“It is my house,” the man replied quietly. “Do you come then. You are my guest.”
“I am obliged,” I replied.
He turned and glanced at me. “Now that you are here, will you dine with us?”
“My clothes—” I continued to protest.
“That can be arranged,” he replied. “If you will permit me. I have some clothes here that would fit you, I’m sure. You are a strong-looking lad. Yes, I believe they would fit.”
To accept charity was not my way. I started to protest, and then realized this was no time for such false pride. He was not offering charity; it was courtesy, and I would do well to accept it as such. “Very well. If it is no inconvenience.” He led the way himself. Up a wide, winding stair to a hall above and to a room with yellow walls, a blue bed with blue bed-hangings, and much blue-and-white porcelain about.
He opened a chest and took from it some clothes, a shirt, breeches, hose, and a coat. There were boots also.
“Water will be sent you,” he said, “and the clothes, I think, will fit.” He paused just a moment. “They were my son’s.”
The question came to my lips, but I did not speak, not knowing what to say.
“He went off to sea,” he said quietly, “and was lost there … we think.”
“You do not know?”
“Does one ever, when sons are lost at sea? His ship may have been taken. He may be a prisoner. We know not. He may be a slave now, in Africa, where many of our sons have ended.”
“I am sorry.”
“Do you bathe now, and dress. In an hour we will dine … and talk.” He turned away, and then paused. “I do not know who you are, or where you come from, and I have no need to know, yet I know what you are. And if my son came to another man, I should wish him cared for.”
He left me then, and soon after a maidservant, a brown-haired lass who shot me quick glances, brought hot water and linens.
I made shift to bathe then, and relished the doing of it. Then I donned the clothes they brought me, and when I was fully clad I glanced at myself in the mirror and was pleased with what I saw. And surprised, too, for it had been many months since I had a mirror at hand.
The boy I saw there was me, but a changed me. I was darkened by the sun, leaner somehow, and I looked older. I glanced at myself once again, then went out and closed the door behind me.
It was a quiet meal we had, the father, the daughter, and I, the homeless boy.
Her name was Evelina, but she was called Eve most of the time. His name was Robert Vypont. The house in which they lived was an old manor, built strongly and well some hundred years before, yet a house with much grace and style within.
We talked lightly, of this and that, and then toward the close of the meal, he said, “What do you now propose to do?”
“I shall go to London-town. It is a large place, and there I might find some way to live.”
Vypont shook his head. “There are many boys of your age there, good lads some of them, rascals most. You would find it hard, I think.”
“I must earn my way. I have no fortune, nor hope of any but what I can make of my own wit and strength.”
He studied me gravely, shaking his head. “You are young for that. The apprentices of London are rough lads themselves, and apprenticeships must be purchased.”
He watched while the maidservant refilled our glasses with ale. Then he said, “You have traveled much and are no doubt tired. Would you do us the honor to be our guest for a few days?”
I hesitated, dearly wanting to agree, yet wary of it. I didn’t know this man, and although he seemed generous, I was not sure of his motive. Moreover, I was now accustomed to the rough way of living and growing daily more so. Might not living here make me soft again?
“You know naught of me,” I said. “There was trouble at the inn, yonder, and it might bring grief upon you and yours. You have been kind, but much as I should like to remain, I must be about my business.”
“You will stay the night?”
“If it pleases you, I should be delighted.”
He paused a moment. “Forgive my curiosity, and I know I have no right to ask, but a lad of your obvious background … there should be a place for you.” He looked at me again. “You have obviously gone to good schools.”
“I have never been to school. My father was my teacher.”
“Ah? A man of rare education, no doubt.”
“He was that. He read me from the writings of Homer when I was very young, and from Virgil, too. He taught me much of history, and not of our country only, but others as well.
“We walked much together, and he instructed me then. We also talked with visitors—”
“Visitors?” Robert Vypont spoke casually, yet I knew the question was an effort to learn something of my background.
“There were few visitors toward the last,” I said, “and mostly from the Continent.” I had no doubt he knew where I was from, for I had the brogue, although not much of it.
“Were they enemies of England?” he asked mildly.
“My father,” I said, “was enemy to no man, and wished harm to no man. He was a scholar who wished only to be let alone.”
“I am not a scholar,” Vypont said. “Would that I were! I have many interests, and much desire to learn scholarly things, but for too long my activities were directed elsewhere.”
My father had talked to me of his many interests, talked to me as though I were a man grown, discussing not only our bookish interests, but others as well. Often of a night I had gone to the shore with him when he would show a light to guide some of the returning “wild geese” safely to shore, for it was wild geese we called those young Irishmen of family who went abroad to join the armies of France, Spain, Italy, and others. Having no future in Ireland, not permitted by England to have an army, and not wishing to serve England, whom they considered an enemy, they fled overseas, usually aboard some smuggler’s craft.
Often in my father’s house I heard them talk of politics in foreign lands, of wars, battles, and courtly intrigue, of music, art, and letters.
They came by night, and they left by night, catching short visits with friends and relatives, then off to the wars once more. Mayhap when I was older I could become one of them—or so ran the thoughts in my mind.
Yet Vypont was a kindly man, and wished me well. He was hungry for talk with one of his kind, and Eve was also. Two days I remained, eating too well, talking, riding, and walking with them both.
On the third day we had come to the bottom of the steps for a ride when suddenly there was a clatter of hooves and into the yard came three red-coated soldiers, and with them one of those who had tried to rob me at the inn.
“See? What did I tell you? There’s the Irisher!” he shouted, pointing at me.
The soldiers started toward me, and I sprang to the saddle. My life long I had ridden, for my father was a horseman ever, and those fine Irish horses of ours! Ah, how I missed them!
Turning the horse, I raced around the house, leaped the low hedge, and went down across the lovely meadow and into the old beeches beyond. Under their cover, I turned sharply back, circled a haycock and another barn, and was into the lane. My horse was running hard.
Wild was the riding, and beautiful the movements of the horse beneath me, but he was Vypont’s horse, and I must free him. There was a place where the lane went by a deep cut in the earth that dropped to the glen below. I left the horse there, with a ringing slap on the rump to keep him running. Then I ducked down into the cleft.
Sliding and jumping, I reached the bottom and went into a wooded hollow, crossed it to a stream, and walked into the cold fresh water.
The afternoon was late when I left the stream and went up to the moors above. Long into the night I walked, then seeing a vast wood before me, I went into it, deep within it, and lay down at last, covering myself with leaves, and there I slept.