Matty

©2001 Ian Hobson

Prologue

~ 1902 ~

Henry Bromley lay on his back on the bank of the River Wharton, his flat cap shading his eyes from the bright sunshine. He liked Sunday afternoons, especially the warm sunny ones in the middle of summer. His wife, Mary, sat on a rug under the shade of a tree, cradling her baby daughter, Philippa.

The baby began to pout and was on the verge of crying, when Mary unfastened her blouse and put her to her left breast. As she rocked her gently back and forth, she began to sing an old folk song that her father had sung to her when she was a child.

‘A holiday… a holiday
And the first one of the year
Lord Donald’s wife came into the church
The gospel for to hear

And when the meeting it was done
She cast her eyes about
And there she saw little Matty Groves
Walking in the crowd

“Come home with me little Matty Groves
Come home with me tonight
Come home with me little Matty Groves
And sleep with me till light”

“Oh, I can’t come home. I won’t come home
And sleep with you tonight
By the rings on your fingers I can tell
You are Lord Donald’s wife”…

“What if I am Lord Donald’s wife
Lord Donald’s not at home
For he is out in the far cornfields
Bringing the yearlings home”

And a servant who was standing by
And hearing what was said
He swore Lord Donald, he would know
Before the sun would set

And in his hurry to carry the news
He bent his breast and ran
And when he came to the broad millstream
He took of his shoes and swam

Little Matty Groves, he lay down
To take a little sleep
When he awoke Lord Donald
Was standing at his feet

Saying, “How do you like my feather bed
And how do you like my sheets
How do you like my lady
Who lies in your arms asleep?”

“Oh, well I like your feather bed
And well I like your sheets
But better I like your lady gay
Who lies in my arms asleep”

“Well, get up, get up,” Lord Donald cried
“Get up as quick as you can
For it’ll never be said in fair England
I slew a naked man”

“Oh, I can’t get up, I won’t get up
I can’t get up for my life
For you have two long beaten swords
And I not a pocket knife”

“Well it’s true I have two beaten swords
And they cost me deep in the purse
But you shall have the better of them
And I shall have the worst

“And you will strike the very first blow
And strike it like a man
I will strike the very next blow
And I’ll kill you if I can”

So Matty struck the very first blow
And he hurt Lord Donald sore
Lord Donald struck the very next blow
And Matty struck no more

And then Lord Donald, he took His wife
And sat her on his knee
Saying “Who do you like the best of us
Matty Groves or me?”

And then up spoke his own dear wife
Never heard to speak so free
“I’d rather a kiss from dead Matty’s lips
Than you or your finery”

Then Lord Donald, he jumped up
And loudly he did bawl
He struck his wife right through the heart
And pinned her against the wall

“A grave, a grave,” Lord Donald cried
To put these lovers in
“But bury my Lady at the top
For she was of noble kin”’

As Mary finished the song, a brown trout leapt through the surface of the water and went back under with a plop and a splash, generating a circular ripple. The ripple increased in size and moved along swiftly with the current, until finally it was lost in the confusion of the shallow rapids downstream.

~ 2002 ~

1- Lord of the Manor

The two fencers were equally matched, or so it seemed; though fencing instructor, Bryan Stone, was the better swordsman, and he knew it. Bryan was forty-five to David Lord’s fifty-four, and in better shape physically. Also, he had once been an Olympic bronze-medallist.

The rattle of swordplay was absorbed by the plasterboard walls and suspended ceiling within the converted barn, but their shoes squeaked noisily on the polished wooden floor. It was a cold day in early spring but the heating system had them both sweating under their facemasks and white, protective fencing suits. David made a mental note to adjust the thermostat.

Internally the converted part of the barn was unrecognisable as such, the gym and shower room taking up more than half of the original building. Though at the south-eastern end, where the barn was used as a stable - a use more in keeping with the barn's external appearance - the original stone walls and oak roof beams were still visible. The gym was equipped with an exercise bike and a rowing machine, but was also used for fencing practice. The partition wall was hung with two framed photographs of a young David Lord holding fencing trophies, and with three pairs of crossed swords; a pair of them fake, but equally deadly, seventeenth century rapiers with long thin blades.

‘Had enough yet, David?’ Bryan taunted his student good-naturedly as they came together, swords clashing.

As they pushed apart, David’s sword cut the air with a swishing sound. ‘Have you?’

‘I can hold you off until you tire, and then…’ Bryan retreated as David renewed his attack, but had time to glance at the clock on the wall. He gave ground a little; it was one thing to taunt David Lord whilst in friendly combat, but not wise to win, at least not too often.

But then something inside Bryan rebelled and he began to take the initiative, forcing David to give ground back along the length of the room. He lunged, aiming the point of his sword towards David’s chest beside his sword arm, but David countered and twisted away feeling Bryan’s sword point tug at his sleeve. This brought the score to fourteen all, as each man had now scored fourteen ‘hits’. The next hit would be the winning one, as in the Epee, David Lord's preferred style of fencing, a score of fifteen was required to win.

David’s anger flared. He fought back with renewed strength, increasing the pace and forcing Brian to give ground once again. For the first time ever, the two swordsmen were equally matched and Bryan needed all his skill to hold off David’s attack. Then he remembered that he needed clients like David, or to be more precise needed their money; his fencing school wasn’t exactly brimming with paying students; and it wasn’t wise to anger a man like David Lord.

David Lord: ‘Lord of the Manor’ the locals called him, engineer, successful businessman, multimillionaire, at least on paper, and owner of The Manor and surrounding estate. The Manor was a rambling part seventeenth century and part Victorian, house overlooking a terraced and wooded garden. The garden had been extended to encompass the site of the seventeenth century stables that had been destroyed by fire in the nineteen-forties. More recently the old barn had been converted into stables and gym.

David’s anger had not abated, in fact he had never felt such anger or such strength, and sensing a weakness in his opponent he went in for the kill. He thrust his sword into Bryan’s chest close to his right arm, his sword arm, and felt it penetrate his suit and continue deep into his torso. As bright red blood oozed from the wound, David froze.

‘You win,’ said Bryan.

David’s left hand tore off his mask, his face contorted with a look of horror. The protected point of his sword was against Bryan’s suit, close to the right armpit, the thin blade bending upwards in a neat parabola. There was no blood and no wound.

‘Are you okay, David?’ Bryan asked, breathing heavily.

David swallowed hard, his chest heaving. As he withdrew his sword he took a step backwards. ‘Yeah… for a moment I…’

‘What?' Brian asked. 'You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.’

‘Sweat got in my eyes… Heating’s set too high.’ David turned away and walked towards a shelf where fresh towels waited. He wiped his face and pushed back his dark but greying hair, throwing a towel to Bryan who had followed him and removed his own mask, his boyish freckled face wearing a puzzled expression.

‘Are you sure you’re okay, David?’

The door in the far wall opened and a shaft of sunlight swept across the floor as Samuel entered. ‘Urgent call from Monica Lowell, Mr Lord.’ Samuel Rivers had worked for David for almost fifteen years but still called him ‘Mr Lord’.

David turned towards him, recovering his composure, the confident expression returning to his face. Not for the first time, the thought crossed Bryan’s mind that if David had been an actor the role of James Bond could have been made for him.

‘Duty calls, Bryan. Samuel will call you to arrange the next time. Thanks.’

‘My pleasure as always, David.’ Bryan placed his sword in its carrying case on the shelf and headed for the shower room. He knew when he was dismissed.

David took the mobile house phone from Samuel. He had unplugged the gym’s wall-mounted phone earlier; he didn’t like to be disturbed. ‘This had better be important, Monica.' David valued what little leisure time he had; this was his first Saturday at home in over a month. As President of Durell Industries, an international engineering company, demands on his time were great. But then, so were the rewards.

***

The winter had been relatively kind, often wet and windy but with very little snow, except on the highest of the Yorkshire Dales hilltops. It was a cold morning but the sky was mostly cloudless and the wind was a light south-westerly.

As Philippa Lord dismounted, keeping hold of the reigns in her left hand, she patted Sapphire’s honey coloured neck and stroked her long main. The mare snorted and nodded. ‘Steady girl,’ Philippa said. The hard, swift, ride up onto the hilltop had tired Sapphire; and Philippa’s breathing was not as steady as it would have been a few years ago. At forty-one, Philippa was beginning to realise that she was not a young girl any more. But she was still a competent horsewoman and, tall and slim, she was still able to turn more than a few heads.

She transferred the reigns to her right hand and removed her ridding helmet. Her long dark hair was tied back neatly in a ponytail, accentuating her high forehead and unblemished skin. Her eyes were dark brown, her nose in perfect proportion to her face with almost circular nostrils, giving her a slightly oriental look.

She stood for a moment admiring the majestic view of Whartondale with its patchwork quilt of fields below and hills and crags across the dale- the word dale being the Yorkshire name for a valley. The River Wharton snaked along the valley bottom, its route defined by trees. The sun glinted off the water near the old corn mill on the outskirts of Scarford. A line of cars moved slowly along the road beside the river, held back by a slow-moving tractor towing a hay filled trailer.

The farmers of Whartondale had been lucky. Their stock had not been touched by the previous year’s foot and mouth epidemic, so the fields were still dotted with cows and sheep, and the first of the spring lambs had been born. Though the tourist industry had been hit hard, as all the public footpaths had been closed for several months, eliminating the main reason for visitors to be there.

Halfway up the hillside, closer to where Philippa stood beside her mare, two ramblers climbed a stone stile at the corner of a field, stopping to study a half-folded map, before heading diagonally across the field towards Staff Wood. Philippa turned to her left, following the route they would take with her eyes until they came to rest on The Manor, just visible beyond the trees.

She could see the roof of the west wing and the eastern side of the barn, but Staff Wood obscured the rest of the house. Philippa could just make out David’s Jaguar parked outside the double garage and Bryan Stone’s Ford parked in the gravel drive. As she watched a man carrying a long hold-all stepped out of the barn and walked towards the parked cars. As he unlocked the Ford, Philippa recognised him as Bryan Stone, David’s fencing instructor.

Philippa had never quite understood David’s obsession with fencing. It wasn’t as if he had time to compete any more. She glanced at her wristwatch, a Rolex; another of David’s expensive presents.

She had been in her early twenties when she met David, who was thirteen years older. He had just been appointed Managing Director of Durell Industries, when his own small but successful engineering company had been taken over by them. She had been private secretary to David’s solicitor in Ilkley, a busy Yorkshire Dales town. At first she had assumed he was married, but she had soon learned that he and his wife had been estranged for over two years and that his divorce was just about to come through. His former wife had won custody of their daughter, Sarah, after an expensive legal battle.

Often Philippa had often sat in on meetings with clients, taking shorthand. This was how she had met David, but at one such meeting her boss had been delayed, and she had sat and chatted for with David for over an hour. The next day he phoned her and asked her out.

A whirlwind romance followed. David took her to expensive restaurants, to the theatre, on shopping sprees in Leeds and Harrogate; and on weekend breaks in the Dales, the Lake District and North Wales; even to watch him compete in a fencing tournament. Finally on Lake Windermere, on the deck of his five-year-old sailing yacht, he proposed, and they were married within seven months of their first meeting.

Philippa put her riding helmet back on and tied the strap under her chin. She put her left foot into the stirrup and effortlessly swung her right leg over the Saddle. ‘Time we headed back, Sapphire.’

***

David Lord shut off the shower and groped for a fresh towel, his mind on the conversation with Monica Lowell, Durell Industries' Chief Financial Executive.

‘David, there’s been a fire at the factory in Poland.’

‘Shit! How bad?’

‘I don’t know for sure. I just dropped into the office to check some figures. I’ve been going over the auditor’s report. Jim Stanton was in. He took the call from Poland. I thought you’d like to know right away.’

‘Is Jim there?’

‘He’s in his office. I’ll transfer you.’

‘Thanks, Monica.’

David threw the towel aside and dressed. His mind churning over the news from Poland. Jim Stanton, Durell’s Senior Purchasing Manager, hadn’t told him much more, but the fire sounded serious: two nightshift workers seriously injured, but everyone accounted for.

How would this affect production, not to mention the planned merger with Muller-Denko? David wondered. With Durell’s share price down, news like this he could do without. 'Dam it!' He cursed aloud, wishing he had trusted his instincts about Poland; health and safety at that foundry was obviously not a priority. Probably one of the reasons why they were able to undercut British foundries.

Suddenly David shuddered as the image of Bryan Stone, pierced by his sword, the bloodstain spreading out and down from the wound, came back into his mind. What was that? Hallucination? He wondered if he had been working too hard and maybe needed some time away. A few days aboard his yacht, Silver Cloud, would be a good tonic; it was time she was back in the water. If only Philippa was a better sailor.

***

Philippa leant from the saddle to pull back the iron latch on the five barred gate, opening it wide enough for Sapphire to pass through and closing it behind her. On impulse she turned right instead of left and followed the cart track leading behind a row of cottages, passing through an open gate, and into a field. As she passed to the rear of the vicarage she noticed a young man working in the garden. He gave her a friendly wave and she waved back and continued on towards the church.

At the small rear church gate Philippa dismounted and tied Sapphire’s reigns to the railings. The gate squealed as she pushed it open, startling a flock of crows in a nearby tree, before swinging back silently until it hit the gatepost. Sapphire whinnied and pulled on the reigns.

‘Hey, you’re jumpy today, Sapphire. I won’t be a minute.' Philippa, pulled a handful of long grass from beside the nearest gravestone and feed it to Sapphire. Then, riding-helmet in hand, she strode along the stone paved path through the churchyard, looking ahead at the familiar sight of the church with its sturdy rectangular Norman tower and at the gravestones, many of which leaned drunkenly this way and that, while the upright ones seemed to look on disapprovingly. To Philippa’s right, near the far wall stood a small JCB, and beside it a pile of freshly dug earth.

A little further on Philippa left the path and stopped beside a grave. The gravestone read:

PHILIPPA GRENVILLE
BELOVED WIFE OF HAROLD
BELOVED MOTHER OF CHARLES
SIMON AND HARRIET
1902 – 1957

Philippa Grenville was Philippa’s grandmother. She had died just before Philippa herself was born, but she’d often visited the grave as a young girl and even as a teenager, mainly because of the shared name. Childhood memories of visiting the grave with her mother and older brother Peter came flooding back. Philippa picking daises and buttercups and placing them on the grave. Peter being scolded for climbing on the gravestones.
Weeds had invaded the small plot, so Philippa placed her helmet on the grass beside the grave and stooped to remove them. She worked quickly, tugging at the weeds with her right hand and balancing on the balls of her feet. Then she reached over, taking some of her weight on the fingertips of her left hand, as she reached for a clump of grass in the middle of the grave. Most of it came away easily, but to Philippa’s surprise a small shiny object was unearthed.

At first Philippa thought it was a coin but as she reached for it a disk of earth fell from the centre and she saw that it was a ring. She rubbed the remaining soil off with her fingers and saw that it was a gold ring.

Slipping the ring into the pocket of her riding jacket, Philippa reached once more towards the few remaining weeds in the centre of the grave, again steadying herself with her left hand. But to her surprise the ground under her hand gave way and she began to fall forward. Then suddenly the whole grave opened up as though it had just been freshly dug, and as she fell towards the bottom she saw two human skeletons lying there, one on top of the other. She opened her mouth to scream but no sound left her lips, and she was engulfed by blackness as the grave filled in on top of her.

TO BE CONTINUED