no—stay! I’m sorry. I…’ He made a sort of helpless movement with his head, glancing away from her. ‘You confuse me.’ And he left her, going to meet the groom, exchanging a few words with him, seeing to the securing of the pony and trap, sending off his own horse with Owain in the saddle; returned and, taking her lightly by the upper arm, led her up the path and into the church. She said to cover her onrush of mixed emotions: ‘It’s a very old church?’
Very old: crouching, squat, beneath its squat, square tower. ‘And very large for so small a parish?’
‘You forget that this was an abbey once and this would be its church. It survived when King Henry razed the monastery and threw out the monks and it was all handed over to Sir Edward Hilbourne, the Squire of that day. Sir Edward chose to lease off the lands piecemeal and leave the buildings, as they gradually fell into ruin, to be robbed of their stones for the farms and cottages surrounding it. He himself enlarged his own manor house and extended his demesne, on the further side of the stream. But this also is all Hilbourne land.’ With his hand still at her elbow he guided her up the centre aisle. ‘And here is his tomb.’
All dark marble and bronze, with the two bronze figures lying so stiffly asleep there, hand in hand, Edward Hilbourne, and Catherine, his wife: she would have been christened no doubt for Henry’s first Queen, not yet supplanted by the sloe-eyed Anne Bullen. Supporting their feet, in the long, narrow shoes, was the customary small dog, rather touchingly lying supine with his legs in the air. She reached up to pass her palm over the smooth bronze muzzle. ‘It seems to bring it all back to life,’ she said. ‘It reminds one that they were real people, not just walking effigies. I daresay this was a favourite pet?’
‘I would think so. Most of these creatures were formalities. But in this case, there does seem an air of familiarity and only a dog much loved and petted, will lie like that, flopping about easily with no fear of attack from any quarter. Catherine, ten years younger and surviving him.’
The names and dates of their seven children were inscribed round the sides of the tomb. ‘They seem to have been a thriving family,’ said Hil, off-handedly. ‘They all outlived their parents.’ He led her slowly down the side-aisle, idly commenting, and then: ‘This one was not so fortunate. His daughter died in childbirth, leaving only one surviving twin boy.’
‘Here is her beautiful memorial, all in bronze—1574-1592.’
In a great niche in the wall, the rigid figure, seated, life-size, with its praying pointed hands, a tiny mannikin lying stiffly in the spread lap as though a corpse sat upright, nursing the corpse of a miniature grown-up. Propped against her knee, the figure of a young man, head thrown back in an attitude of death, a second tiny figurine in the crook of his arm. ‘ “Isabella, widow of John Lloyd”—widow, Hil, and she could only have been eighteen or nineteen! “Daughter of Sir Edward Hilbourne, Squire of Aberdar Manor. Died in childbirth”.’ She looked more closely. ‘She’s the same Isabella whose portrait hangs at Aberdar—so closely resembling Lyneth and Christine.’
‘And here is the tomb of Sir Edward, her father. Well, well—lived to see his daughter and her husband dead in the same year; and here is Henry, his only son, killed in the same hunting accident that destroyed the son-in-law, John Lloyd. What could any man have done to deserve such a life of tragedy?’
‘The son, Henry, married, but having as yet no children: so how fortunate that Isabella’s one surviving twin at least was a boy, to carry on the line. Though, in fact, the inheritance may pass through the female line?’
‘Yes, that’s how Christine, the elder by the hour, is heir to the manor. I must try to discover whether or not this was a later arrangement, made because so many children were lost at
Very old: crouching, squat, beneath its squat, square tower. ‘And very large for so small a parish?’
‘You forget that this was an abbey once and this would be its church. It survived when King Henry razed the monastery and threw out the monks and it was all handed over to Sir Edward Hilbourne, the Squire of that day. Sir Edward chose to lease off the lands piecemeal and leave the buildings, as they gradually fell into ruin, to be robbed of their stones for the farms and cottages surrounding it. He himself enlarged his own manor house and extended his demesne, on the further side of the stream. But this also is all Hilbourne land.’ With his hand still at her elbow he guided her up the centre aisle. ‘And here is his tomb.’
All dark marble and bronze, with the two bronze figures lying so stiffly asleep there, hand in hand, Edward Hilbourne, and Catherine, his wife: she would have been christened no doubt for Henry’s first Queen, not yet supplanted by the sloe-eyed Anne Bullen. Supporting their feet, in the long, narrow shoes, was the customary small dog, rather touchingly lying supine with his legs in the air. She reached up to pass her palm over the smooth bronze muzzle. ‘It seems to bring it all back to life,’ she said. ‘It reminds one that they were real people, not just walking effigies. I daresay this was a favourite pet?’
‘I would think so. Most of these creatures were formalities. But in this case, there does seem an air of familiarity and only a dog much loved and petted, will lie like that, flopping about easily with no fear of attack from any quarter. Catherine, ten years younger and surviving him.’
The names and dates of their seven children were inscribed round the sides of the tomb. ‘They seem to have been a thriving family,’ said Hil, off-handedly. ‘They all outlived their parents.’ He led her slowly down the side-aisle, idly commenting, and then: ‘This one was not so fortunate. His daughter died in childbirth, leaving only one surviving twin boy.’
‘Here is her beautiful memorial, all in bronze—1574-1592.’
In a great niche in the wall, the rigid figure, seated, life-size, with its praying pointed hands, a tiny mannikin lying stiffly in the spread lap as though a corpse sat upright, nursing the corpse of a miniature grown-up. Propped against her knee, the figure of a young man, head thrown back in an attitude of death, a second tiny figurine in the crook of his arm. ‘ “Isabella, widow of John Lloyd”—widow, Hil, and she could only have been eighteen or nineteen! “Daughter of Sir Edward Hilbourne, Squire of Aberdar Manor. Died in childbirth”.’ She looked more closely. ‘She’s the same Isabella whose portrait hangs at Aberdar—so closely resembling Lyneth and Christine.’
‘And here is the tomb of Sir Edward, her father. Well, well—lived to see his daughter and her husband dead in the same year; and here is Henry, his only son, killed in the same hunting accident that destroyed the son-in-law, John Lloyd. What could any man have done to deserve such a life of tragedy?’
‘The son, Henry, married, but having as yet no children: so how fortunate that Isabella’s one surviving twin at least was a boy, to carry on the line. Though, in fact, the inheritance may pass through the female line?’
‘Yes, that’s how Christine, the elder by the hour, is heir to the manor. I must try to discover whether or not this was a later arrangement, made because so many children were lost at
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