Through His Eyes Are the Rivers of Time by Barbara Bretana
Through His Eyes are the Rivers of Time
Barbara Bretana
Copyright 2014 Barbara Bretana
Cover Art by Peg Halpin
Dedication
Thanks to all of those friends and family who said I could do this even when I was tearing my hair out in frustration. Special thanks to Peg Halpin for her contributions to the Cover. Kudos for her painting skills and encouragement.
Chapter 1
My mother kissed me awake, tucked the covers down at my feet on the carved wooden foot-board of the Jacobean boat she called a bed and tickled me. I rolled over, protesting as cold air invaded the cocoon of warmth under which I burrowed. Flannel sheets; warm, thick and nubby from frequent washing, my coverlets were down because the room in this old house although centrally heated still lacked the warmth of more modern places. Cryllwythe Manor had been corner stoned in 1597, added to and renovated over hundreds of years.
In the sixties, shortly after I had been born, my father had spent a small fortune installing a massive heating system of flues and radiators, furnaces and vents that took up a respectable amount of cellar space but didn’t intrude into the wine cellars.
I had played in the cellars and dungeons, considered them my own private playgrounds. I was an only child but not lonely, had plenty of things to play with plus my own active imagination.
My room was no longer the nursery but a small valet’s bedchamber off my parents bedroom. They did not conform to the upper crusts dislike of sharing the same room let alone bed but snuggled together in the massive four-poster that I called the boat. Crafted in Elizabethan times, it had a canopy, swans, and griffins, carved on the headboard and up the four posters. Silk curtains bound by gilt cords held the drapes back and the canopy overhead was velvet and embroidered with the Welsh and Cornish Lion. My father traced his family name back to the 15th century, my mother even earlier to Irish royalty.
I was in the Stewards room, small, inner with no windows. Just the bed, a dresser, chair, and child’s desk. Painted a creamy yellow, it boasted hardwood floors with a priceless Isfahan rug underfoot.
“Breakfast, Silver,” Mum cajoled. “Pancakes, sausage, porridge and hot cross buns.”
I grumbled, rubbed my eyes, and slid my feet out that didn’t reach the floor. Rather than searching for the steps that let me climb up onto the high mattress, my mother helped me down with a hold under my armpits.
I hit the cold floor and shivered, and then raced out into their room. A quick glance showed me that my father was already up and out on his farm rounds so I padded down the long corridor with mum yelling at me to slow down.
The bathroom was huge and modernized. My dad had growled loud and often about cold wear showers and chamber pots. We had a flush commode, two sinks, a walk in shower and a lion’s foot tub I had adored at first sight and unlimited hot water.
I was still too young to use the toilet by myself so mum parked me on the seat and helped me scrub my face. By then, Sally the upstairs maid was in and took over, chuckling as she scrubbed the sleep from my eyes and behind my ears, made me brush my teeth and teased me as she dressed me in jeans and buttoned down shirt.
Breakfast was in what used to be the Solar, a room filled from floor to ceiling with windows, well lit and my favorite room in the mansion.
Breakfast was a meal I rushed through; it was a beautiful warm, sunny day outside, a rarity in this part of Cornwall.
My family owned a goodly portion of the Cornish countryside; growing organic beef, hogs and grain for European markets and being a thrifty and progressive manager, my father head quietly prospered when many of his other friends and peers had become the genteel poor.
Lord Griffon Argent was an Earl, my mother the daughter of one and could claim kinship with Elizabeth. My parents told me that one day; I would make my bow before my liege sovereign and presented at Court when I came of age. It was not something my five-year-old mind found exciting. Not like meeting the new farm bull.
I was out the door and running to the south pasture before either Sally or Roger could catch up to me.
Roger was the farm manager, a dour Cornish man who smiled only when a heifer calved or my face peered around a hay bale. He never minded if I was underfoot or climbing to the loft, only cared that I was safe.
Sally hollered and met up with him at the corner of the bullpen, saw me and scolded. “Aidan Argent, you’re supposed to wait until I take you to Mr. Penrose, not go haring off on your own. You know that the lorries are coming today to pick up a load of kine for the markets and you’re too wee to be spotted. You’d be flattened like a pancake,” she scolded. “Sorry, Mr. P. I can take him back to yon house.”
“He’s fine, Sally me girl,” he grinned, tousling my head of curls. “He’s eager to see the new bull, he’s coming in today, shipped the entire way from America. Registered Black Angus, he be. Champion breeding bull from the state of Texas.”
“Oh, really? I thought his Lordship would be sticking with Texas longhorns.”
“Too bony,” I said. “Beef’s too tough and stringy. No marbling.”
She laughed and Mr. P grinned. “His little lordship knows his beefers. Crossbreds do better, are healthier, and mature earlier. Tis a fine crop of steers going out this sennight. Fetch top prices per pound. I’ll take him out of your hair this morn. Come along, young Aidan.”
I took his hand and we walked through the barn to the calf lot and out to the big pasture where the old bull grazed. I knew what would happen to old Midas and was sad but growing up on a farm brought home the realities of life and death at an early age.
We puttered, checked the fences, found no grass growing under the wooden rails, none dared to poke their heads through, Penrose had a crew who did nothing but maintain the fence lines.
It was near noon when the cattle trailer pulled in and he made me wait at the stock pen until the big black beast was unloaded and driven into a stall in the barn.
His eye was large, round, white rolling, and his black coat curly and dense. Sweat stained his hide and muscles rippled beneath it.
His head was huge, polled with a shiny wet, black nose; his tongue was black as well.
He snorted, pawed, and tested both the walls and the gate.
‘Aidan, me lad, you are not to go in his stall nor the pasture when he is out. Understand? He is not like Old Midas who knows you.”
“He will,” I announced, standing on a bucket so I could peek in and admire his 2000 lbs of black perfection.
“No, Aidan, not even when I’m around. He’s hurt several people. Promise me. Or you won’t be allowed in the barn.”
“I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die stick a needle in my eye.”
“Good. Now, are you coming to help me gather the ducks? The cook wants two for tonight’s dinner.”
“Not pluck them,” I protested. I hated the smell of wet feathers.
“Only if you want to eat them,” He laughed and I ran out of the barn and down to the lake, some hundred acres of water and ornamental gardens. He followed more slowly and we spent an enjoyable few hours chasing ducks around until we caught two.
Chapter 2
I spent the evening in front of the telly, watching some silly, inane program that fascinated me. I was explaining it all to my friend Ned who sat near me on the floor in front of the fireplace, my dad was in his favorite armchair reading the Times while my mum knitted.
A log shifted, rolled towards the fire-dogs and hit the screen, I heard him say, and “How is Neddie today, Silly?”
I hated that nickname; called that cuz my mum had labeled me Silver at an early age for my light blonde hair. “Peachy,” I
Dad hooted. “Moiré, his imaginary friend watches Benny Hill. Fancy that.”
“Hush, Griff,” she murmured. “Neddie’s as real to him as you are.”
I shook my head at Ned, said, “They don’t mean it, Ned. Grownups, you know.”
He stuck his tongue out and I sneaked a look at mum but she didn’t notice. Sally came in and knocked on the paneled doorjamb, her red curls damp, her uniform was a neat dress of her choice and an apron. She wore sensible trainers. “Good evening, milord, my lady, Aidan,” she chirruped. “Time to get ready for bed.”
I protested but she ushered me out after a quick kiss from mum, dad, and a goodnight to Ned and me.
Sally had the tub full of bubbles and my own legion of floating goodies. She stripped my dirty clothes, plunked me carefully into the hot water after I toe-tested it, and warned her not to put me on Ned’s lap.
“Neddie needs to be washed up, too, Aidan. He must get as dirty as you do. You smell like cow.”
“Don’t listen to her, Neddie,” I said earnestly. “You smell fine to me.” He blinked his fine blue eyes and ducked his blonde head of curls under the water, came up laughing as my yellow submarine hung from one ear. He finished at the same time as I did and Sally didn’t make him brush his teeth but she tucked him into bed next to me, kissed us both goodnight and left the room, softly closing the door.
Once I was sure, she was gone, he got up, and turned on my night light and we dragged out the big book of the history of the local castles I’d stolen from Dad’s extensive library.
Mum’s new project was renovating the 16th century knot and rose- gardens; she was replanting several heirloom species of Tudor Roses. I’d helped her pick out some varieties mostly because I liked the names.
We turned the thick vellum pages and he helped me with the names of the castles.
Ipswich. Dunsmuir. Palladium. Snowdonia. Blenheim. Marleybourne Court. And our own, Cryllwythe Castle, called Manor.
“Look, there’s a Priest hole. And an ouble---ouble.” I couldn’t pronounce the word but he knew it.
“Oubliette. A good place to stay out of, Aidan,” he warned. “They dropped prisoners in there to starve to death. Sometimes, we didn’t find them for centuries.”
“Daddy says no one’s been murdered in our dungeons.”
He rolled his eyes. “Of course they have. Why else would the Manor have dungeons? He doesn’t want to give you nightmares.”
“Not me,” I protested.
“It’s okay, Aidan. I get them, too. That’s why I sleep with you. So we can protect each other. Look, this is Pennyroyal Court. I was born there. Nothing much left of it but four walls. It was a pretty estate until the Crouchback burnt it to the ground. I buried treasure there.”
“What kind?”
“Special rocks. Toy soldiers. My lady mother’s christening gift. My signet ring. First tooth.”
“Let’s go dig it up,” I said and he agreed. “Oh wait. We can’t go now. It’s too dark and the coaches don’t run this late.” I thought a bit. “We’d have to get into town and I’d have to get some money. How much is in my piggy bank?”
“Ten pounds, four shillings and fifty-seven pence,” he recited. “You could borrow some from the cook and the household account.”
“She’d tell Mum.” I shook my head. “How much does a taxi cost? I could phone one and have the driver pick us up.”
“Would they come out here and wouldn’t everyone see him?”
“I could tell him to wait for us at the gates,” I said doubtfully.
“The gatehouse would call up and ask what and why,” he mused. “Why don’t we wait until Lord Argent takes you to the village on Saturday? We can take the coach to Tregarth and then Colmsby-on-the-Moor.”
“Is it far?” I looked at the map in the book, it was only two inches away from London, and I remembered how long a trip that was. It had taken days to drive up with Dad last year. The three of us had gone to the World’s Trade Fair to enjoy the livestock exhibits and thee sales. Coming home, we had brought two new bloodlines of both beefers and horses.
The Argent Stud was almost as famous as the Queen Mother’s was.
“Remember that trip?” I asked and he shook his head, laid back down.
“Nay. I didn’t know you then, Aidan,” his voice was suddenly sleepy and I pulled the covers over us, slipping the heavy volume behind the headboard, had to sit back up to shut off the light only moments before my mum entered the bedroom and peeked in on us.
“You awake, Silver baby?” she asked quietly and came in our room. Her hand hovered over my covered head.
“I love you, baby bunting,” she cooed. “Sleep tight, little Silverbell. Goodnight, Aidan.”
I heard the door close, the rumble of my da’s deep voice and it all faded into dreams I never remembered when I woke.
Chapter 3
Saturday was one of those typical Cornish days. The sun barely made itself peek through the lowering clouds and a misty rain came down eventually soaking everything. Dad and Mr. P were glad to see it, they’d both agree that the Kieber acres of wheat needed more moisture before harvest and we’d been unusually dry for a long time.
The town was fairly large, a half hours drive from the farm and I’d slept most of the way in, only waking when Neddie nudged me as the Range Rover dipped onto the bridge and the old street cobblestones.
“Good morning, little Silver,” Mr. P grinned. “Ready for the feed dealer? Or do you want to go with his lordship to the Law clerks?”
I snorted. Dry, dusty books and even drier, dusty old men with white wigs. Like I wanted to spend the morning in with them when I could wander the aisles of farm gadgets, smell the sweetness of molasses and pet the nearly feral shop cats who kept down the rats.
My dad dropped us off, we strode into the feed mill, and the smells overwhelmed me. I darted down the aisle where the blacksmithing supplies were, kept my ears out for Mr. P’s tones. He told me not to wander too far and I hollered back where I was and was going.
Ned met me at the corner of the alley where 50 gallon drums of seed potatoes were stored next to bins of onion sets. The smell was musty and sweet, reminded me of early spring planting in Mum’s small veggie garden.
“You ready?” he asked and I hesitated. “If I just leave, Mr. P will look for us.”
“Tell him you’re going to meet your dad,” he suggested.
“Okay.” I went in search of the farm manager and found him talking to the feed dealer ordering a gross ton of sweet feed for the show heifers. Mr. Braithwaite said hi and handed me a sucker from the jar on the counter.
“The wheat’s doing well,” Mr. P added. “Yield will be double this year with that new hybrid seed.”
“Mr. P, I’m going to meet Da at the Bubble and Squeak for lunch,” I said and tried not to blush while lying.
“Tired of this place already? Tell his Lordship, I’ll be another hour. I have to order more hi-tensile fence.”
“Da said he’d buy me an ice cream,” I said. “Can I go? It’s not far and I know the way.” I looked up at him with my eyes wide and my best pleading smile and saw him melt.
“Go on then. Keep to the sidewalks,” he warned. “I’ll be along presently.
“Ta,” I said and ran off. The coach stop was on the corner of Main near the Apothecary, the post office customers were already waiting for the coach, and when I asked when it was due, a matron smiled and told me the express was due in any minute. She asked me if I was off to Holcombe and I nodded.
“You have your sixpence?” she asked, smiling and I dug into my pocket for the shilling I’d set aside.
“Where’s your nanny?”
“Don’t need a nanny,” I said affronted. I was too old for a nursemaid.
“Ooh, a big grown up lad you are to be sure,” she agreed, blue eyes twinkling. “What lovely pansy purple eyes you have.” I he
Ned told me to sit in the way back where we could stay unnoticed as the coach lurched and wobbled on the village streets until we reached the main highway. Ned pointed out the signs mounted on great metal poles and painted green and white. Some of the names we puzzled over, especially the ones in Welsh, which I could read, and he couldn’t, being English.
My Mum spoke both Gaelic and Welsh and sang to me in each so I was familiar with them.
“Wish I’d brought some biscuits and tea,” I mourned. “I’m hungry. You got anything?” He shook his head. “Guess we’ll have to wait till we reach Holcombe-on-the-Moor.”
One of the passengers ahead of us turned round; he was short, chubby with rough homespun and smelled of sheep. His eyes were faded blue, his hair under his cap an iron gray and his cheeks were rosy with a button chin and blowzy sideburns.
“Holcombe-on-the-Moor! That’s a long way on this coach, lad. Where’s your mum?”
“I’m meeting her,” I said quickly. “My Da sent me off.”
“On your own? A wee lad like you? How old are you?”
“Nearly six,” I answered proudly.
“Six! What mum would let a six-year-old ride to Holcombe by his own self? Where’s your mum meeting you? At the Coach stop?”
“At Holcombe. Pennyroyal Court.”
“Pennyroyal! Lad, there’s nothing there but a great big hole and some stones. The walls fell in years ago. Even the National Trust don’t want that ruin. Besides, the coach don’t stop there but twelve miles away in town.” He got up, lurched his way forward to the driver, and spoke to him, glancing back at us.
“Uh oh, Ned,” I murmured. “I don’t think they like that we’re on the coach.”
“Well, they can’t throw us off until they stop,” he said. “I think this one goes straight to Truro before it stops.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t check the route on the front,” I said uneasily. “Do you think Dan will be mad at us?”
The farmer came back down the aisle and sat opposite us, studying me with deliberation and now; several others joined him, a woman who looked like a shopkeeper, the woman we’d sneaked in with and an Anglican reverend.