The House Of Lanyon. Valerie Anand

danced through his mind, glowing with light and warmth so that all thoughts of priesthood and his vocation had melted like morning mist before a summer sunrise. Now the words he ought not to say had come out, apparently by themselves.

      “I walk out to take the air sometimes, too,” said Liza. She smiled. “There’s a leaf in your hair. Did you know?”

      “Wagtail’s fault. He tore straight off through the woods below the castle and I went straight after him. But it’s hard going if you don’t take a stick or, better still, a wood-axe along with you,” said Christopher, grinning, and because he was still holding the dog, he leaned forward across the fence and let her remove the leaf from his tonsure. It was the first time they’d ever touched. It made her inside turn somersaults again.

      “I must go,” he said, and she watched him walk away across the meadow. He was almost a priest and her parents wouldn’t like this at all, but it made no difference. Something had begun that would not be halted. At the thought of seeing him again, her spirit became as light as thistledown, dancing in the wind. Around her, the scent of the herbs, the green of the meadow, the azure of the bluebells, the distant sparkle of the sea all seemed enhanced, brighter, stronger, as though her senses had been half-asleep all her life and now were fully awake at last. She felt about as sensible as a hare in March, or an autumn leaf in a high wind.

      She would see him again. She must.

      In the afternoon she slipped away, through the village, along the path that led to the dell, and found him there and they walked together.

      Three days later, although the bluebells were no longer at their best, they met there again and this time they kissed. Then they sat down on a fallen log and stared at each other in consternation.

      “I’m going to be a priest. Well, I already am, in a junior way. I’ve been a subdeacon and six months ago I was ordained deacon. Becoming a full priest is the next step, the final one. If I…if I abandon my vocation now, my father won’t take me back. He has other sons to settle. He’s a merchant in Bristol, successful but not rich.”

      “I see. Well, you told me to begin with that you were going to be a priest. But…” Liza’s voice died away in bewilderment, mainly at herself.

      Christopher thrust his fingers through his tonsure. “Liza, my father and mother are both steady, reliable people. They expect their children to be steady and reliable, too, and I thought I was! And then—we met at the fair, and you smiled at me and all my good sense has flown away like a flock of swallows at the end of summer! You make me feel as though my feet have left the ground and my head’s among the stars. I don’t understand myself!”

      He stopped running his fingers through his hair and reached out to take her hands. “What I do understand is that my world has turned upside down. Liza, as I said, I’m already in the priesthood. To get myself released from this would be horribly difficult. I’d have to go to my bishop and he’d probably say I was committed for life. I’ve heard of men who’ve bought their way out, but I have little money. I suppose I could borrow some. I know I could make my way in the world, given time, but it would be very hard at first and perhaps I’d be in debt. Would you wait for me? Would they let you wait?”

      “I don’t think so. They want to get me married, and they’d say that a priest can’t marry and that’s the end of it.”

      Liza knew her family. They were good-natured as a rule, though liable to shout loudly in times of crisis—if, for instance, a pot should be spilled in the kitchen or a piece of weaving be damaged or if Aunt Cecy discovered a spider in her bedchamber—but with no real ill feeling behind the uproar. Nevertheless, for all their seemingly easygoing ways, they took their work seriously; nothing slipshod was ever let past. And they expected their private life to be properly conducted, expected that parents would arrange their children’s future careers and marriages and that the children would concur. The arrangements would be made with affection and consideration, but made, just the same, and with a very keen regard for respectability. What Liza was doing now would not be tolerated. She would be seen as a wanton who had tried to seduce a priest from his vocation. Her mother in particular would be horrified. Margaret prided herself on holding up her head among the neighbours.

      “No, I see. I’d say the same, in their place. Liza, what has happened to us?”

      “It’s as if…this were meant to be. I was reared to be steady, sensible, like you. My father talks to me about cloth-making because sometimes I ask questions about it and he says he likes to see his daughter being interested in practical things and her family’s business.”

      If you’re taking the trouble to learn about my business, you’ll do the same about your husband’s business when you marry, whether he’s in the weaving trade or no. I’d sooner see you with an abacus than mooning at the moon. Nicholas had said such things to her several times.

      “He’s taught me to keep accounts, with Arabic figures, and an abacus,” Liza said. “I’ve always tried to be what he and my mother wanted of me. I think my parents are like yours in many ways. But now…my head’s among the stars as well.”

      They looked at each other helplessly, two earnest young creatures who had suddenly found that common sense wasn’t enough.

      “Except that it can’t come to anything. Dear heart. Oh, Liza, what have I done to you, letting you love me, letting myself love you? It really is like that, isn’t it? I mean—love?”

      To Liza’s distress, there were tears in his eyes. “Yes. I don’t see how I can ever marry anyone else, but they’ll make me!”

      “Oh, my poor Liza! Oh!” He cried it out in anguish. “Why can’t a priest be a man as well and live as other men do? Why are we condemned to this…to rejecting human love, to being so alone? It’s cruel! And there’s nothing, nothing I can do about it, for you or for me!”

      “Hold me,” said Liza.

      On the way home, aglow from the feel of his arms around her and the feel of his body as her arms closed around him, she came face-to-face with a small, wan woman whom she recognised as Alison Webber, the wife of the unfortunate Bart. Bart was at least forty, but Alison was his second wife and she was still very young; indeed, not yet married a year. She had been a rosy girl with bright eyes like a squirrel, but now she went about like a shadow, and Liza, troubled at the sight of her, paused to say good-day. Whereupon Alison’s haunted eyes blazed at her.

      “You wish me good-day? Your mother’s the cruel-lest woman in all Dunster. Won’t speak to me in the street, as if it was all my fault, and it isn’t! Your parents should have dined with us yesterday and they cried off. And what the Weavers do, others do! If she’d put out a hand to us, it ’ud be different. She’s pushed us into hell and she’s done it a’purpose and I’ve no word to say to you. Just this!” said Alison furiously, and spat at Liza’s feet before pushing past and going on her way.

      No, thought Liza miserably, all the glow gone, no, there was no future for her and Christopher. Margaret would never forgive her if she knew. Never.

      But all through the summer she and Christopher went on with their stolen meetings, most of them in the dell. One, by chance, was on the stone bridge which had been built across the Avill River for the benefit of packhorses carrying wool to and from Dunster market. On the bridge, shadowed by the trees that bordered the river, they hugged each other and then stood to talk and look at the water, and Liza saw someone in the garden of a nearby cottage looking at them. Alarmed, she dragged Christopher off the bridge without explaining why, which annoyed him because he thought he’d seen a trout and was about to point it out.

      “A trout!” Liza gasped. “The woman who lives in that cottage has the sharpest nose and the longest ears in Dunster! If she recognised us…!”

      “Never mind her nose or her ears. Unless she’s got the eyes of an owl as well, she couldn’t possibly have recognised us in the shade of the trees! Acting guilty like that, you’ve probably drawn her attention. She’ll think about us now and start wondering who we were!”

      “Oh!”