— • —
1.11.1 - Malicious Charges
To the distant accompaniment of Raggs defending the the ford, the militia sergeant had received the news of the overnight disappearance of his corporal. From that moment, the Gallows Hill encampment had begun the slide that within the hour would destroy its entire cohesiveness as a pseudo-military force. The sergeant, a noisy but inherently lazy man had relied heavily on the corporal to control his motley rabble of unwilling village labourers. After a moment or two of very little thought, he had dispatched a messenger to The Big House and they'd all settled down to await further instructions.
In the master bedroom at The Big House, Sir Marcus was still asleep, and as he had retired in a towering rage, would probably arise in much the same mood. It was therefore, extremely unlikely that any member of his household would disturb him before he had called for his breakfast bottle of claret. Having two poacher-assassins banged up in the nearest cell, a tiny cellar beneath the Great Mardlingham Market Cross, had not been enough to salve the lost dignity of the previous night's debacle in the woods.
The sergeant's messenger was received by Fribbins, Sir Marcus's butler, who parked him in the servants' hall. There the ploughboy-militiaman promptly struck up an animated conversation with the flirtatious scullions, Tilly and Tottie. Not to be outdone, the boot-boy produced the musket he had purloined the previous night along with the corporal's ammunition pouch:
“Oooooh!” say Tottie, “Dun'chew come in hare wi'thet dutty ol'thing.”
“Big gun fer a little boy,” say Tilly, dissolv'n inta giggles.
“Wot'chew got thar, bor,” say th'soger-ploughboy, nearm a' Josh.
“Brown-Bess,” say the boot-boy, “Gudd'un, an'orl.”
“Thet is tew,” say Josh, teark'n th'musket an' look'n'ut over.
“Kin yer meark'ut gOo?" say th'boot-boy, hand'n him th'corpr'l's pouch.
“Yew wunt ter charge'ut up?” say Josh, hope'n tew himpress th'gals, “Giv'ut a try wi'sum powder an'ball?”
— • —
Meanwhile back at the encampment, a mere two fields away from a certain crossroads, the growing boredom of inaction is suddenly disrupted by the sound of a village muck-cart colliding with a bailiff's tumbril, accompanied by the combined choir of Raggs, Dobbin and the muck-boys pony with the bailiff providing the bass on vox-humana.
Had the corporal been there, the men would have turned to him for orders, but he wasn't. The sergeant could have steadied them, but at the critical moment he was too busy wondering what Sir Marcus would expect him to do about it. In any case the decision was taken out of his hands:
“This way!” said a voice from among the militia crowding the field boundary and like cows to the milking, they crowded towards the gate, the first men to get there shouldered it aside and they spilled into the lane.
“Woohay!” said the voice, “Smartly lads, smartly!”
“Woohay?” said a second voice, “Dunt'chew meen... CHARGE!” and the Mardlingham Militia, Second Troop, took off like hares in the direction of the excitement.
“Wai...” said the sargeant, then decided he was in less trouble straying with his men, than staying without them.
— • —
1.11.2 - Crossroads in Chaos
Put yourself in the shoes of a bystander, and there were several already there, with more arriving all the time. You are at the front of the pack, but far enough back from the scene to save your nose from the worst stinks of the spilt night-soil.
In front of you, Ginny, the muck-boy and the bailiff, have set aside any differences they may have had regarding the behaviour of Ginny's dog Raggs and his part in the collision. It is equine welfare that has brought about the truce and all three are attempting to untangle Dobbin and the pony.
The vicar has crossed the road and is about to enter the church, while his sister Rosamunda stands by the Vicarage gate holding a lavender handkerchief to her nose. No sooner are you settled in your spot to await developments, then you're pushed aside by Bea from the Crossed Arms:
“Beatrice!” calls Rosamunda, “Over here.”
“Wotteva's gawn orn?” says Bea, “They sed Jimma wuz hare.”
“Hush now, my dear,” says Rosamunda, “Keep your voice down, for his sake.”
“But...” says Bea, then in a whisper, “Woss he dun now?”
But Rosamunda doesn't get the chance to reply, as a flood of excited militia-men erupts from the avenue of elms in Gallows Lane. Ginny and Raggs leap back from the tangle of broken carts, just as it is surrounded. Within the minute, the experienced hands of these ploughboy soldiers rescue the horse and pony, gather and throw aside the broken drawbars and harness, swing the muck-cart and tumbril onto the verge, hoist the manacled corporal onto their shoulders and, with a triumphant cry, make an orderly retreat the way they had come.
“Wai...” orders the sergeant arriving in front of his men, only to have them rush past him like a river round a rock, and head back up Gallows Hill.
“Oh God my help in ages past,” prays the corporal, whose unexpected rescue has been the unintended result of the militia's little escapade.
“Stop!” shouts the bailiff, who has managed to retrieve and load his sporting gun. There is no response so he fires in the general direction of the retreating mob.
This is the first of two fateful shots to be discharged in the village during the course of the morning.
— • —
1.11.3 - Hellfire and Damnation
At the back of Sir Marcus's grand Georgian bedchamber, is a spacious dressing room, behind which, down a few steps is a room that once formed part of the original medieval Mardlingham Hall. Here in solitary splendour sits a fine example of a porcelain and mahogany throne, known to the more technically minded as a Bramah water-closet. It is also here that we find Sir Marcus, nightgown raised to the waist, posterior planted on the seat and a distant look of concentration in his eyes.
Below, in the servant's hall, also a remnant of the older house, ploughboy-militiaman Josh is showing the boot-boy and scullions how to load their purloined musket. Tottie is leaning against the brickwork of the wide fireplace, idly kicking at a half-burnt log lying among the cold ashes. Tilly is standing beside her, with a hand on the excited boot-boy's shoulder to restrain him from too close a contact with the horn of priming powder, cartridges and musket balls:
“See hare,” say Josh, thump'n the gun-butt hard down on th'pamment floor, “Thas jus'abou'redda ter fire.”
“Yuck!” say Tottie as a gret dollop a'bud-shit come down th'chimbly an splatter orl ov'r th'log.
“Dratt'd dowe's!” say Tilly, look'n up the flue, “Gud in a pie, but a pest in a chimbly.”
“Wull,” say Josh, neel'n in th'harth wi'th'musket raised, “Oi kin sune dew summat abou'thet.”
“Izzut still thar?” say Tottie, hew rath'r hoped thet wunt.
“Oi kin see'ut,” say th'boot-boy, pointing up the flue, “Giv'ut a gOo.”
Like most of its medieval kind, the chimney is a tapering brick box over three stories high, with room to roast an ox at the base and a considerably smaller opening to the sky at the top. With a flutter of wings, the dove is joined by another and together they bob and duck flirtatiously along the sooty brick parapet of the flue. It's a difficult shot to take against the light, but Josh takes it anyway.
After a somewhat disappointing pop as the musket discharges. The ball strikes a loose brick halfway up the flue and dislodges it. The brick is vital to the stability of that part of the structure and its loss causes a sizable chunk of the ancient brickwork to give way. The boot-boy and scullions scatter as the servants' hall is filled by a thunderous rumbling, followed by an avalanche of sooty rubble. In the room above...
“Hellfire and Damnation!” exclaims Sir Marcus, leaping up in suprise as a cloud of old plaster and whitewash erupts past his ear; followed by “God's Teeth!” as the mahogany box of the toilet tilts slowly backwards and disappears through the ragged hole in the chimneybreast.
— • —
1.11.4 - Squeeze in the Squinch - (see footnote)
In Mardlingham, time seems to be moving forward in short bursts, each one a minor disaster in its own right but all connected by the logic of cause and effect. A starburst of misfortune expanding from a simple case of jealousy.
Of course, if Jarge had kept his big ideas to himself, the whole thing would have fizzled out like a damp squib, but he never did like to miss out on the chance of a few fireworks.
As it is, we have Josh the ploughboy-soldier buried under a heap of rubble in a collapsed fireplace; Sir Marcus, covered in plaster dust stamping down the back-stairs with an unwiped bottom and a purple face; a militia corporal, still in manacles reporting to a sergeant whose complexion rivals that of Sir Marcus; a Bailiff, horse, muck-boy and pony who may never again view their jobs with equanimity; and the vicar about to confront a fugitive seeking sanctuary in his church:
“Marn'n Yer Rev'runt,” say a worr'ut look'n Jimma, “Oi...”
“Peace, James,” say th'wicar, “I understand the situation perfectly.”
“But...” say Jimma, feel'n th'need t'splain hisself.
“You are a fugitive?” say th'wicar, “Seeking sanctury, Yes?”
“Oi s'puz so,” say boy Jimma, “Cord'n ter Jarge.”
“Then that is all I need to know,” say th'wicar, “The rules are quite explicit and I shall uphold them.”
“Ahah!” say Jarge slipp'n inta th'chuch thru'th'vestry, “Th'tarnkey hev arriv'd.”
“Yew hint brung th'bailiff in hare?” say an ev'n more worr'ut Jimma.
“NOo, y'fule,” say Jarge, “Bit a brass an'a bag a'tewls,”
“Will you be able to strike off the irons?” say th'wicar.
“Dunt'chew worra, Wicar, sune hev'im free.” say Jarge, drarp'n the bag onna pew an' gitt'n owt a small file.
“It seems to me,” say th'wicar, “That those are very study irons for such a very small rasp.”
“Rasp?” say Jarge, “Oi hint a chippy loike Stan, thissear's a bast'd rat's tail.”
“How many times do I have to say ‘Peace’ in this place,” say th'wicar, “Such language is better used in other places.”
“NOo,” say Jimma, “Thas nut lan'wuge, thas a file wot's harf flat an' harf round.”
“I see,” say th'wicar, “But however mixed its parentage, it's still not big enough.”
“Hare,” say Jarge, hew'd bin bizza wile they wuz tork'n, “Try thet.”
“A pennyweight of brass with two small spikes on the edge,” say th'wicar, looking at Jarge's little present.
“Now yew look'ut th'irons,” say Jarge as Jimma raze hiz hands 'zif'n prayer.
“Ah!” say th'wicar, “Two little holes in the end of the locking barrel.”
“NOo need fer gret ol'files,” say Jarge, “Bit a gud ol'Narf'k crarft'mansh'p's orl yew need.”
“I'm amazed that such a simple lock should suffice,” say th'wicar unscrewing the manacles.
“That dint,” say Jarge wi'a larf, as Jimma rub hiz rists a'nankles, “Now ware we gornta hide th' lil'bu...”
“Jarge, how many...” say th'wicar, “Oh never mind.”
“Wot abowt th'tower?” say Jimma, “Or th'westry?”
“Tew easy,” say Jarge, “We need summat foxy.”
“Foxy, sneaky...?” say th'wicar look'n round, “Of course, I have it, the squinch. We'll squeeze him in the squinch.”
— • —
1.11.5 - Spiflicated Scullions
The sight of the boot-boy pulling on the arm of a person otherwise buried in a heap of soot and rubble, immediately takes the edge off Sir Marcus's anger. He stumbles across the brick strewn floor of the servants' hall and starts to dig away at the heap in the inglenook fireplace. Fortunately the bressemer is still in place and the brickwork of the fireplace itself is still sound. However, there is light shining in from above through a huge hole into the room above, and the heavy mahogany box of the Bramah toilet is hanging dangerously into the flue:
“Come on boy,” says Sir Marcus, to the now petrified boot-boy, “Shift some of these bricks.”
“Oi'll gi'yer a hand,” says Tilly, the elder of the two Scullions, “Tottie hev gorn fer Ted an'th'cutchmun.”
“Gawd,” says the boot-boy, finding his tongue, “Oi wuz rare spiflicearted thar, fer a mOomunt.”
“Yew wun't th'oOny wun,” says Tilly, “We wuz orl stammerd.”
“Well” exclaims Sir Marcus, whose presence they seem to have forgotten, “If we don't get this fellow out soon, we'll all be 'stammered' - by a fine example of a'la'mode sanitary furniture.” - they all glance up the flue as their master laughs - “An a'la'mode commode, by Jupiter.”
“Ooooooh, gagh!” says Josh from under the rubble, now a considerably smaller heap than before.
“Ware iz he?” says the coachman, scrambling in from the stable-yard.
“Here,” says Sir Marcus as Tilly and the boot-boy try to brush the soot from the trapped man's face.
“Moind th'way,” says Ted as he and his father, the coachman, pull Josh from the remaining rubble.
“Gott'im!” says the coachman, sliding Josh out of the fireplace.”
“Oi suggest a min'ut under th'pump,” says th'cook from the kitchen door, “Fer orl ov'yew.”
“A fine idea,” says Sir Marcus, frightening the life out of her by rising from the soot clad only in his nightshirt.
“Moi hart alive!” says the cook, “Sir Marcus...”
“Broach the cyder, Mrs Peasholm,” exclaims Sir Marcus, suddenly feeling rather pleased with his household, despite the rude interruption of his toilet, “The best stuff, if you please.”
“Fribbins will cope wi'thet,” says Cook, “Wile Oi tend th'wunded.”
“Oi know,” says Tilly, heading for the kitchen range, “Hot worta.”
“An' yew kin call th'tweeny ter fetch an'ol sheet fer bandages,” says Cook, “Thet way we'unt git nOo soot in th'linen chest.”
It is at this moment that Sir Marcus pulls the Brown-Bess musket out of the rubble and sniffs suspiciously at the flintlock.
— • —
1.11.6 - Litany in the Library
There are stiff leather bindings enclosing erotica from the far east, painstakingly done and elegantly bound watercolours of birds of prey and paradise, sturdy treatise on fish and fowl, meticulous instructions on the proper management of water-meadows and how to include turnips in the rotation of crops. There is also a stiff line of servants, militia and other witnesses in the Mardlingham Hall Library.
Fribbins, the butler, rests a hand on the back of a green leather chair behind the modest desk of warm brown oak with its dark green tooled-leather top. As yet the chair is empty, but all eyes are drawn to it as if the master of the house is already there, enjoying the embrace of its elegantly carved arms.
Sir Marcus, when he is present, uses the room as a study, to which end he has had alternate bays in the arcades of bookshelves removed to accommodate his sporting trophies. Behind the waiting cook and her scullions, a stuffed salmon stares out of its case with dead eyes, while above it a suprised looking boar appears to have stuck its head through the wall.
Next to them, against a backdrop of books, stands Josh and the boot-boy, both with a hand on the Brown-Bess musket held in the grounded position. The next alcove sports a similar case to that of the salmon, but containing a half model of a clinker-built yacht hull. The space above being taken up by an extremely lifelike golden eagle, it too, is staring at the empty chair, but with a heart of straw, is not likely to do anything about it.
Extending the line, the bailiff stands behind the vicar's sister Rosamunda, prim and upright in a damask chair. Then in front of a large stuffed bear, the sergeant and his corporal add a military note. Across the end of the room, in front of the main window, the two footmen fidget and whisper. An activity suddenly curtailled as Sir Marcus enters the room from the far end. He is dressed for riding and has a crop in his hand, which he immediately stikes on the desk:
“Boy,” says Sir Marcus, pointing his crop at the boot-boy, “Bring me that gun.”
“Er,” says the boy, looking up at Josh, who relinquishes the gun with an encouraging grin.
“Er?” says Sir Marcus, “I assume that's your bucolic way of saying 'Yes Sir' eh?”
“Collick?” says the boy, “Oi spuz'sOo. Yes'r.”
“You found this gun in the woods?” asks Sir Marcus, “Not in the hands of the corporal?”
“Um,” says the boy, “In th'wood, yes'r.”
“Did the corporal have it?” asks his master.
“Nut th'corpr'l,” says the boy, “NOos'r.”
“The corporal was dead drunk?” says Sir Marcus, turning to the footmen, who he'd already questioned, “When you arrested him in the woods.”
“In th'plantearshun,” says the first footman, glancing at his collegue.
“Dead ter th'wurld,” says the second footman, “Yes'r.”
“Who, then, discharged the shot?” asks Sir Marcus, looking at the boot-boy.
“Wull thet wun't me!” exclaims the lad, fear giving way to foolhardiness.
“Ha!” says his master, “A lad with spirit, but if not you, who?”
“Sumbudda else,” mutters Tilly, not realising she is speaking aloud.
“You,” says Sir Marcus, glancing at the girl but pointing elsewhere with the crop, “Corporal, did you discharge your piece?”
“He has no recollection of it, Sarr!” says the sergeant, who felt that if he did the speaking, he might steer the questioning onto safer ground.
“Corporal?” asks Sir Marcus, and the corporal nods to affirm the sergeant's statement.
“Mrs Peaseholm,” says Sir Marcus, addressing the cook, “Does the girl know anything or is she just stating the obvious?”
“Jus' obliv'yus, sir,” says Cook, “As Oi hev orlredda hexplain'd, th'chimbly wuz a'naxadunt.”
“We have not yet reached the matter of the chimney,” says her master.
“Oi reckon them's buth axadunts,” says the cook, “Sum guns let orf a'th'rong moment, thass orl, lotta squit, Oi say.”
“No,” says Sir Marcus, “They knew I was after them and they ambushed me in the woods. One took a shot at me and the other dropped on me out of the tree.”
“But neither assailant was the corporal,” says the sergeant.
“It seems not,” says Sir Marcus in a disappointed voice, “You'd better take him away.”
At this point, the room is filled with considerable shuffling as the sergeant and corporal make to leave the room. The sergeant stops at the door and asks if he can also reclaim his messenger, Josh and his squad's single musket.
“I suppose so,” says Sir Marcus, “If any punishment is required in his case, then let it be that already served by the falling chimney of fate.”
“Ahem!” a small noise from Miss Rosamunda, calls his attention to the damask chair. The vicar's sister, sitting slim and upright with hands clasped in her lap, has so far remained silent with a disapproving look on her pretty face. Seeing that his last actions have somewhat brightened her expression, Sir Marcus moves on to the next part of the case.
“Now, Bailiff,” says Sir Marcus, “Explain to me why only half your task has been accomplished.”
— • —
1.11.7 - Fall of an Iron Tongue
The second loudest sound to be heard in Saint Andrew's Church, Little Mardlingham, is the latch of the south door. The two venerable oak-planked leaves of this door reside in a deep porch open to the churchyard opposite the lytchgate. There are stone seats on either side of its flagged floor, which as an extension of the main path across the churchyard, stops at the worn oak threshold across the foot of the Norman inner arch.
Except when the congregation is entering or leaving the church, the left hand leaf of the south door is held closed by large wrought-iron bolts and the right hand leaf closes against it, held in place by a latch. It is the rise and fall of the long heavy tongue of this latch that makes the all the noise. With acoustic amplification provided by the arcaded nave, this iron tongue clacks against its restraining staple like a four-pound maul on a five-hundredweight anvil.
Normally, the sound of the latch is twofold, there is a minor click as the tongue rises on the cam of the wrought-iron ring handle, followed by the reverberating shock as it falls back. But today, when the Bailiff, followed by Sir Marcus, his footmen and Miss Rosamunda, twists the ring, it is with such force that the tongue remains stuck at the top of its staple.
“Where is he?” demands the bailiff, “The assassin!”
“This is a house of God,” says the vicar, sounding rather calmer than would be betrayed by his white knuckles, if he hadn't got them clasped behind his back, “Pray enter peacefully and speak with moderation.”
“Yes, yes,” says the bailiff, a half-tone lower, “Now where is he?”
“Who?” asks the vicar, not feeling particularly helpful at this stage of the game.
“That miscreant of an escaped prisoner,” says the bailiff, motioning the footmen to spread out and make a search, “He was in my custody on his way to Norwich Gaol, and I intend to complete my task.”
“You understand the concept of sanctuary?” asks the vicar.
“If he'd claimed that, he'd be there by the altar,” says the bailiff.
“And just what would you do if he was there?” asks the vicar.
“Arrest him,” says the bailiff, who was a Baptist by religion, and not likely to feel any guilt from spurning some antiquated tradition of the Church of England, or even worse, the Church of Rome.
“By force?” asks the vicar, having had the forethought to hopefully prevent that precise action, by hiding Boy Jimmy in a wall cavity behind a large embroidered text.
“If necessary,” says the bailiff, “I've a job to do and I'll do it.”
“Th'man hint hare,” says the first footman, returning from his search of the tower.
“Nut hare, neetha!” says the second footman, from the vestry door.
“He's here somewhere,” mutters the bailiff, “I know it. Open the parish chest, he must be in there.”
“Ahem,” says Sir Marcus, taking the bailiff by the arm, “Perhaps I should handle this.”
“Reverand,” says Sir Marcus, “I assume you will open the chest, if I request it?”
“Of course, Sir Marcus,” says the vicar, “It contains the parish records and the communion silver. As you well know.”
“What then, of this fugitive?” asks Sir Marcus, “Will you present him for inspection.”
“Once the sanctity of this church and the man's right of sanctuary are established under your guarantee,” says the vicar, “Then I will consider it.”
“You have my word,” says Sir Marcus, who then directs the bailiff and footmen to leave the church and stand guard on each of the three doors.
“Now,” says the vicar, “I should like to hear facts of the case as you see them, Sir Marcus.”
“The man leapt on me out of a tree,” says Sir Marcus, “Just as his fellow assassin shot at me with a musket.”
“What did he say?” asks the vicar, “when you spoke to him afterwards.”
“I didn't,” said Sir Marcus, “I simply had them arrested and delivered to the cell in Great Mardlingham, then I sent a message to the bailiff to keep them locked up 'til dawn then cart them off to Norwich Gaol.”
“You didn't inquire into the case?” asks the vicar.
“What was there to inquire about?” says Sir Marcus, “Night time, poachers in the woods, sudden shot, poacher leaps out of tree, Quod erat demonstrandum.”
“Or ‘oper edei deixai’ as Euclid may have said,” mutters the vicar.
“What?” says Rosamunda, who had remained silent while the men played their games, “What evidence do you have that the man in the tree was poaching, I can think of a dozen reasons for a man to be in such a place on a fine moonlit night. The view alone would be enough for me. And as for leaping on you, why could he not have been trying to save you from the musket shot? Perhaps he's a hero.”
Earlier, in the thump and spuffle of their entrance, none of the invaders had noticed the acoustic forbearance of the latch. So in the silence that follows Rosamunda's outburst, its sudden fall has much the same impact as a mortar bomb. The vicar dives behind the choir stalls, Jimma erupts from behind the tapestry, and Rosamunda flings herself into the arms of Sir Marcus.
“Ooof!” gasps Sir Marcus, losing his balance along with his equanimity.
“My goodness!” says the vicar rising from the safety of his pew.
“Yipe!” says Boy Jimma, not knowing which way to turn.
“Ooooh,” says Rosamunda, blushing, but not attempting to rise.
“Now that,” says Sir Marcus, getting up and bringing the girl with him, “Is rather better than being leapt on by poachers.”
“Maybe we should talk?” says Rosamunda, in her most breathless sort of voice.
“What a good idea,” says the vicar, “I suggest a large pot of tea in the Vicarage.”
“Wot abowt me,” says Jimma, nervously backing off towards the altar.
“Wait until they all go home,” whispers the vicar, “Then do the same. With Rosamunda, a prayer, a bit of luck, and a pot of Darjeeling with a large slice of butter-cream sponge cake, I think Sir Marcus may soon forget you ever existed.”
— • —
Footnote: What is a Squinch?
A squinch is a sort of angled wall tunnel intended to provide a squint at the high altar from a secondary altar in a church's side aisle. It can also mean an arch bridging a corner at forty-five degrees. Often one leads to the other.
“How would you build such squinching?” says the vicar.
“Yew mite say,” say Jarge, “Yew hetta dew'ut orn th'huh.”
— • —
— • —
All Mardlingham characters are fictional
Copyright The Mundesley Hermit ©2006/2007 - All Rights Reserved.
