Death be Not Proud Page 9

  I couldn’t help myself. I swivelled where I sat and faced her, engaging her full attention to the exclusion of my father, who glowered at us from where he sat.

  “But he is – he must be. Matthew Lynes; his family did come from this region, I’d stake my life on it. I know the family was supposed to have died out, but…”

  She didn’t let me finish. “Doesn’t he know where he comes from?”

  “He either doesn’t know or doesn’t want to say.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Well – a mystery and a man’s involved – how splendid. I’m so glad you dropped by. Hugh, I have a little job for you. You remember where the kitchens are?” He nodded, subdued. “Good, I’m parched, and I’m sure we could all do with a pot of tea. Do be a dear, will you?”

  He started to say something, but she raised a bird-like hand to stop him.

  “Don’t worry about Emma. I’ll make sure we don’t discuss anything… unhealthy. Come along, my dear, I’ll show you the chapel.”

  Joan Seaton led me through a series of dark corridors, each looking more dilapidated than the last, until we reached the highly decorated arch of what had once been a fine perpendicular church. The arch and doorway had been absorbed into the body of the house when the manor had been extended. She patted the gently eroded figure of a saint.

  “This is what remains of St Martin’s; it fell into disrepair several centuries ago when the village all but disappeared. My husband’s family adopted it and it was still consecrated up until the outbreak of the war.”

  She turned the wrought-iron handle, and together we heaved the huge door open. She hopped down the raised stone step, more spry in her advanced years than I felt at nearly sixty years her junior. She tweaked a Bakelite dolly switch, and a number of dim bulbs soaked the interior in a wash of yellow light. The church smelled of damp stone and decaying plaster, white flakes of distemper hanging like patches of peeling skin from the walls. Above our heads, wooden angels, borne on dainty columns of stone, smiled benignly from the hammer-beam roof, and beneath my feet were worn images of knights on horseback and fleur de lys in alternate red and cream squares. All of one aisle had been lost to time, the pillars now blindly embedded in a featureless wall. But the other aisle remained intact, and Mrs Seaton drew me towards the far end beneath a sun-bright window. I let my eyes adjust. The figures of a man and a woman slept on a raised marble tomb set against the wall. Darkened through years of neglect, but still clearly discernible, their mode of dress defined their religious ideology and the era in which they died. I knew – even before I deciphered the basic Latin inscription set in the plaque on the side of the tomb – who they were. Buried decades apart, Henry and Margaret Lynes lay together in devout repose. Either side of the plaque, two other figures knelt in supplication: one a young child, the other clearly older but defaced, so that only the kneeling body remained. I ran my fingers over the mutilated form, feeling the score marks where a metal blade had been taken to the cold marble: this had been no random act of vandalism but a calculated violation of someone’s memory.

  “Quite strange, isn’t it?” Mrs Seaton was saying. “We always wondered why this one was targeted so deliberately.”

  To suffer such condemnation in an age where belonging – whether to your family, your village or your God – was everything, must have been like being consigned to a living death. My heart went out to this stranger across the centuries.

  “His name was Matthew Lynes,” I said, quietly. “He was their eldest child and his name has been expunged from the parish records as well. He must have done something heinous to have deserved this.”

  “Matthew Lynes – yes, of course.”

  His name seemed to strike a distant chord, and she became suddenly and vibrantly alive.

  “But he wasn’t removed from this, my dear.”

  She took me by my shoulders, shuffling me back until I could see the window above the tomb through which the sun streamed, throwing rainbow colours across the tiled floor.

  A memorial window, the sort you see in parish churches everywhere, celebrating the good fortune of the family, and recording its endowment of the church at which they worshipped. It must have been made sometime before the outbreak of the Civil War, perhaps in the 1630s, although I found it difficult to pin a date to, as the style of the image looked at least a decade earlier. I scanned the window, the finely painted detail bearing witness to the wealth of the three generations of family it depicted.

  The family had been divided into age groups either side of the window – men on one side, women on the other, facing each other. The oldest generation wore high Elizabethan clothes, heavily decorated and rich in colour; this must be Henry Lynes the grandfather and his wife – who, I remembered, carried the same name as I did. Next, Henry and Margaret opposite each other in simpler, dark attire with less extravagant collars, the fabric of their clothes still expensive, the cut of the doublet and the full dress, ample. Margaret must have been dead for some years when the window was commissioned, her face fresh and youthful, her blue eyes bright, but it was the figures opposite her that kept me transfixed. Below the image of her husband, a baby bound in shrouds, eyes closed in death, and the other – a young man of about twenty, handsome even in glass, his hair radiant gold – unmistakably a Lynes – unmistakably Matthew.

  A sudden, violent thrumming filled my ears and the room rotated horrendously, light fading fast as I sank towards the ground and it swallowed me whole.

  “My dear, are you all right?”

  Mrs Seaton’s thin, knot-veined legs in flesh-coloured tights stood over me, her face a mixture of curiosity and concern. Her long necklace of jade beads swung as she bent towards me. The ground felt hard, the cold tiles rigid beneath my back. I blinked, feeling stupid. I managed to sit upright without the aisle cavorting around me, then clambered to my feet, leaning against the Lynes tomb for support.

  “Don’t tell my father,” I said queasily.

  “You took me by surprise; that was quite a spectacular faint. What could have caused that now, I wonder?”

  She looked up at the window so familiar to her, trying to see it through my eyes.

  “I expect it’s nothing more exciting than low blood sugar.” My head pounded – a mass of conflicting information at once vying for attention. I checked the window again, expecting it to have somehow changed, but Matthew still regarded heaven as calmly as if he were standing next to me, his hands together in prayer, a tiny painted line across his little finger indicating a ring.

  Matthew. My Matthew?

  What madness was this? Blood burned my veins, pushing prickled sweat to the surface of my skin. I felt overwhelmed as much by the visual imagery as by the significance it held. I blinked, and blinked again, but the image remained the same.

  “Are you quite sure you are all right?” Mrs Seaton was asking. “I can fetch your father if you wish, my dear?”

  That shook me out of myself.

  “No – thank you. Really, I’m fine.” Yet I couldn’t take it all in, trying to imprint the window as best I could. “Would you mind terribly if I take some photos while I’m here? It’ll save me so much time trying to describe things in words.”

  Mrs Seaton seemed relieved at the normality of the request.

  “No, of course not, take your time. I’m going to see if your father has managed to locate the kettle. Please don’t faint again when I’m gone; it does quite give me palpitations and I don’t think my old heart can take it.” She turned to leave the church.

  “Mrs Seaton – please, don’t say anything to him…”

  “I won’t,” she assured me. “As you say, there is nothing to tell.” She glanced at the window once more, then hopped up the step like a sparrow.

  I went and sat down with my back against a column and stared up at the window, and at the painted cross around which the little family worshipped.

  “I don’t understand,” I implored. “Please help me to understand.”

  Black branc
hes of an old yew, grown vast with age, waved against the glass, throwing figures into sudden darkness through which sharp shafts of sun struck. Random shafts, shifting then stilling as the wind dropped, leaving his face radiant and alive. I breathed out slowly. One thing appeared certain: if that was Matthew, then whoever he lived with in Maine could not possibly be his father and mother, because his parents lay stone dead and buried in front of me.

  I took a series of photographs from every conceivable angle using the little mobile phone Matthew had given me and which I carried close as a reminder of him. It seemed somehow fitting that I captured his past using something of his so ostentatiously from the present. I tried to persuade myself that the image in front of me must be an ancestor of his, his striking looks no more than a genetic throwback to an earlier age. It would have made sense – would have taken a far lesser leap of the imagination. But that Matthew’s image looked serenely out of the past I believed to be beyond debate. Complications – he had once told me came between us. Complications.

  I took one final look around the church before closing the door behind me, reluctant to leave, not knowing when – or if – I would see him again. I made my way back the way we had come and heard my father’s deep bass and Mrs Seaton’s clear peal; they were laughing.

  “Tell me about the stories,” I urged, once I had my hands wrapped around a delicate bone china cup filled with strong, fragrant tea. I almost sat in the fireplace trying to keep warm. Mrs Seaton – cheeks glowing with the unaccustomed company and the thrill of an unsolved mystery – began to talk.

  “Henry Lynes the elder had two surviving sons – Henry and William.” I nodded, remembering the family tree. “Henry was the elder by quite some years and he had been betrothed from a young age to Margaret Fielding, who was the heiress to one of the minor noble families in the area. Well…” she inched forward like a schoolgirl eager to share some fresh piece of gossip, “the younger son – William – was quite taken by Margaret and tried to persuade her to break off her betrothal to his brother. Of course, that would mean that the Fielding fortune would be his, putting him in a much stronger position politically as well as financially. Their father got wind of the situation and told William in no uncertain terms what would happen if he tried any tricks like that again.” She placed the palms of both hands together. “Now, all was well for the time being; Henry married Margaret and it seemed like a happy union and she gave him an heir – Matthew – wasn’t it?” I nodded again. “What a coincidence…” she mused, her eyes suddenly on me. I didn’t react and she shook her head a little before continuing. “Anyway, tragedy struck when, a few years later, she gave birth to a baby who died shortly after, and Margaret died days later.” So, my supposition had been correct on that point. “Henry was heartbroken and he never married again.”

  “Where did the gossip enter into the equation, then?” I asked, puzzled, as so far the story seemed straightforward.

  “Wait – I haven’t reached the good bit yet.”

  Even my father leaned forward, eager to catch every word. The old woman’s face became animated, her normally still hands circumscribing the air.

  “Henry went about his daily life with one eye on his estates and the other eye on Heaven. He had a reputation as a plain-speaking, pious man with Protestant leanings, so it came as no surprise when he backed the Parliamentary cause at the outbreak of the Civil War. William, however, had developed a reputation of quite another kind. He had never forgiven his brother for marrying Margaret and seemingly held a grudge. He never married but had a string of liaisons with some notorious women. Old Grandfather Lynes died fearing the reputation of the family would be lost, and he charged Henry with the task of sorting William out. Well, of course that was nonsense, my dear; William was having far too much fun to allow his older brother to do anything of the sort. William took up with a group of Royalist supporters just to spite his brother.” She broke off to catch her breath as her voice became increasingly thin, and patted her flat chest, making the jade beads vibrate with the motion.

  “Henry had brought up his surviving son and heir to be a dutiful and God-fearing young man who believed it his Christian duty to serve God, his father and his country, using the gifts he had been given. After graduating from Cambridge, he came back to help run the estate but, when things were looking sticky – politically, I mean – he joined one of the military bands in the area, much to his father’s dismay. He became a formidable swordsman and had the respect of officers and men alike. Well, in 1642 tensions grew between the king and Parliament – I’m sure you know all this – but trouble was also brewing between the brothers. William used his allegiances as an excuse to threaten the family seat by the River Chater. The house has long since gone, you know – there was only a pile of rubble when I was a girl, and that must be almost a century ago.” She sighed and I nearly bounced in my seat in an agony of anticipation. “William drew together a band of hotheads and their men – they gave the Royalist cause a terrible name – such a shame…” I groaned out loud. “Yes, yes, I’m getting to it, my dear. William and about forty men marched on the house one night; the flames from their torches could be seen from here, you know; they quite lit up the sky. Henry was too ill to do much more than stand, but his son…”

  “Matthew,” I whispered, seeing him there.

  “Yes, Matthew – met them at the gatehouse with as many men as he could muster in the short space of time. He had little warning – the gatekeeper had fallen asleep; he was an old man and Henry had kept him on out of pity. Anyway, William liked his nephew and had no quarrel with him and invited him to join him as his heir. Matthew, of course, declined and made a counter-offer that, if William withdrew immediately and sought terms of peace with Henry, then the matter would be forgotten. William had been drinking as usual and he was full of bravado and, in any case, he didn’t wish to lose face in front of his comrades, who were happily cheering him on since it wasn’t their fight to lose. William jeered at Matthew and threatened to give him a thrashing, but Matthew stood his ground, although the household staff were outnumbered. William grew more and more angry with his nephew, who still refused to give way; it seemed that he would defend his home with his life, if that was what it would take – how dashing! The scene became increasingly hostile, when Henry at last rose from his sickbed to plead with his brother, fearing for his son’s life. He promised William half his estate if he would withdraw, but William saw Henry’s weakened state and pushed the advantage. There was a harsh exchange between the brothers, with Matthew trying to make peace, but then a trigger-happy bandit let loose his pistol and the bullet struck the wooden bridge, just missing Henry. Well, my dear, all hell broke loose, so to speak. Matthew drew his sword and would have killed the man there and then if he had been given free rein, but his father stopped him. William lunged forward to attack his unarmed brother, but Matthew leapt between them, although he’d only had time to don a leather coat and neckpiece – oh, what’s it called, the bit that protects the neck?”

  “Do you mean the gorgette?” I offered.

  Mrs Seaton nodded and her whole body shook with her vehemence. “I do so hate getting old – it quite turns one’s head to porridge. Anyway, as Matthew turned away to protect his father, his uncle struck him from behind, like the coward he was… are you all right my dear?”

  I could feel my eyes staring in abject horror, my hands covering my mouth to prevent a moan of alarm from escaping. My voice strained where I had been holding my breath.

  “Yes – carry on.”

  “If it hadn’t been for the leather… oh, what do you call it… the jerkin thing they wore beneath their armour…?”

  “Buff coat.”

  “Ah, yes, well, if it hadn’t been for the buff coat and William’s inebriated state, Matthew would have been killed outright. As it was, the weight of the blow knocked him to the ground, but he managed to turn just in time to raise his sword to ward off the next strike. By now, the whole bridge swarmed with W
illiam’s men. But Matthew had trained the household staff well over the previous months, and they took defensive lines, protecting Henry on Matthew’s orders and taking him back behind the walls. Gradually, with a few guns on the defensive wall, William’s men were driven off the bridge – they didn’t have the guts for a protracted fight. But William was as stubborn as his nephew and at last they faced each other. Now, William had been drinking, it’s true, but he wasn’t so far gone as to not be able to put his years of brawling to good use. Matthew was younger and well trained, but not as heavily built as his uncle, and he had a damaged shoulder from the first blow – he couldn’t use it properly. He was quick on his feet though, and he dodged the sword as his uncle brought it down on his head. William tried to wear Matthew down by raining blows on him in quick succession, but Matthew was too quick and too skilled for him and, as his uncle raised his arm to strike again, he thrust his rapier up into his unguarded shoulder, and down William went.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief but Mrs Seaton hadn’t finished. She adjusted her posture and pulled the sleeves of her worn cardigan down over her bony wrists.

  “Everyone thought the fight over and William’s men retreated – even his so-called friends – disappearing without waiting to see what happened to their leader. Matthew hadn’t intended to kill his uncle, just stop him, and he went to help him get up, but at that moment, William struck, piercing Matthew through the lacing of his leather coat, stabbing straight into his heart with his long knife – it had a special name, my husband said – main… main gauche. Matthew collapsed and his uncle actually laughed at him as he lay dying in front of him. Can you believe it, my dears? Laughed at him.”

  The blood drained from my face as I watched Matthew bleed to death in front of me, and my heart faltered; it wasn’t Matthew – at least not my Matthew – after all. If this man died in the seventeenth century, as it seemed he did, what wild goose had I been chasing, and what sort of insane fool did that make me? I drew my hand across my eyes, willing my mouth to work.