Trevennor’s Will, page 23
Bringing his coughing under control, Charlie cleared his throat, turned away to spit on the ground and wiped moisture from his eyes. A lonely gull appeared in front of them, flying in a haphazard line as it was battered by the wind at their back. It finally won the contest and veered off towards Godrevy Island.
‘Life’s sometimes a bit like that gull just now,’ Charlie said. ‘A man chooses to fly against a fearsome wind – in Nick’s case, declarin’ ’imself to a lady of quality who’d be expected to spurn ’im an’ send ’im rightfully packin’ – but sometimes the force of the wind, and even the tide can be overcome and won. I daresay the lady could do a lot worse than Nick, if that’s the way the land’s lyin’.’ Charlie hoped that would do to help Nick’s cause along.
‘Really?’ Edmund said, surprised at the poetic note in Charlie’s speech. He made a mental note to remember that some of these dirty unkempt persons were not as unintelligent as they looked.
‘My fear is that Nancarrow is a fortune-hunter and seeks only to relieve my sister of her half of our recent inheritance.’ And I have plans for her half as well as mine, Edmund thought easily.
‘Naw, not Nick. He went be int’rested in fancy livin’. He’s prob’bly jus’ took a likin’ to Miss Kempthorne. Better Nick courtin’ ’er than someone who’s really after ’er money.’
‘I do hope you are right, Chiverton. My sister seems to have her heart set on Nancarrow and all I want is to see her content.’ But Edmund was still unconvinced that he did not have a rival for the family fortune.
He was thoughtful as they took the last few steps off the cliff path and stepped onto the fine sand of Gwithian beach. The wind was not so buffeting as they moved closer to the village but Edmund was even slower walking over the shifting sand. He tut-tutted at the discoloration of his boots caused by the walk across it two hours earlier and thought how desperate he must have been over Morenwyn’s fall and grateful at her recovery to have made his way along unknown paths not knowing where he was going.
‘I wonder that I did not get lost,’ he murmured to himself.
Charlie heard and understood. ‘Aye, ’tes easily done.’ He dug in his pocket and pulled out a tiny carving of a dog, perfectly whittled from a chip of wood. ‘’Ere, sur, p’raps you’d like to take this to yer little maid. I made it out of a bit of mahogany driftwood I found on this beach. It might cheer ’er up a little.’
Edmund was visibly moved and Charlie felt that Laurence Trevennor need not have feared for Isabel Hampton’s life from this man. He was the sort who might make threats when backed into a corner but he wouldn’t have the courage to carry them out.
‘This is very kind of you, Chiverton. I’m sure Morenwyn will treasure it, it is just the kind of thing she likes to play with.’ Edmund searched in his pockets to give Charlie something in return and took out a tobacco pouch with silken drawstrings. ‘Please accept this for your pipe, it contains the finest tobacco. I have much enjoyed our talk, it seems a pity to leave it here. I am ravenously hungry – can I invite you to join me for breakfast?’
Charlie sucked in fresh cold air through his hewn teeth and looked amazed. He had never been invited into a gentry house before, not even by Laurence Trevennor. Half of him wanted to go but an unwise comment might put Nick’s plan in danger, and perhaps the young gentleman was hoping to catch him off his guard and have him reveal more about Nick.
‘I do thank ’ee fur the tobacco, Mr Kempthorne, sur, but I went ’ave no breakfast if ’ee don’t mind, though ’tes kind of’ee t’ask. ’Fraid I ’ave to get on to my workin’s. Got a young boy there to ’elp me out and I do like to keep an eye on un.’
‘As you please. I hope you have a good day’s work.’ Edmund gave him back his scarf and Charlie went on his way, carefully putting the tobacco pouch into a hidden pocket inside his ragged coat. He would smoke his gift at his leisure when he got home. He was bursting to see Nick again and find out what he had discovered and how much he was suffering at the hands of yet another lady of the class he so despised.
Edmund tramped up and down the dimes, walking along the foot of them when he could. Although it meant having more sand blown into his face, it was the quickest route back to Trevennor House. If he kept his eyes on the church tower, he would not stray and become lost. Once at home, he would change out of his bedraggled clothes, return himself to his usual smart veneer and check on Morenwyn. Then after he had eaten a hearty breakfast he would see what he could do about his other hearty appetite. Mary Ellen had been in a state of shock since their child had fallen and would be of no use to him for a few more days.
He reached the road and was not far from home. Looking down the village, he thought of Nellie living somewhere along the way, all alone in her hovel. He smiled. He would walk down that way later in the day.
Chapter 18
If Charlie had accepted Edmund Kempthorne’s invitation to breakfast with him he would have met Nick leaving Trevennor House after enquiring about Morenwyn. Nick was pleased that the little girl was expected to make a complete recovery and decided that he would soon make his way over to Crantock. He was mightily relieved to get away from the stuffy confining atmosphere the house now bore and Deborah Kempthorne’s clinging attention. As far as he was concerned, the Kempthornes had ruined Trevennor House and he was angry about it. He hated them touching and rearranging Laurence’s things, things that now belonged to Isabel. He headed for the village’s one alehouse to refresh his throat before returning to Tehidy.
He saw Jimmy up ahead of him walking fast and shouted to him. Jimmy turned round, saw who’d hailed him and carried on walking.
‘You in a hurry, Jimmy?’ Nick said, catching up with him.
‘Aye,’ was the only reply, and grudgingly given.
‘Is it Marion’s time?’
Jimmy stopped abruptly. ‘Aye, but ’tis no concern of yours.’
‘I know why I’m getting this frosty front,’ Nick said, blocking Jimmy’s way.
‘You’re a traitor, Nick Nancarrow,’ Jimmy hissed. ‘A traitor to the village and worse still, a traitor to Mr Trevennor who made no secret of the regard he had for you and how he felt about they Kempthorne parasites. But now here’s you, a man who pretended to be Mr Trevennor’s friend for years, making up to they rotten folk and Mr Trevennor barely put down in the ground. What’s the matter with ’ee, didn’t you get a mention in the will after all your returning visits?’
Nick grabbed Jimmy’s coat collars and yanked him close. ‘Is that what folk in the village are saying about me?’ He was venomous and shook Jimmy until he got an answer.
‘Aye, ’tis, and you can damned well leave go of me.’
‘You’ve known me all your life, Jimmy Rowe. We played together as boys in the grounds of Trevennor House. You know how much I respected Laurence Trevennor, how much I cared for him. I thought we were friends, but friends trust each other and if they see a friend behaving in a peculiar way they should know he has a good reason for it.’
Nick thrust Jimmy away and strode off, his feelings hurt and bruised. He had not expected all the villagers to give him the benefit of the doubt while he played up to the Kempthornes; he understood their resentment and could cope with their hostility. But he’d thought those who knew him well would have thought better of him.
Jimmy ran after him. ‘I’m sorry, Nick. You just said what Mother’s been saying about you, that we should trust you, that what you’re doing is your way somehow of helping the village. The Kempthornes are threatening to sell the sheep and most of Mr Trevennor’s land and most of we will be out of a job, many out of their homes. We can always try the mines for work but we prefer to work out in the good clean air, not ending up like Father has with his chest. Everything’s looking black today – I’m sorry I took it out on you.’ Shamefaced, Jimmy nervously held out his hand and after a moment’s hesitation Nick accepted it.
‘’Tisn’t an easy job I’m doing, Jimmy, and I can’t tell you no more than that.’
‘Aye, fair enough,’ Jimmy sighed. ‘I’ll make sure the word gets around the village, careful like.’
‘You best get on to Marion. Is she having a bad time? A man doesn’t usually leave his work…’
‘Aye, Mother sent for me. I’m that worried…’ Jimmy’s eyes filled with tears.
Nick sighed heavily. He rested a hand on his friend’s arm. ‘I don’t s’pose I can do anything but get in the way. I’ll call in on you later.’
‘Aye, thanks. The women are with her, along with Mistress Thomas. I just hope and pray…’
Nick walked Jimmy to his garden gate then made his way back to his original destination. He was in none too good a mood and was enraged when barred from going under the thatched roof of the Leg of Mutton by the last man on earth he wanted to see.
Gyver Pengelly was leaning heavily against the doorjamb with a huge arm stretching across to the other side. He sniggered and slavered. He did not speak, just loafed there with a stupid look on his hideous face, as though he was savouring a secret he badly wanted to divulge. Nick was in no mood to be thwarted in his plans. He would not be denied access to the inn like two other men who were standing warily at a distance with their hands crammed in their pockets waiting for Pengelly to move out of the way.
‘Get out of my way,’ Nick ordered coldly.
Pengelly hee-hawed and fingered his persistently dirty beard. ‘Huh! Thought you’d ’ave bin too damned proud t’drink with the likes of we! I ’eard thee’ve gone up in the world, prefer to sup with the gentry now. Didn’t take ’ee long to wheedle yer way into the big ’ouse now ole Trevennor’s dead!’
Nick was determined not to hear any more but Pengelly puffed up his barrel chest and overhanging paunch and shouted louder, ‘Got a fancy fur that Kem’thorne lump of a female, ’ave ’ee, eh? She’s not a pretty little thing like that wench you ’ad with ’ee recently. What ’ave thee done with ’er then? Got ’er laid up somewheres waitin’ fur yer next visit? Wonder what she would say if she knew you’re beddin’ that bitch down the road.’ Pengelly howled with laughter. ‘P’raps someone oughta tell ’er. Tell ’ee what, Nancarrow, if I see ’er I’ll do it fur ’ee!’
The two other men backed away. They had no wish to be caught up in a brawl if Gyver Pengelly was one of its participants. Pengelly was known to pick a fight most days of the week and Nick Nancarrow had a fearful temper when roused, he had never walked away from a fight in his life.
Nick was seething with anger but today he turned round and walked away. He did not relish the insults that would be thrown at his back but he did not want Pengelly to keep spouting about Isabel with the jealous Deborah Kempthorne living in such close proximity.
‘Told ’ee ’e was too proud to drink with we!’ Pengelly snorted at the two men who were astounded at Nick’s retreat. ‘Gone all soft ’n’ dandified now ’is ’ands ’ave bin roamin’ over a lady. I reckon Nancarrow’s gone as soft as the body of the whore ’e sees at Crantock!’
Nick whirled back round, his blood boiling with rage and fear cutting at his breath that Pengelly might have seen Isabel with Kitty.
Pengelly jeered at him. ‘I might make me way over there one day, Nancarrow, if I can find enough pennies t’make up ’er fancy price.’
So he hadn’t been to Crantock but Nick couldn’t stand his vile talk. ‘Shut your filthy mouth!’
‘You gonna do it, Nancarrow? Do ’ee want t’fight me?’
‘I’d like to beat you straight into Hell!’ Nick hissed with passion.
‘If it’s Hell you’re talking about,’ came a calm voice from a new spectator, ‘may I suggest a fair fight to determine the outcome of who is going there.’ It was the Reverend Perran Thomas. ‘A wrestling match, perhaps. I used to like to wrestle myself but since I’ve been married I’ve had problems with my back.’
Pengelly inserted a crude innuendo but the young curate either didn’t hear it or allowed it to ride over him. There was a gleam in his eyes. ‘I do enjoy a good wrestling match, so may I put it to you both that you take part in a contest that can be overseen for its fairness?’
‘’Tes a good notion of yourn, Rev’run, sur,’ Pengelly slurred, remembering gleefully how he got away with cheating the last time he wrestled with Nick.
‘Fine by me,’ Nick murmured through clenched teeth.
The landlord and his few other early customers could be seen lurking behind Pengelly.
‘Round the back of your establishment, landlord?’ asked the Reverend Thomas eagerly. ‘So as not to offend any ladies who may pass by this way.’
‘’Tes all right with me, sir,’ came the landlord’s answer.
Word quickly spread, as it always does when excitement is afoot, and soon a small crowd had gathered in the flagstoned yard at the rear of the alehouse. The landlord ordered his young son to sweep the yard thoroughly and remove all stones and small debris that might hurt the wrestlers in a fall. Then he and some of the men put down a padding of sawdust from the barrel he kept filled to sprinkle on his taproom floor. When that was done to the curate’s satisfaction, they laid out a circle with ropes. A low but excited hubbub of voices issued from those outside the ropes as Nick and Pengelly stepped inside them.
The two wrestlers did not have their wrestling jackets with them but the landlord was a big man and was able to provide a wrestling sash from his own collection for each contestant. These were worn over one shoulder and across the body to provide grips for the wrestling holds.
Jackets, kerchiefs, shirts, boots and Pengelly’s long filthy waistcoat were taken off. Well-developed muscles were flexed while discreet wagers were passed behind the curate’s back.
The crowd of fidgety men, women and children continued to grow outside the ring. The landlord’s wife and a serving maid openly compared Pengelly’s grimy, hairy, repugnant body with Nick’s handsome physique. They admired the excellent symmetry of his body, his sinewy muscles as they rippled beneath smooth and bronzed skin, his strong and supple limbs.
The Reverend Thomas chose two men from the crowd whom he knew to be honest and true to make up the three sticklers required to umpire the match. He held his silver-plated timepiece in his hand as he addressed the contestants.
“You know the rules,’ he said, in a voice quite different from the one he used for sermons. ‘A “back” is scored when a man has been picked up by his sash and dropped flat on his back so that at least three of his four pins, that is the shoulders and hips, hit the ground simultaneously.’
‘Eh?’ Pengelly said vacantly, shaking his head as if it was full of troublesome fleas.
‘At the same time,’ Nick informed him sarcastically.
The women tittered, provoking some of the men to mutter at them to shut up or clear off.
The Reverend Thomas went on, ‘The first man to “back” his opponent wins the match. However, if a back is not made, a point will be awarded for every pin down at the end of two ten-minute rounds. If the score is level then a further round of five minutes will be wrestled to find the winner. No grappling on the ground. All throws must be made from a standing position. Marks will be given against a wrestler who breaks any rule, resulting in a point being deducted from his score.’
He paused and Nick put out his hand for the traditional handshake before the first of the hitches but the curate started up again.
‘I entreat you both to wrestle fairly in the spirit of the great Cornish wrestlers who have gone before you. Those who followed our king, Henry the Fifth, to Agincourt, those who won a great sporting carnival at Calais, France, at the invitation of King Henry the Eighth, Lyttleton Weyworth who wrestled before King Charles the First. Noblemen and clergymen have made wrest—’
‘Damn yer bloody blubbing!’ Pengelly snarled as he pounded the ground. ‘Get on with it!’
Nick was just as impatient to begin and shot the curate a black look.
‘Yes, well then, shake hands and begin!’
Nick held out his hand again. He knew he would not get a sporting handshake from Pengelly and was prepared for the brief contact of their flesh, nor was he surprised the other man started immediately with a foul move when his right hand gripped Nick’s sash at the shoulder and took fingers of flesh with it. Pengelly laughed in his face, he knew Nick would not complain. With his face screwed up against the pain, Nick got a firm grip on Pengelly’s sash at the back.
‘Scat un back, Nick!’ encouraged the landlord.
It was what Nick had in mind. Putting his weight on one foot, he stretched out the other and hooked it behind Pengelly’s leg to sweep him off balance and onto his back. Pengelly was as strong as an ox, he stood firm, tightened his grip on Nick’s shoulder and spat in his face.
‘A mark against you, Pengelly!’ Perran Thomas shouted and scribbled on the inside leaf at the back of his prayerbook. ‘Break and begin the next hitch.’
Pengelly pushed Nick forcefully away before he could lower his leg and bring it back on the ground and he only just managed to keep his balance.
‘Too much beddin’ of women is your trouble, Nancarrow. Can’t ’ee stand up straight?’
Nick wiped the spit from his face, breathed in deeply and advanced with his hand out for the traditional shake before each new hitch. Pengelly shrugged it off.
All wrestlers had a favourite hitch and Nick liked to crouch and dodge about to get his own and prevent his opponent from getting his. The spectators were silent as they watched, heads bobbing and ducking to catch every move the wrestlers made. They held their breaths as Pengelly muttered to himself. He could not get a hitch and Nick was taking his time to move on him. Five minutes passed slowly. Then Nick cut through the air so rapidly and perfectly he hitched the ox’s sash, turned his back on him, applied his right heel to Pengelly’s right ankle, then bending forward to make a hip throw, he swung his right leg outside Pengelly’s and sweeping back on his heel drove Pengelly’s legs clear off the ground and dropped him on his back. It happened before Pengelly could blink. Nick did not get three pins down on the sawdust but he stood back satisfied with the two points he had scored.
