My mother kissed me awake, tucked the covers down at my feet on the carved wooden foot-board of the Jacobean boat she called a bed and tickled me. I rolled over, protesting as cold air invaded the cocoon of warmth under which I burrowed. Flannel sheets; warm, thick and nubby from frequent washing, my coverlets were down because the room in this old house although centrally heated still lacked the warmth of more modern places. Cryllwythe Manor had been corner stoned in 1597, added to and renovated over hundreds of years.
In the sixties, shortly after I had been born, my father had spent a small fortune installing a massive heating system of flues and radiators, furnaces and vents that took up a respectable amount of cellar space but didn’t intrude into the wine cellars.
I had played in the cellars and dungeons, considered them my own private playgrounds. I was an only child but not lonely, had plenty of things to play with plus my own active imagination.
My room was no longer the nursery but a small valet’s bedchamber off my parents bedroom. They did not conform to the upper crusts dislike of sharing the same room let alone bed but snuggled together in the massive four-poster that I called the boat. Crafted in Elizabethan times, it had a canopy, swans, and griffins, carved on the headboard and up the four posters. Silk curtains bound by gilt cords held the drapes back and the canopy overhead was velvet and embroidered with the Welsh and Cornish Lion. My father traced his family name back to the 15th century, my mother even earlier to Irish royalty.
I was in the Stewards room, small, inner with no windows. Just the bed, a dresser, chair, and child’s desk. Painted a creamy yellow, it boasted hardwood floors with a priceless Isfahan rug underfoot.
“Breakfast, Silver,” Mum cajoled. “Pancakes, sausage, porridge and hot cross buns.”
I grumbled, rubbed my eyes, and slid my feet out that didn’t reach the floor. Rather than searching for the steps that let me climb up onto the high mattress, my mother helped me down with a hold under my armpits.
I hit the cold floor and shivered, and then raced out into their room. A quick glance showed me that my father was already up and out on his farm rounds so I padded down the long corridor with mum yelling at me to slow down.
The bathroom was huge and modernized. My dad had growled loud and often about cold wear showers and chamber pots. We had a flush commode, two sinks, a walk in shower and a lion’s foot tub I had adored at first sight and unlimited hot water.
I was still too young to use the toilet by myself so mum parked me on the seat and helped me scrub my face. By then, Sally the upstairs maid was in and took over, chuckling as she scrubbed the sleep from my eyes and behind my ears, made me brush my teeth and teased me as she dressed me in jeans and buttoned down shirt.
Breakfast was in what used to be the Solar, a room filled from floor to ceiling with windows, well lit and my favorite room in the mansion.
Breakfast was a meal I rushed through; it was a beautiful warm, sunny day outside, a rarity in this part of Cornwall.
My family owned a goodly portion of the Cornish countryside; growing organic beef, hogs and grain for European markets and being a thrifty and progressive manager, my father head quietly prospered when many of his other friends and peers had become the genteel poor.
Lord Griffon Argent was an Earl, my mother the daughter of one and could claim kinship with Elizabeth. My parents told me that one day; I would make my bow before my liege sovereign and presented at Court when I came of age. It was not something my five-year-old mind found exciting. Not like meeting the new farm bull.
I was out the door and running to the south pasture before either Sally or Roger could catch up to me.
Roger was the farm manager, a dour Cornish man who smiled only when a heifer calved or my face peered around a hay bale. He never minded if I was underfoot or climbing to the loft, only cared that I was safe.
Sally hollered and met up with him at the corner of the bullpen, saw me and scolded. “Aidan Argent, you’re supposed to wait until I take you to Mr. Penrose, not go haring off on your own. You know that the lorries are coming today to pick up a load of kine for the markets and you’re too wee to be spotted. You’d be flattened like a pancake,” she scolded. “Sorry, Mr. P. I can take him back to yon house.”
“He’s fine, Sally me girl,” he grinned, tousling my head of curls. “He’s eager to see the new bull, he’s coming in today, shipped the entire way from America. Registered Black Angus, he be. Champion breeding bull from the state of Texas.”
“Oh, really? I thought his Lordship would be sticking with Texas longhorns.”
“Too bony,” I said. “Beef’s too tough and stringy. No marbling.”
She laughed and Mr. P grinned. “His little lordship knows his beefers. Crossbreds do better, are healthier, and mature earlier. Tis a fine crop of steers going out this sennight. Fetch top prices per pound. I’ll take him out of your hair this morn. Come along, young Aidan.”
I took his hand and we walked through the barn to the calf lot and out to the big pasture where the old bull grazed. I knew what would happen to old Midas and was sad but growing up on a farm brought home the realities of life and death at an early age.
We puttered, checked the fences, found no grass growing under the wooden rails, none dared to poke their heads through, Penrose had a crew who did nothing but maintain the fence lines.
It was near noon when the cattle trailer pulled in and he made me wait at the stock pen until the big black beast was unloaded and driven into a stall in the barn.
His eye was large, round, white rolling, and his black coat curly and dense. Sweat stained his hide and muscles rippled beneath it.
His head was huge, polled with a shiny wet, black nose; his tongue was black as well.
He snorted, pawed, and tested both the walls and the gate.
‘Aidan, me lad, you are not to go in his stall nor the pasture when he is out. Understand? He is not like Old Midas who knows you.”
“He will,” I announced, standing on a bucket so I could peek in and admire his 2000 lbs of black perfection.
“No, Aidan, not even when I’m around. He’s hurt several people. Promise me. Or you won’t be allowed in the barn.”
“I promise. Cross my heart and hope to die stick a needle in my eye.”
“Good. Now, are you coming to help me gather the ducks? The cook wants two for tonight’s dinner.”
“Not pluck them,” I protested. I hated the smell of wet feathers.
“Only if you want to eat them,” He laughed and I ran out of the barn and down to the lake, some hundred acres of water and ornamental gardens. He followed more slowly and we spent an enjoyable few hours chasing ducks around until we caught two.