Dark Tides

by Philippa Gregory

  “What is it? A posthole? Out here?”

  “It’s a story hole,” Ned replied. “And a signpost.”

  “Which?”

  “Both. Something happened here, someone was injured during a hunt, or a man asked his wife to marry him, or a woman gave birth, or there was an accident or a meeting or something. So they make this hole at the side of the track so that everyone remembers what took place here. Then, when they’re telling someone where to go, which track to follow, they tell them to turn at that story.”

  William was puzzled. “It’s like a way marker, but a register as well?”

  “Yes. It’s easy to remember, and to teach the children: their lives are mapped on the land, going back hundreds of years. The Lord only knows how long they’ve walked these trails. The story of their lives is on the land. Their history is their geography.”

  Edward shook his head. “They’re strange folks.”

  “Strange to us,” Ned said. “But I find my way round here better with the story holes than I ever did with milestones in England.”

  “What story does this hole tell?” William asked.

  Ned hesitated, curiously reluctant to share with them.

  “What does it matter anyway?” Edward demanded, tired and in pain, his face swollen with bites.

  Ned led the way on, at a steady walk, on the long twisting path, through wet ground where the moss sucked at their boots, over higher ground where the lighter soil under the pine trees shifted under their feet and made them labor for every step, steadily south, and always behind him he heard the rasping breaths of the two men.

  They walked until the burning sun went down behind the hills on their right, and slowly the sky grew milky and then gray and then a dark indigo blue. Ned handed out cornmeal biscuits and some dried meat, and showed them a raised patch of land, sheltered by a few boulders, so that the ground was dry beneath their blankets and they rolled themselves up.

  “When will he meet us?” William asked again. “The savage guide?”

  Ned shrugged. “When he’s ready.”

  “I’m bitten to death,” Edward said, ducking his face under his blanket. “Don’t the bugs trouble you, Ned?”

  “Here.” Ned offered a small bottle made from sassafras bark and corked with a piece of the root. “Try it. It works. The Indian woman who minds my ferry traded me the bottle and the oil for some sugar.”

  “Does it really stop the biting?”

  “Well, I’m seasoned,” Ned said, looking through the canopy of trees at the stars over his head, piercingly silver in the completely black night sky. “I grew up with quatrain fever. I spent my childhood on a mire in Sussex.”

  “You owned land in England?” William asked curiously.

  Ned thought he had not words to describe Foulmire to an outsider: the moonlight on the hidden paths, the grind and thunder of the tide mill, the strange lonely beauty of the sea flowing through and overspilling the land for miles in every direction, the call of the oystercatchers in their wheeling flight and the setting sun on their white arched wings.

  “Nay, we never owned anything much,” he said. “I had the right to work the ferry and my sister was the village midwife. Nobody troubled us as long as we stayed at the water’s edge, poor as water voles. There’s no profit in the tidal lands, there’s no interest in them.”

  The dog raised his head and growled, looking into the darkness.

  “Peace,” Ned spoke half to the dog, half to the shadows of the rocks.

  Then one of the shadows moved. Ned was up and reaching for his gun in a moment, as William and Edward struggled to their feet and stared around them.

  “Nippe Sannup?” came a voice from the shadows.

  “Aye, it’s me,” Ned answered in English, lowering the gun and calling Red to heel.

  “What did he say? Who’s there?” William demanded, rising to his feet and reaching for his hand ax.

  “Peace. He asked if it was me. I know him.”

  “What did he call you?”

  “Nippe Sannup. It means something like Waterman.”

  The dark shadow of a tree moved and materialized into a man of about fifty years. A tall Pokanoket, wearing an apron of deer leather, and several strands of beads, some of them deep purple wampum, a sheaf of arrows slung over one shoulder, his bow in his hand. He stepped forward and greeted Ned with the dip of his dark head. His long hair was tied to one side, his face unsmiling. He scrutinized the other two men and then turned to Ned with a quiet question in Pokanoket. Ned answered, and, apparently satisfied, the man patted the dog on the head and sat down on a boulder.

  “What does he want?” William asked. “Beads?”

  Ned hid a smile. “Nothing. We have nothing that he wants. He’s come to guide you.”

  “Ask him if he knows somewhere we won’t be found.”

  “I’ll ask him. He’ll know. He knows his own lands round here, and he knows ours too.”

  An exchange of halting questions and fluent answers left William and Edward waiting for a translation. Then Ned turned to them. “He says too many people know where you hid last time: West Rock Ridge, and it is better to go somewhere new. He knows some caves by the sea. No one but Po Metacom—the new Massasoit—and his councillors will know you’re there. It’s Pokanoket land and can’t be sold, so settlers never go there. He says the sea is rich in shellfish, and lobster and crab and fish, you will eat well. There are fruits in the forest, wild strawberries and vines. Also, there are many birds and you can take their eggs. He says take only two from every nest. One of the Pokanoket will visit often to see that you are well, and this man will bring you home at the end of the summer.”

  “He’d do that for us?”

  Ned nodded. “If he says he will, he will.”

  William took Ned by the elbow and turned him away from the silent guide so he could mutter: “Po Metacom? The new Massasoit? So he’s the son of the old one who first welcomed settlers?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “But isn’t he the one who’s complaining about us buying land? Who’s complaining of us to others, the French? To Rhode Island?”

  “Yes. That’s the one,” Ned repeated.

  “But why?” Edward muttered to Ned. “If he’s a troublemaker, why would he help us? When he’s complaining about us? Complaining about Plymouth?”

  Ned hesitated. “They have a tradition of helping people in need, it shows their power—so that’s one reason. In his mind, if he guides you to safety and brings you back again you will owe him a debt. They hope you’ll be grateful and remember them in future. They know you know the great men in Plymouth and Boston and they’ll expect you to speak for them to the Commission.” Ned paused. “Their way with us, with all the settlers—the French, the Dutch, all the newcomers—is to make alliances, and hope that we protect them from each other. Really, he’s offering you an alliance.”

  “We can’t be beholden!” Edward objected.

  “We are already,” Ned pointed out. “We wouldn’t have survived if his father hadn’t given us land and fed us when we were starving.”

  William leaned towards Ned. “He won’t turn us in to King Charles’s men? That’s all that really matters?”

  “No, this man works for the Massasoit Po Metacom, he’s a go-between for the Massasoit and the United Colonies. He’ll be hoping that you speak for them to the Commission. He’s not interested in the new king in England.”

  “We can only bear witness that he is living at peace if we see it,” Edward bargained. “He’d have to prove to us that they are not arming or gathering.”

  “You’ll only see what he lets you see,” Ned warned. “He’s not a fool. And I don’t think you can barter with him, if he’s offering you a safe haven?”

  “And he won’t just…” Under the dark unsmiling gaze of the Pokanoket, Edward did not dare to name his real fear of murder.

  “You’re safe enough,” Ned assured him. “If he gives you his word—that’s his bond.”
Ned hesitated. “He’s a man I know and I’d trust him. Josiah Winslow himself employs him, and—to be honest—we’ve got no other choice. We can go on without him—but we can’t cross Pokanoket lands without a guide.”

  There was a silence then the two older men nodded. “We’ve little choice,” Edward said.

  “None,” Ned said simply. “We’re all strangers here, these are their lands, we’re here by their leave.”

  William put out a hand which was not quite steady. “We are agreed?” he asked tentatively to the Indian.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you,” he said in perfect English.

  JUNE 1670, LONDON

  Livia left the baby with Alys, so that she could take Carlotta as a chaperone on her visit to Avery House. She used the last of her money to hire a wherry to cross the river from Horsleydown Stairs and a hackney carriage to the imposing gates that faced onto the Strand. She wished very much that she had a footman to walk with her up the steps and to hammer the big bronze knocker on the door. But Sir James opened his own front door to her, which made her feel at home, until she had an adverse thought: “Do you not want your servants to see me?”

  “No!” he said, genuinely surprised. “I thought you would like it better if I greeted you myself.”

  He liked how her face, which had been a little pinched with anxiety, warmed under his attention.

  “I do like it. That was kind of you,” she said. “I would have preferred my own carriage to bring me here.”

  “Perhaps when you have sold your antiquities,” he said, and was rewarded by a sudden smile. “I’ll pay the hackney,” he said when he saw that the driver was waiting and that she had not pulled a purse from her pocket. He gave the man a few coins and came back up the steps to lead her into his house.

  “You don’t have a carriage?” she asked.

  “I don’t need one in London. And I am here very seldom.”

  “Then I shall have to buy my own, when I have made my fortune. Now.” She took his arm. “My antiquities! Where do you think we should show them? They need to be in good light, and a big space.”

  He hardly noticed that his help was now an accepted part of the plan as her maid took a seat in the hall and he guided Livia up the stairs.

  “And where is your baby?” he asked.

  “He is with Alys. She quite dotes on him. I would not be distracted by him while I am visiting you,” she said. She gave him a quick promising smile. “You shall have my full attention!”

  He said nothing as they reached the top of the stairs but gestured to the gallery that ran the length of the building, along the wide front, where the portraits of his ancestors took up only half of the walls. “Here,” he said.

  “There is room for busts, and heads, and columns,” she said, delighted. “And these wonderful high windows for light. Why do you have so few things?”

  “Some pieces were sold,” he said. “The house was commandeered during the Cromwell years, and some things went missing. Stolen, by common soldiers. They didn’t even know what they were taking. Probably hanging on some merchant’s wall right now. I doubt we’ll ever get them back.”

  “Why can’t you get them back?” she demanded.

  “It would be a hard claim to prove.”

  “Why don’t you steal them back?”

  He gave a shocked laugh. “I couldn’t! Of course not!”

  Quickly, she agreed with him. “No, of course not. So you must buy some new. I can give you an excellent price on some Caesars. Quite original, in historical order, on their own marble columns. They would be perfect here.”

  He laughed. “You would offer them to me at a good price?”

  “At ten percent under the market price if you keep them here, in this gallery, and show them to your friends.”

  “I was joking…” he said.

  “I never joke about money,” she said seriously. “You can have ten percent under market price for anything you like if you will show them to people. Now, is there anywhere else that my antiquities could be shown? Do you have any space outside, for the big statues?”

  “There is the garden,” he said unwillingly, for the garden was his private haven in London, a long run of wide green space, down to the river, planted with apple trees and plum trees, dancing with blossom in early summer, bright with scarlet and bronze leaves in autumn when the boughs were laden with fruit. It had been his mother’s favorite place, where she had held midsummer balls when the old king had been on his throne and everyone thought that nothing would ever change.

  “Show me!” Livia demanded, and he gave her his hand and led her through the great glazed doors to the terrace at the back of the house, and then down the steps to the garden that led to the river.

  “This is what I thought London would be like,” she breathed. “Not a dirty little warehouse, run by two sad women, but this! A big English garden, and a river like silver.”

  “Are they sad? Would you call them sad?”

  “No, they’re where they want to be, it suits them—but this is like another world! High tide, and no wharves and noisy unloading, just the birds singing in the trees, and the fruit forming on the bough, and the grass under my feet! This is the England I dreamed of!”

  He was exhilarated by her joy in his garden. “You like it? I love it here—but you should see my lands at Northallerton.”

  “I should love to come!” She took it swiftly, as a direct invitation. “For this is a paradise!”

  “This is a pleasure garden, but at Northside Manor I have orchards, and herb gardens, and vegetable gardens and a dairy and a bakehouse and… it is a manor that can keep itself. It can feed and house and manage itself. I can live off my own.”

  “When I was a little girl that’s how we lived,” she told him. “In the vineyards, outside Florence. We kept hens and cows and ducks and bees. I kept the hens, we had twenty eggs a day. I have always longed to live in the country again. Matteo should be brought up in the country.”

  “And yet your home was Venice,” he observed.

  Her dark eyelashes veiled her bright eyes. “You know that a young woman cannot choose,” she said quietly. “My parents married me to Signor Fiori. He took me far from my home, and the countryside that I loved. I came to Venice like an exiled child. Do you know how that feels?”

  “Yes,” he said, the exiled child whose home had been stolen by the parliamentarians before he could inherit it from his royalist father. “I know what loss feels like.”

  She put her hand in his with her quick sympathy. “Ah, let us make each other happy again? I am bold with you because I understand your feelings so well. We are one and the same.”

  He flushed, but he did not drop her hand. “I should not mislead you; you know I am a new widower. I am not ready for another marriage.”

  She bowed her head. “I will wait for you to speak,” she promised him. She looked up; he thought her lips were so warm and red that she must rouge them. “You must take as long as you like. I will wait for you to say the words that I long to hear.”

  JUNE 1670, HADLEY, NEW ENGLAND

  Ned walked a little way with the two Englishmen and the Indian, until they came to a story hole at the side of the path where he stopped. “I’ll leave you here,” he said. “This was where a woman from the Pequot people, far from her home, picked up a baby muskrat, and she made it into a pet. She washed it clean so it didn’t stink, and it followed her like a dog.” He looked at the bewildered Englishmen. “The Pequots think the world was made when a woman fell from the skies and a muskrat brought her earth from the floor of the sea. She made the first land from the seabed, and gave birth to the People. So muskrats are an important animal for them. The Pequot woman was honoring her stories while with a strange people.”

  William and Edward exchanged a glance. “Paganism,” William condemned in one word.

  Ned shrugged. “Isn’t it like us telling the gospel to Indians? That you keep telling your stories because they are part of who you a
re?”

  Edward slapped him on the back. “Ned, soldier, first you spoke paganism—now heresy! It’s just getting worse, not better. We’re going to have to burn you for a heretic!”

  Ned laughed at himself. “Well, it’s the story for the hole,” he said, “so perhaps you will remember it, for it’s important. It marks where the Bay path, an Indian trail, crosses the Connecticut path, a way that the settlers use. We drive our beef down it all the way to Boston, see how rutted and muddy it is? And how wide? It’s too busy for you: the settlers are fearful of the forest and travel in big groups, you’d be seen if you walked here. So you’ll cross the drover road here, and Wussausmon will show you the hidden ways to the shore, he’ll take you past the villages, the Nipmuc and the Narragansett homes. This is where I say good-bye. He’ll bring you back to Hadley at the end of summer.”

  William took Ned’s arm and drew him to one side. “Who is he? And how does a savage speak English as if he came from the University of Oxford?” he whispered.

  “Because he attended Harvard College!” Ned told him. “He’s a minister in one of the praying towns, he was brought up in an English household, his English name is John Sassamon. He advises the governor and the Council at Plymouth on Indian affairs.”

  “Well, he doesn’t look like an Englishman,” William said flatly.

  “Not now—he’s in his buckskins now, and goes by his tribal name Wussausmon,” Ned tried to explain. “He serves Po Metacom, the Massasoit of the Pokanoket. He serves as a go-between for him and the governor at Plymouth. He serves Josiah Winslow. He’s like an ambassador.”

  “No ambassador that I’ve ever seen,” William persisted.

  “He’s one of the many that have worked to keep the peace between the Pokanoket and the settlers,” Ned explained. “Fifty years we lived alongside each other—with complaints but no wars. Now, with more English coming, and the People feeling the pressure, it’s harder for the leaders to keep the peace. Po Metacom—him that we call King Philip—depends upon advisors that can speak both languages, that can live in both worlds. Governor Prence trusts him too.”