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Elsie Balme lives in Porthleven, Cornwall, where she is well-known as a poet and local author. She was born in the environs of the former manor of Carminow, knows the area intimately and has studied its history and that of the 13th Century extensively prior to writing this book.

CARMINOW

Elsie Balme

CARMINOW

Copyright Elsie Balme The right of Elsie Balme to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers. Any person who commits any unauthorized act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages. A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

ISBN 9781849633376

www.austinmacauley.com First Published (2013) Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd. 25 Canada Square Canary Wharf London E14 5LB

Printed & Bound in Great Britain

Authors Note
The time-worn effigies of Roger de Carminow and his wife, Johanna, can still be seen in the parish church of St. Mawgan-in-Meneage, Cornwall, having been brought there during the reign of King James I, when the chapel at Carminow itself had fallen into disrepair and been turned into a cowshed. The male line of the Carminow family appears to have finally died out in the 1630s and the manor was acquired by the Penrose family, eventually passing, again in default of male heirs, through marriage to the Rogers family, who until quite recently were designated Lords of the Manors of Penrose, Carminow and Winnianton. Winnianton appears briefly in this book, though Penrose does not. My researches at the Royal Institution of Cornwall provide the genealogical basis for Roger de Carminows family, (with the obvious addition of fictitious characters such as Tegan). Understandably, given the space of time involved, there are conflicting accounts of which Carminow was which, and there are slight variations in the nomenclature of some pedigrees: I have chosen to use those which were the work of the great genealogical scholar, J.P. Rogers, for whom I worked for many years and for whose researches I formed the greatest respect. Although the Carminow family, as such, no longer exists, its genes are perpetuated in a number of other well-known families, one of which, interestingly enough, is the Spencer family of Althrop. One is tempted to wonder what the reaction of King Edward I might have been had he been able to see the future possibility of a descendant of his friend and subject, Roger de Carminow, ascending the throne of England! Other famous family names linked to that of Carminow are Ferrers, Trevarthen, Arundel and Bodrugan. Conjectures such as this have lent an increased aura of fascination to Rogers own story a tale I have so greatly enjoyed writing. I trust, therefore, that I may be forgiven for any minor historical inaccuracies: the salient facts, checked and re-checked, remain as unassailable as it is possible for them to be, given the long space of time since their occurrence.

Chapter 1
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That South West wind which is both the blessing and the curse of Cornwall was in the foulest of all its moods that winter afternoon. It scoured the bleached marram grass on the cliff tops: bludgeoned the hunchbacked trees near the shoreline till branches broke and roots heaved out of the earth with great cracking, thunderous noises of protest: blistered the pasture where sheep huddled miserably together for warmth in the lee of the undulating ground, and sent shudders down the spines of those unfortunate enough to be out in the fields cutting turnips, or down by the shore beyond Winnianton, gathering scraps of driftwood for their fires. Further up the valley, below the elbow of the hill, old Pedyr shuffled across the yard, muttering curses into his beard against the weather, the cold, and his own old age, thinning his blood nowadays to a point where he could no longer bear the ravages of winter without the awful discomfort of twinges in the joints, swollen toes and fingers, and legs that ached for the warmth of the fireside, hours before dusk liberated them to make their way there. He could feel the first huge drops of cold rain from the leaden clouds, and pulled the rough woollen stuff of his hood closer round his face, wiping the moisture from his nose on the back of his hand as he did so. The cold always made his nose run these days; his eyes, too the hand passed across them also, and he cursed again as his feet splashed into a puddle he had not noticed, left from yesterdays rain and the rain of the day before that. This was an evil winter and no mistake and tonights storm looked like being the worst of the lot. The master being away in Dunheved on the kings business could only make things worse, what with the mistress being young and near her time again, and the house servants constantly demanding more wood for the fires and the young men too busy cutting turnips and lambing the ewes to bother with such matters, so that his own tired old limbs had to struggle to and fro across the yard with the great loads of faggots and then there were the pigs to be fed before he could escape to the dear dark of his own hut and lie down on the straw pallet while Agnes finished getting the pottage ready for supper. The union of Pedyr and Agnes had been long and comforting. True, she nagged and grumbled when times were hard which they mostly were but she was a good worker, spending long hours in the fields, summer and winter alike, and still finding energy to prepare tasty meals and keep the pot well stocked. By and large they understood one another and there was no-one like Agnes for finding a remedy for the ague or mixing some soothing unguent for a bruise or a wound. Their hut was more or less watertight; and the fact that they had not
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been blessed with children meant that there were only their own two mouths to feed: they could have done worse, he told himself. The young master and mistress, of course, had married each other properly, in church, as the high born do. She had worn a silken gown for the occasion, and a silver chain round her neck. The master had brought her home on the saddle of his own horse, and there had been merrymaking far into the night, with plenty of ale for all, and enough singing and shouting round the yard to be heard five miles away in Helston. It had been springtime then all of three years ago. Young master John, the heir, must be nearly two years old. Now Mistress was near her time again, and the Master away. Master was away too often, but that was the way of the high born. Hitching his tunic up around his waist to keep it out of the mud, he negotiated the last puddle between himself and the wood-pile, and began to load the great basket again. Inside the house, Sara paced up and down the hall, pausing occasionally as the racking contractions bent her double. It had been bad when little John was born but not, she realised, as bad as this. And it had been quicker. This time, as hour dragged by after painful hour, she felt as though she had been trapped in this labour for ever, and would never be free of it. Suppose she died? What would become of little John? She tried to pray, but the pain was sweeping her away, to a place beyond prayer, into those awful, searing moments when she wanted to scream and yell with agony. In the end, she probably would scream and yell, but not yet. She was mistress of this house, and she would not give the servants the satisfaction of finding her one whit less stoical about her pain than they were about their own. In a moments relief, she observed, not for the first time that day, that the fire was smoking badly, partly because the down-draught from the smoke hole in the roof was worse than usual when the wind was blowing from the sea at this force; partly because old Pedyr did not seem to understand that he should bring in wood from the back of the woodpile, where it had rested under cover and had time to dry out, rather than load his basket with recently chopped logs which were still damp and sappy. Sara coughed, and the coughing hurt her back, which was already bent like that of an old crone. Her women had told her she should go to the bedchamber and prepare for the moment of birth, which surely could not be long delayed now; the pains had started yesterday evening; today was gone past sunset, or would have been, had there been any sun. Surely Roger would be home soon! If only Roger were here, or if only she were at Hornicote! She had not wanted this child to be born at Carminow. Carminow was all very well in the summer, when the sun shone and the sea glittered and the air was warm and gentle. Carminow was fine enough when the earth smelled strong of spring and the young corn was sprouting and the lambs were skipping about on the high ground. Carminow was even pleasant enough in the autumn, when the first frosts crisped the edges of the mornings, and the corn was threshed and the turnips were ricked up and the beans were salted down, and the fresh fires crackled invitingly on the hearth. But Carminow in the winter, when it rained all day long, and the wind shrieked in off the sea, and the damp seeped through the inadequate walls so that the rafters dripped with wet and the servants clothes
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steamed as they cooked the food in the kitchen; when fingers and toes were red and swollen; when childrens noses ran disgustingly and young women died of the cough: Sara hated Carminow then, and longed for the sheltered valley of her birth. But it had not been thought advisable for her to travel that distance now, with roads so waterlogged and dangerous. Roger said it was hard enough for a man with a horse to traverse the country beyond Bodmin at this time of the year without getting bogged down. Where was Roger now? If only he would come! He had said he would come. Only two days away, he had said. And the child must be born soon or she and it would die, of that she was certain. It was well past dark when he did arrive, soaked to the skin and near exhaustion, yet as always stirring up the whole place with his very presence, striding in with his great boots, shouting a greeting here; offering a pleasantry there. But tonight there was little time for greetings. Tonight Sara was brought to bed and the child was refusing to be born. Roger brushed aside the anxious women in the doorway of the bedchamber; shoved the nervous midwife out of the way; looked at his wife, her face grey with suffering as she writhed out her agony on the bed, and he issued one order only. Turning to the youngest of the serving girls, he bellowed Get Agnes! The first pale streaks of dawn were lighting the winter day as she shambled home, well satisfied with her nights work. The baby had been the wrong way round. Hed never have been born at all without her, and the young mistress would have perished. As it was, she was exhausted. Shed need a long lying-in and a lot of care if she was to pull through and regain her health. Agnes would see to it, as she had seen to the birth itself. That fool of a young midwife theyd brought out from Helston shed have lost that precious child. Another son! They would call him Roger, this one, after his father, and a fine man hed be. Agnes would get one of those great red-faced Hockin girls to be his wet nurse full of good milk and good health, both of them, and strong as oxen. She met her husband, trudging to work in the dawn light, an enquiring look on his face. Yth yw da lowr. She addressed him in the Cornish tongue. (Tis all right) Mab teg yw. (Tis a fine boy). Han mestres? (And the mistress?) His voice betrayed his anxiety. He liked Sara, for all her autocratic ways and sometimes hard words. You knew where you were with her. She could be a difficult taskmaster, but she was fair. Pedyr would have hated her to die, and to die young in childbed at that. Hy a vydh bywa, grassa dhe Dhuw, (Shell live, thanks be to God) Agnes replied, thinking as she spoke. Though no thanks to that silly midwife. Girls nowadays think they know everything and dont know nothin. Skeeth osta? (You tired?) Her husbands voice betrayed the affection and admiration he felt for her. My a wra mos a-rag. (Ill do again) the traditional reply expressed the philosophy of generations of Cornish people, inured to harsh conditions, difficult lives, and physical exhaustion. Later, when it had passed noon time, she would lie down and sleep for an hour, maybe. In the meantime she must go to Hockins place and send the girl Mary up to the house; then she must feed the chickens and the pig, sweep out the hut and put fresh straw on the floor, prepare
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the pottage for the nights eating, mend the fire, collect more wood from the foreshore thered be plenty of it after last nights storm and stack it in the woodpile to dry out. Strangely, she did not feel truly tired, despite having been up all night. The rain had stopped; the morning was clean and clear. The rooks, always the first birds to start shouting the day, even before the farmyard cocks, were already sounding from the treetops. Agnes felt alive, useful and fulfilled. A new life an important new life was in the world, and it was all her doing. Well most of it! Young mistress had been very brave. She had co-operated all the way. Made very little fuss, while Agnes had turned the child like a calf. There were many low-born women, having easier births, who had complained ten times as loudly. Sara herself was asleep, the agony over. Roger had lain down beside her to comfort her. Wide awake himself, he watched her peaceful, exhausted, but very beautiful face. Beyond her, in the little wooden cradle, lay the child; wiped clean now, but still bearing the redness of the new-born and the bruises that had inevitably attended his awkward and difficult birth. He was handsome lad though, with a shock of black down on his head; his eyes, which had opened briefly on the world before he fell into his lifes first sleep, were deep, dark blue. His father stood up, peeped into the cradle again, reached out a finger to touch that miraculously soft skin; bent and kissed his sleeping wife, and tip-toed from the room. *** They christened him on a bitter, blustery March day, when the sun shone brilliantly and the east wind drove the clouds across the sky as a dog drives sheep. Even the primroses in the grass by the roadside seemed to shiver; hazel catkins bounced wildly on their branches, whilst exhausted rooks flapped dispiritedly in the treetops, ragged and vulnerable to the biting cold. The priest who had ridden out from Helston on an ancient nag to perform the ceremony was so seized by the cold that he could barely move his lips or his limbs on arrival, and needed the assistance of two strong men to dismount. Before the proceedings could take place he had to be warmed by the fire in the Great Hall and liberally plied with mulled ale, which did much to restore his spirits. A beaming, rotund little man, he was fond of the comforts of life and had greatly looked forward to the renowned hospitality of Carminow on this occasion. His host, towering above him and looking more than usually handsome in a dark blue tunic with a silver buckle at the waist, greeted him as he drank. Good morrow, sir priest. Rogers friendly slap on the shoulder almost sent his honoured guest reeling. How goes the world outside this place? As to that, sir, you are surely better equipped than I to comment. I seldom travel beyond Helston and a few surrounding parishes. Nor I, at this time of the year, Roger replied. I rode in from Dunheved on the night the child was born. The roads were waterlogged and all but impassable; darkness fell early and the wind near blew me out of the saddle.
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Thank God my horse knew its way home. Since then Ive not left the manor, and hope not to do so for at least another month. You are wise, sir, replied the priest. And I doubt not that your good lady is excellent pleased. His host nodded. She is. And I am not sorry to be by my family. A man should spend some time at home with his wife and children. The priest nodded approvingly. An impish smile crossed his chubby features. And the king, sir? No doubt His Majesty is of like mind to yourself, these days. I image he is. I believe the Queen has a very fine boy. That was the word in Helston, sir. A matter for great rejoicing. Amen, sir priest. Henry is a fair enough king, but the succession always needs to be secure. As your own is here, with two fine sons. Rogers brow clouded slightly. Two sons, yes. The younger of them robust and healthy in spite of his difficult and hazardous birth. But the heir! His gaze crossed the room to where little John was playing on the floor with a wooden toy. A pale child, prone to colds and coughs, and already in his short life the victim of fevers. His mother adored him too fervently, Roger thought. If anything were to happen to him he pushed the thought from his mind and addressed the priest. You are ready to begin now? The little man nodded his assent, and Roger signalled the assembled guests to take their places round the household altar which had been made ready with the silver chalice to be used as a font. Throughout the ceremony the wind whined in the timbers, and great gusts of smoke blew over the assembled company in the down-draught. Poor little John, always easily upset, began to cry and cough all at the same time, his noise drowning even the lusty bawling of the infant Roger, from whose life the devil was symbolically and hopefully being thrust out, as holy water, brought from the river Jordan by the crusaders, was sprinkled upon him. The sponsors included Erisey of Erisey in Grade an odd choice, it seemed to some, since there was considerable rivalry between him and Roger de Carminow. Inviting him had been Saras suggestion, and was perceived as a way of cementing better relations between the two houses. Sara herself, as yet unchurched, watched the ceremony from behind the still-room door and only emerged to join her guests when all the solemnities were completed. The feast was sumptuous; a boars head, roast venison, boiled fowls, tarts of apples, raisins and figs, sweetened with honey and wine, and syllabubs. Musicians played; some of the younger guests danced. Few were in a hurry to leave; the lengthening March days gave extra hours of daylight for the journey home. Some guests, indeed, had no intention at all of facing the freezing east wind that night, and arrangements were being made for several of them to sleep on the premises. In particular, it had become obvious that the little priest, having imbibed rather too freely of the ale and the wine on offer, was certainly in no state to sit a horse for five miles over rough roads in the gathering dusk, and a
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bed was duly prepared for him in the small guest chamber. Meanwhile, the subject of all the merrymaking slept peacefully in his cradle, blissfully unaware of the singing, dancing and general commotion around him. Sara, alone with her son in the bedchamber, stared down at him in puzzlement. He was beautiful, there was no disputing that. His dark brown, downy hair already curled engagingly over the smooth, high forehead; his cheeks were rosy with health and his eyes, when open, were an amazing shade of deep, violet blue. So different in every way from poor little John, pale and thin, always snivelling with a cold in winter and struggling for breath in summer, particularly at haymaking time, when he tended to become quite ill and had to be made to swallow, albeit most unwillingly, some of Agnes curative potions. A frail, chesty child. Yet she loved her firstborn son with that utter devotion which, somehow, as yetshe shook her head. She did not feel the same unqualified attachment towards Roger. It was not, she told herself, that she did not love him. Perhaps it was that his birth had given her such a hard time, from which she had still not fully recovered, and the pain of which she had not yet been able to put from her mind perhaps, when that time was over, she could love him more easily, as she did his brother. You always forget the pain, her mother had told her. Gazing now at her younger son, sound asleep in his cradle, Sara was suddenly seized by a strange feeling that, with this child, the pain would never be forgotten indeed, might never end. Whatever he became however handsome, clever or accomplished he might grow to be for her there would always be suffering because of him. I do love him, she told herself fiercely. I do not hate him. He moved in his sleep, and she turned away, to drop on little Johns hot forehead the kiss she could not bring herself to bestow on her younger, healthier son. Throughout that summer, he grew healthier still. My baby, as Agnes proudly called him, much to the disgust of his nurse, Mary Hockin, thrived daily. Sara, who detested the practice of swaddling infants, eschewed it altogether. Little Roger lay in the sweet grass beside his mother and stretched his limbs freely. Even John grew stronger in those days, coughing less, and putting weight on his body and colour into his pale cheeks, a fact attributed by Agnes to her recommendation that he should be given goats milk to drink. Goats milk she declared Do ease the breathing. So John de Carminow breathed more freely, ran about in the sunshine, and bedecked his mothers head with handfuls of buttercups and daisies, whilst his baby brother kicked and gurgled his way through babyhood in a summer he would afterwards never remember, but which was probably the best of his life. It was marred for Sara only by the fact that her husband was so often from home on the kings business. She longed to accompany him, especially when he was travelling near by her old home at Hornicote. But the children were still too small for long journeys over rough road, and there were the hay and corn harvests to be supervised, and the stocking of the larders against winter. Whilst not entirely satisfied with her lot, Sara resolved to accept it, and in doing so found herself achieving a kind of contentment.

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Chapter 2
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At nine years old, Roger was tall for his age, bold and skilled above the average in sporting pastimes, though oddly enough it was John who excelled in hawking. There seemed to be in John a cool, almost callous streak, which allowed him to revel in the kill, whereas Roger, much less gentle in most ways, had often to hide his genuine revulsion at the death. Like most boys, however, he thrilled to the sensation of power which came, not only from controlling the bird at work, but from the pleasurable response he could evoke from it when he stroked its soft feathers as it perched on his wrist. His favourite pastime, however, was to ride his pony down to Loe Pool and thence to the great shingle bar which defended that mighty stretch of water from the sea. Pedyr had told him that two hundred years ago there was no bar that great ships sailed right up to Helston, some of them from far away places like Tyre, to trade in tin. Helston, no longer a port, was nevertheless a town of major importance, with its own Coinage and Charter, and regular markets and fairs. Nothing pleased the Carminow boys better than to be allowed to accompany their father or some other adult into the town on business, and to join in the bustle and excitement of the market trading in the narrow, cobbled streets. John had in fact been taken to Helston today, to be measured for a new pair of boots. There was, of course, a cobbler nearer home, but Sara preferred to employ the services of the excellent master shoemaker who plied his trade hard by the Five Wells in Helston. Thus Roger, alone for the afternoon, saddled the stout grey pony and ambled down by the lakeside towards the sea, which sparkled invitingly in the June sunlight. His attention was suddenly caught by a splashing sound on his right. Turning his head he saw a girl, apparently drowning in the lake. He recognised her immediately: it was Tegan, second daughter of Tangye the miller, easily identifiable by the flaming red hair which flowed out behind her on the surface of the water. Leaping to the ground, he raced to the waters edge, uncertain how to set about rescuing her from this predicament, and then realising to his embarrassment that she had no need whatsoever of being rescued, for she was striking out strongly towards the shore and was soon on her feet, paddling through the rushes, causing the colour to rise in his cheeks as he saw that she was naked. She, not one whit abashed at being found in such an unseemly condition, waded on towards him, water dripping from her hair and her limbs her thin, stick-like body white and glistening in the sunshine. Think I was drownin then did ee? An impish, gleeful smile crossed her face as she addressed him in the Cornish tongue.
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No. He realised at once that this was obviously a silly answer and changed it hastily to Yes, blushing furiously the while. I wadn drownin. Swim like a fish, I can. You swim can ee? Roger could not swim, and had never, till now, regarded swimming as a necessary or even useful accomplishment, but he hated having to admit to this common girl that there was anything that he, Roger de Carminow, could not do. His defence was to taunt her. Why do you go swimming? His voice was accusing. Youll drown like your brother did. Her face clouded. Por lll Will. That was different. Ee never ad no chance, fallin in the mill race like that. Right over the wheel Ee went. Her candour un-nerved him made him feel uneasy. Perhaps he ought not to have spoken about the painful subject of her brothers death. But she appeared undeterred, and was continuing. Thats why I learned meself to swim, see. Case I ever fell in meself. Only I spose if I did the wheel would slice me up like it did Ee. Roger was silent, contemplating the horror of falling into the mill race and being sliced to bits. John, he thought, might have enjoyed hearing that story. He would have relished the gore. Shall I learn you to swim? she was asking. The proposal filled him with horror, but it had been installed into him since infancy that a Carminow shows no fear. He shrugged. If you like, he said. What must I do? Seasy. You do zackly like a dog. A dog, he echoed blankly. Whatever did the girl mean? Ess. Avent you never watched a dog swim? Ee do paddle iss legs in the water. Thas all you got to do. Look! In a flash she was back in the lake, swimming about. Roger suddenly felt a great envy. The day was hot; the water was clean and cool and very inviting. You may teach me to swim if you wish, he allowed loftily. She frowned. Not wi they clothes on. The fact that she cast not so much as an interested glance at his naked body surprised him somewhat, but he supposed that poor people, living all crammed together in one small room, took little notice of such things. His confidence, however, was not as great as he had supposed, and he floundered about in the shallows without taking his feet off the bottom at all. If you want to swim, she declared, you ave to go in the deep water. I know that. I have to get used to being in the water first. He was wading ashore as he spoke, and she followed him. Tis a good feelin int it? Bein in the water. Clean, like. Roger agreed it was a clean feeling. They were lying on their stomachs on the turf, the sun drying their backs. Her hair fell about her shoulders like fire. Why is your hair that colour, Tegan? Cos my granfather was a Northman. Incredulity caused him to burst out laughing. A Northman indeed! He had been taught all about the Northmen.
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Dangerous people. Tall and strong, with great red beards, and vast ships that sailed all over the world, plundering and conquering. Hadnt the great King William been descended from them? His own ancestors, so he had been told, had fought against that same King William, but he was known as the Conqueror.. Her cross voice broke in on his daydream. Ee was a Northman. Ee come up the Helford in a big long boat. I dont believe you. Then dont. Tis true. An I shant teach you to swim. I dont want to swim. Ess you do. You want to swim and go an tell your brother John that you can do somethin ee cant. I can do lots of things he cant. Youre not so tall as im. No. But hes two years older than me, thats why. Ill be taller than him when Im grown, youll see. Shall you be the lord, then, if you are taller? No, stupid girl. Hes the heir. The eldest son is always the heir. Hell be the lord, not me. Whatll you do? I dont know yet. Be a soldier, perhaps. Take the Cross and go on a crusade? Whats a crusade? Honestly! Didnt the girl know anything at all about anything? He hadnt realised girls were so ignorant apart from his little sister, Maude, but she was too small to count. Painstakingly, he tried to explain to this peasant girl who had never in her life left the manor except to go to the fair in Helston and was never likely to what a crusade was. His difficulty lay in the fact that he was not entirely sure himself. He tried to concentrate on describing knights at arms on caparisoned horses, colourful and glorious as they rode through the desert sand under the hot, hot sun. Ive never rode a horse. No. I suppose you havent. If I learn you to swim, will you learn me to ride a horse? Here was an area in which he was more sure than she; something at which he could shine, thus dispelling the strange unease he felt in her presence, the sense, almost, of being mocked by one who knew so little and yet, although they were near contemporaries, seemed so much older and wiser than he was himself. Very well, he agreed. Put your clothes on, then. You cant ride a horse like that. Dressed in the faded old linen gown, she looked even thinner than before. The dress had been made for someone bigger; probably her older sister, Tamar, and Tegan was not really sufficiently grown to fill it. It clung in creases to her damp body as she mounted the pony, bold and nimble in spite of her inexperience. Courage failed, however, as Roger slapped the beast on the rump and it trotted briskly down the path towards the sea, breaking into a light canter
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as it felt the shingle of the Bar beneath its hooves. There was a wild shriek; a rending sound, and Tegan lay on the beach, her skirt torn where it had caught on the saddle as she fell. Mother will beat me, she wailed. Not just for tearing a dress! Roger had been beaten on many occasions, for acts of disobedience and daring which annoyed his parents, but never for such a seemingly trivial misdemeanour as accidentally tearing his clothes. She looked up at him, her big grey-green eyes brimming with tears. I only got this one dress. Filled with remorse for his thoughtless prank, he put a clumsy arm round her shoulder. It was the first time he had ever actually touched a girl other than little Maude, who was really only a baby anyway. Touching Tegan, thin, undernourished, untidy Tegan, with hair like a cloud of flame, gave him a strange sensation he could not understand; power mingled with tenderness, embarrassment and longing, for what he did not know. He also felt guilt. Guilt at having touched her at all; guilt at having teased the pony into going too fast for her. Was he not the lords son? Had he not been told since he could understand anything at all that the lord and his family were responsible for the people on their manor? This was his fault. She would be beaten because he had behaved irresponsibly. How could he make amends? Shall I go home with you? he volunteered. I can explain to your mother. I can take the blame. A look of horror crossed her thin face. No! There was panic in her voice. Ill be in worse trouble then. Leave me alone, Roger Carminow. Stay away from me. Then she was gone, racing barefoot up the stony path towards the mill. Mounting the pony and turning it towards home, Roger reflected that she was really a most exciting person. Not like the other local girls. Not like Margaret Hockin or her fat, lumpy sister Ann. But a girl who could actually swim! And he had seen her without her clothes. If he told his confessor, would he have to do a penance? Riding back up the hill, he decided not to tell his confessor. He also decided to ignore Tegans command to stay away from her. He would see her again, and soon. She should give him another swimming lesson, and he would teach her to ride a horse properly. The idea so pleased him that he quite forgot to be envious later on when John, full of his trip to Helston, regaled him with tales of the things he had seen and done. The elder boy, pleasantly surprised to get such an unusually meek hearing, prattled on well into the evening about his doings, totally unaware that Rogers mind was more than a mile away, sun-drenched and water-drenched in the company of the millers daughter, who believed herself to be descended from the Northmen and whose hair was a bright flame of fire.

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Chapter 3
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Brother Jerome motioned his guest to be seated; then he himself sat down at the other side of the rough wooden table. He surmised his caller to be in the region of thirty years old. Tall, and still handsome in spite of a slightly careworn expression, he had the bearing of a man well-bred and used to giving commands, though on this occasion he seemed somewhat ill-at-ease and unsure of himself. The monk smiled encouragingly and waited for him to speak. For a few moments, however, the deep silence of the hot summer noontide was broken only by the droning of bees outside the open door of the bare little room where the monks of Glasney received visitors. I have come to talk to you, Brother Jerome, because I am told you are wellversed in the education of young men. The monk inclined his head. We have some experience in such matters, yes. It is a subject dear to our hearts here at Glasney. One day we hope to found a great seat of learning in this place, though there is much to be done before that can come to pass. In the meantime, we accept a few boys here for teaching, and I have the honour to be in charge of that part of our work. My son. Roger began, and faltered. He commenced again, more firmly this time. I have come regarding the education of my second son. Your second son! May I enquire about the first? Rogers face clouded a little; again, the monk sensed the tension in the atmosphere. My elder son is not particularly strong. He has had many childhood illnesses and we have feared several times for his life. His health improves, for which we praise Almighty God, but his mother. he hesitated before adding and I, and I do not feel that he has yet sufficient strength and stamina to endure the rigours of life away from home. Brother Jerome permitted himself a smile. You mean the rigours of the monastic life here? Well, they are not so bad for the boys who come here to study. In their tender years we do not insist on their attending all the daily offices and we ensure that they get plenty of sleep and exercise, as befits growing boys. But please tell me more of your second son. What is his name? He is named Roger, after me. And he is not an easy child, Brother Jerome. In what ways, not easy? He is, frankly, rather wild. He has an excess of energy, which must constantly be spent in physical pursuits. Consequently, he neglects his learning.
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He can read, then, I take it? He can indeed, read very well. In fact his Latin is regarded by his tutor as exceptional for his age. Our local priest, you see, has been teaching both boys at home. But Roger needs more. In particular, he needs extra discipline; he needs to learn concentration of the mind. And the monk waited for Roger to continue, sensing there was definitely more to come. The boy is outstandingly clever, the father finally blurted out. There is no doubt whatever of that. He masters things too easily, and consequently values them too lightly. His tutor sets him work to do; he accomplishes in an hour what may well take his brother most of the morning, then he rushes off on his own wild pursuits, mixing too freely with the uncouth children of some of our workers, conversing in the Cornish tongue about I know not what subjects. I fear for him, Brother Jerome. I fear that he is growing up wild and undisciplined. Do you not discipline him yourself, then? The question was asked very gently. I discipline him more than enough. I beat him when need be, though God knows I hate to have to do it. He is such a friendly, engaging boy. But he is wasting himself. And I want him to amount to something. I have high hopes of him. But you see, because he is not the heir his voice trailed away. Suddenly Brother Jerome understood the situation with complete clarity. This man adored his wayward younger son wished he had been the firstborn. If, as it seemed, the heir was a weakling, perhaps just a little dull of intellect, and certainly less brilliant than his younger brother, then this disappointment was understandable. But Roger de Carminow was wrestling in his conscience with that disappointment, and in deciding to send his younger son away from home he was probably less concerned with the boys acquisition of learning than with a desire to punish himself for preferring him to his older brother. There was silence between the two men again. The bees droned on in the scented midsummer air. Do you, the monk ventured Envisage him as an oblate embracing the monastic life? Or maybe becoming a priest? Roger shrugged his shoulders. I could wish for nothing better. It is a life to which, in maturity, he might be well suited. His own expressed desire is to be a fighting man a soldier. He even talks of taking the Cross when he is old enough. To rid the Holy Land of the infidel is a noble aim, the monk conceded. Yet warriors do not always experience the best in life. A man should learn to think deeply, to meditate, to meet with God and to become what God purposes for him. Can you compress my son into that mould? Without seeing him, I cannot know. But we can try. If he comes here, he will be disciplined; he will be made to work hard, both with his mind and with his hands. But he will have leisure time, too, to enjoy boyish pastimes. We shall try to guide him into steady ways. Introduce him to the holy writings, to history and expand his thanking. He paused, I have not asked his age.
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He is eleven years old. His brother is thirteen. You have other children, the monk asked companionably, besides your two sons? Yes, a daughter and another son, Gervaise. He is but a baby yet. Perhaps he, too, will come to you in time for tutoring. And your lady wife? How does she feel about these plans? Roger flushed silently. He could not admit to this monk that the whole idea had been Saras that they had argued fiercely; she in favour of sending Roger away and he equally fiercely desiring to keep his favourite son at home. What was it that made Sara seem almost to hate her second child? True, his birth had been difficult, but Johns had been far from easy, and she was devoted to John. His suggestion that both boys should go together to Glasney had met with such agitation and tears that he had abandoned the idea. The truth was that they had made the mistake each of them of loving one of their children more than all the others. With her it was John, and with him it was Roger. Little Gervaise jolly, good-tempered little Gervaise was so placid and so contented with his lot that he would never notice this. Maude, being the only daughter so far, held sway over all three brothers and shamelessly twisted her father round her little finger. Of Sara she was in some awe, but the awe made her obedient and she was therefore usually in good favour with her mother. Roger, always neglecting some task in order to go adventuring round the countryside, or disobeying some order because he preferred to do something different, made his mother angry and frustrated. She wanted him gone, of that there was no doubt. And sending him away would break his fathers heart. To the monk he merely said, My wife concurs wholeheartedly with the idea. She feels that coming here will be good for Roger and for the family. The monk missed nothing of the man to whom he was talking. He had heard of Roger de Carminow, but never met him till now. He was spoken of as a good man, and liked. Brother Jerome felt that this opinion was probably justified. It would be good to help him; he obviously needed help. The brisk manner totally failed to hide the inner anxiety. In repose the face was tired and ageing. Brother Jerome guessed him to be a man who aspired to be better than he was, and who desired, in default of that, for his sons to be better than himself. That they should be successful and well-educated men. Men of learning. And one of them obviously the fathers favourite was wild and difficult. It was always so, in families. The monk smiled again inwardly, remembering his own boyhood, and days spent or had they been mis-spent had it really been so wrong to sneak away from the work in the fields and lie on the river bank watching the fish move in the clear water? Had it been so wrong to wander off and climb to the tops of the great hills in his native Sussex, running and leaping over those great downlands when he should have been chopping wood? There had been a lifetime of chopping wood in front of him, but the precious years of childhood and youth, and the joy of their comparative freedom, had been so short! Without having met him, he began already to feel some compassion for the boy Roger of Carminow, who sounded so likeable and so troublesome.
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Roger of Carminow, he addressed the father, I should like to meet your wild and clever son. Bring him to us when the harvest is in and we shall begin to help him discover that he has a mind and a heart and a soul as well as a strong body and restless limbs. In the meantime, will you take a cup of elderflower wine with me before you begin your long ride home on this hot day? So it was that, when the stubble lay in the fields and the sun slanted low in the sky of an afternoon, Roger of Carminow and his son, also Roger of Carminow, set out to ride to Glasney, where a few scholarly monks had dedicated themselves to teaching young men the ways of learning and of God. Young Roger sat very straight in his saddle, his eyes on the road ahead. Only once before in his life had he travelled further afield; that was when the whole family had gone to Hornicote before Gervaise was born, because Sara had wanted one of her children to be born there. Gervaise had cried when Roger left home this morning. Even John had tears in his eyes; they were partly of disappointment because the adventure was not for him. He had hugged Roger close to him before he left. I shall miss you, brother. And I you. But it will not be for long. They will allow me to come home at Christmas. And at harvest, next summer. But in between I shall be lonely. Who shall I talk to at night? Gervaise? Then they had both laughed, because Gervaise always fell fast asleep as soon as his head touched the pillow, and never woke again before morning; whilst John and Roger would talk, tease one another, wrestle with one another and throw pillows around the room till Sara came in to insist on their settling down, and to scold Roger for depriving them both of their sleep, and when she had gone they would laugh again, and never mention what they both knew, that their mother would always blame Roger for any of their misdemeanours. Not so their father. John knew that whilst his father was never less than kind to him, he must secretly be disappointed that his firstborn son was so frequently ill, and must be more proud of that brother who was so strong, so sturdy and, though they might fight like cat and dog, was such good company, such a pleasing brother and true friend. Now that brother was leaving home, and for John de Carminow life would be much more dull; his days unexciting, his nights lonely. Thinking about that parting now, as he rode across the moorland beyond Helston, Roger gulped hard, trying to swallow the lump in his throat: to envisage the new life ahead of him. He did not relish the prospect. Monks! Would they be terribly strict? Would he have to eat bread and water, and nothing else? He had been told they held services in the middle of the night. Would he have to get out of bed and attend them? Would they let him out of doors at all? For how many long hours would he have to sit at his books each day, his legs twitching with the desire to run and jump and frolic in the open air? They had passed the mill on the way, but he had not seen Tegan. He would miss her, perhaps most of all. They had often met since that first time down by the Pool. He had become a strong swimmer; she had learned to sit a horse properly. He teased her, sometimes till her temper got the better of her and she ran off home, fearing that if she stayed she would strike him and get into trouble
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for hitting the lords son. Once, this summer, when it was misty and damp and strangely still down by the waters edge, he had kissed her on the cheek. She had not struggled or turned away from him, though she had looked fearful, her great grey eyes opening even wider than usual. He had told her that he was going away and she had looked sad, but she did not cry. He wished she had done; then he could have comforted her. Instead, she had said, Shall you ever come home? and he had promised, Ill always come home. From wherever I go in all of my life, Ill come home. Im glad, she had said, then, because Ill always be here, waiting for you, Roger Carminow. It was then he had kissed her. Today, passing her home, and the great water wheel under which her little brother had met his fearful death, he had averted his eyes lest perhaps he saw her and the sight of her made him cry like a girl himself. Brother Jerome received them courteously, and his warm smile came as a relief to the boy, who had been secretly dreading the meeting. He was then handed over to the care of a younger monk, Brother Francis, who would take him to his quarters. But first he must bid farewell to his father, and at this point he was truly hard-put-to-it to contain the tears. So, for that matter, was his father. They parted with renewed promises of going home for Christmas, and Roger stood in the doorway with the young monk, waving bravely as his father rode back up the hill towards the Helston road, leading his sons riderless pony beside him. As they reached the crest of the hill he turned in the saddle and waved again, heartened to see his sons brave salute in return. What he could not see, at that distance, was the welling up of tears at last; nor could he hear the sobs which Brother Francis, all too familiar with such scenes, comforted by putting a kindly arm around the shaking shoulders of the boy as he led him back indoors. With amazing rapidity, the days took on a new pattern for Roger. Some aspects of the new life appealed strongly to him; others he disliked. The weather was cold; the autumn had turned damp very early, and fogs blew up the river, morning and evening. The monks would never light a fire before November, so all through October the boys shivered. There were about a dozen of them in all, Roger being younger than most. They slept in a clean but sparsely furnished dormitory, away from the monks own quarters, and under the supervision of a lay brother named John, who was strict but kindly. Contrary to his fears, Roger found he did not have to get up in the middle of the night to attend Prime, though the boys were required to present themselves at Matins and Terce. Compline they were again excused, the hour being late, and they being regarded as needful of a good nights sleep. The bed next to Rogers was occupied by a stout, red-faced boy Erisey of Erisey in Grade, son to that same Erisey who was Rogers sponsor at his christening. Older than Roger, he was inclined to give himself airs because his father was a knight. He had already spent a year at Glasney, though his Latin in particular served as no recommendation for the scholastic standards of the institution. Erisey preferred hunting and hawking. I have three horses, he boasted. And we have a mews of twenty hawks.
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Roger, slightly embarrassed, thought of his one elderly pony, out of which he was decidedly beginning to grow and which must, he knew, soon be passed on to Gervaise: indeed, the transition had probably already taken place. My father has promised me a new horse at Christmas, he replied, defensively. How large are your fathers estates? Erisey demanded. Roger was not certain. He knew that his father held Winnianton through marriage to his mother, and that they had also lands at Merthen and Hornicote. The extent of these was something in which he had never hitherto interested himself, and he was amazed to find that Erisey knew all the acreages of his fathers estates; how many workers there were; how many of them were free men; how they were housed; what they earned. I shall inherit the estates, of course, the boy explained loftily. I am the heir. He paused, adding slyly Are you the heir? No. (What an irritating fellow this was! He obviously knew the answer to his question before he asked it). My brother is the heir. So you will have no lands of your own? I I do not know about lands yet. You will be a Lackland, like Old King John. John Lackland, they called him, because he was the youngest and had no lands. I am not the youngest. But you are not the heir. That is probably why you are sent here. They want you to be a monk. I shall not be a monk. I shall be a soldier. I shall take the Cross and go to the Holy Land to fight the infidel, What do you know about wars and fighting? Enough. My family fought against the Conqueror at Hastings. And lost! Eriseys reply was a crow of triumph. So you have nothing to boast about. Well, it may be as well if you go to the Crusades. You will probably be killed and then it wont matter that you have no lands. I shall not be killed. Yes you will. You will be knocked off your horse and killed because you are a Lackland and a nobody and you cannot fight properly He did not have time to finish his sentence. Roger had hurled himself at him, fists flailing. Erisey reeled backwards and Roger pursued him round the room, punching him again and again, the blood rushing to his head in a storm of anger. How dare this fat, slow, lazy, red-faced boy pour scorn on a Carminow! How dare he sneer at the familys valour at Hastings! How dare he call Roger de Carminow a nobody He could not even fight fairly, but was lashing out with his well-shod feet, bruising Rogers shins and trying the while to butt him in the stomach with his head Brother John arrived too late on the scene to prevent head and stomach from making contact. Roger was severely winded; Erisey had a bloody nose and a suspiciously swelling right eye. Both boys were marched before Brother Jerome and the whole sorry story told. Roger was beaten for having struck the first blow; both boys were confined indoors for three days and fed bread and water only. Each was required to apologise publicly to the other.
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With some reluctance their apparent reconciliation was effected, but for a time there remained a simmering hatred between the two of them. This sorry state of affairs was strangely rectified during the latter part of November. Every afternoon, when study was over for the day, the boys performed tasks such as the chopping of wood or the scrubbing of steps or the fetching of water from the well; then for an hour before dusk they were free to amuse themselves. One of their favourite pastimes during this precious hour was to go down to the river which flowed past the boundary of the settlement and spend time there, tossing sticks into the water, or climbing trees, or chasing one another up and down the steep, sloping bank. On this occasion, Erisey and Roger were both in a party of boys who were climbing up a newly-built mound of logs at the top of the bank where it ran away particularly sharply to the water below. The mound was not very soundly constructed, and some of the logs rolled loose as the boys tried to ascend them. Erisey, nearly at the top, missed his footing; the log on which he tried to steady himself broke free of the mound altogether, and he slithered backwards down the pile and rolled straight into the river. Rogers first inclination was to laugh, so ridiculous did his enemy appear. Then he realised that the rest of the party, far from being amused, were highly alarmed. Recent rains had swollen the river; Erisey was out of his depth and could not swim, and neither could any of them. One boy, Richard Someone-oranother from Truro, whose proper name Roger could never remember, began to pray aloud, fiercely reciting the first office which came into his head, which happened to be Matins, and highly inappropriate. Stopping only to pull his tunic up round his waist, Roger ran down the bank and waded into the bitterly cold water. His task was rendered more difficult because Erisey, like most people in danger of drowning, was struggling wildly. Moreover, he was heavy, and even when Roger managed to propel him to the bank it proved quite impossible to push him ashore up the muddy slope. This same problem had recurred three or four times before one of the older boys had the presence of mind to lower a rope, presumably left by the woodpile for the purpose of tying it down securely. Gasping for breath by this time, Roger grabbed the end, only to discover that holding on to the panic-stricken Erisey with only one hand was insuffient to allow him to maintain their position and both were drifting downstream. For a moment or two it seemed the struggle would be lost. Then, as his own strength began to fail, Roger espied a place where the bank seemed to slope more gently, and the water lapped a narrow strip of gravel at its edge. If he could only steer them both in that direction! Gasping, weakening, but still determined, he tightened his hold again on Eriseys armpits and somehow kicked his way backwards to that narrow shore, relief flooding over him as his heels and shoulders struck the gravel at last and with all that remained of his strength he heaved his human burden, literally on top of him, free of the icy river. Almost unconscious, and breathing only with difficulty because of the amount of water he had swallowed, Erisey was hauled up the bank by his peers and, probably fortunately, was sick. Meanwhile his rescuer, totally exhausted from his exertions, himself crawled to safety and lay face down in the mud, fighting for breath.
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There were no compulsory prayers for the two boys that evening. A horrified Brother John sent both of them immediately to their beds, and provided each with an extra blanket. Hot possets, followed by broth and an extra ration of bread for each, did much to restore them, though Erisey had already developed a cough which was to remain with him for several weeks. Roger was the hero of the hour, a glory undiminished by the fact that he had a chill and his limbs ached intolerably. Furthermore, Erisey was no longer his enemy. You cannot be the enemy of someone who has just saved you from drowning. Their new-found friendship, though they did not then know it, would in fact last a lifetime. Carminow. The sleepy voice in the darkness reminded Roger of home, and of his brother John, and the way one of them would suddenly start to talk just when the other was falling asleep. Carminow, where did you learn to swim like that? At home, in the great lake beside the sea that we call The Loe. Will you teach me to swim, eh? Id like that. Maybe. When summer comes and the river is safe again, and the weather is warm. Oh! summer! To swim again in the Loe with Tegan, and lie in the rushes afterwards with the hot sun on your back, talking, dreaming, sharing secrets, laughing Who taught you to swim, Carminow? Was it your brother? No. Roger smiled to himself in the darkness. What would Erisey think if he knew the truth, that he had been taught to swim by the red-haired daughter of the estate miller, who proudly claimed descent from the Northmen and if there were any truth in the claim then it was probably the case that her great-greatgreat-grandmother had been raped by one of them, long ago. Oh Erisey! What would you, with your great pride of place and family, make of Tangyes daughter? No, it wasnt my brother. Go to sleep. But Erisey was asleep already.

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