about a little bruise, aren’t you, my friend?’ And he embraced George Applegarth’s shoulders, giving them an affectionate squeeze.
The steward smiled faintly. ‘I’ve said, I’ll do well enough. There’s no call for anyone to worry. Now, you two men’ — he nodded at the servants — ‘get the tables set up. Dame Audrea, if you and Master Simon will just get out of the way …’
Dame Audrea moved towards the Bignells, no doubt with the idea of making light — or as light as she could — of an ugly family scene, but Simon stayed where he was, his features contorted with hatred.
‘I meant what I said,’ he shouted at his brother. ‘In God’s Name, I wish someone would kill you!’
No sooner had he spoken than there was a vivid flash of lightning, followed by an ear-splitting clap of thunder. The flames of two candles, standing in a wall niche, were suddenly extinguished. Rose Micheldever gave a little sigh and fainted.
It was one of those summer storms that seemingly comes out of nowhere, is fierce in its intensity while it lasts, but then is gone, leaving the world a cleaner, fresher and greener place.
The clouds must have gathered since we came indoors, and I realized that the hall had indeed been growing darker for some time, unnoticed as we became absorbed in our games. Nor had we been aware of the beat of the rain as it drummed against the sides of the house. The crash of the thunder had scared us all.
There was general consternation as we all moved towards Rose, supported by her father’s arm and looking almost as pale as Simon. But whereas he was obviously in genuine pain from his broken arm, it occurred to me that Rose’s swoon was more for effect than because she had been genuinely frightened. I didn’t doubt that she had sustained a momentary shock, but it was not until Anthony had wrested her from Master Bignell’s arms, carried her bodily to the armchair on the dais and forced wine down her throat that her eyes fluttered open and she gave a tremulous smile.
‘Wh-where am I?’
Her mother came fussing up on her other side, frowning at the sight of Anthony chafing her daughter’s hands and raising one of them to his lips in a tender salute. Unhappily Edward Micheldever saw it, too, as he entered the hall, summoned from the counting-house by a servant who had informed him that his wife was ill.
‘Leave her alone, all of you,’ he said brusquely, approaching the dais and mounting the steps. But although he included everyone in his displeasure, it was at Anthony that he directed his gaze. ‘Let her alone,’ he repeated, pulling Rose roughly to her feet. ‘If you feel unwell, girl, go and lie down.’
‘Oh, what a kind and considerate husband!’ Anthony sneered, glancing from the Bignells to Rose and back to the receiver. ‘You could surely have done better for your daughter than that oaf, Master Butcher! I only wish I’d been here when she became of marriageable age.’
I heard the steward, standing just behind me, suck in his breath. George Applegarth knew as well as I did the sort of mischief Anthony was up to; the seeds of dissatisfaction he was sowing in the Bignells’ minds that the marriage they had arranged for Rose was not, perhaps, as advantageous as they had once thought it. As for Edward Micheldever, his expression indicated only too clearly that he shared Simon’s sentiments concerning the ultimate fate of the prodigal. If looks could have killed, Anthony would have dropped dead on the spot.
Rose was dragged reluctantly away by her irate husband, the discontented droop of her rosebud mouth showing that she had overplayed her hand, pretending to be worse than she was. Anthony knew it, too, and gave a crack of unseemly laughter as she was bundled through the door leading to the private quarters of the house. He was enjoying himself; and, to my great surprise, just before she disappeared from view, I saw Rose glance back at him in dawning comprehension, as if the scales had suddenly fallen from her eyes.
She did not reappear for dinner, but at ten o’clock, the rest of us sat down to yet another uncomfortable meal. Our host had been telling nothing less than the truth when he said he had grovelled to the cook and been forgiven, for she had plainly put forth her best efforts with a first course of broiled venison steaks in oyster sauce and a side dish of chicken stuffed with grapes, followed by pears stewed in wine syrup and a sweet curd flan. Had there been only the food to consider, it could have been a highly enjoyable occasion, but too much raw emotion was poisoning the atmosphere to make for good digestion. Dame Audrea and the three Bignells made stilted conversation, trying to pretend that nothing untoward had happened; Simon pushed the meat around his plate and glowered at his elder brother; Edward Micheldever, although showing a hearty appetite, looked sullen; the chaplain was still upset; Bailiff Kilsby, with the threat of imminent dismissal hanging over his head, was silent and morose; while Jonathan Slye, the chamberlain, staring malevolently at Anthony whenever he thought that young man wasn’t looking, did little to detract from the general air of gloom. What gaiety there was, was generated by the lower servants, who seemed undisturbed by the quarrels and carryings-on of their betters.