Three Treasures

by Jack Elwin



  THREE TREASURES

  ADVENTURES OF MICAH JUDD

  as set down by

  Jack Elwin

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  EBOOK EDITION PUBLISHED BY:

  Three Treasures

  Copyright © 2005 Jack Elwin

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  Other Micah Judd stories by Jack Elwin:

  The He-Witch

  Powder and Plots

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Chapter 1 – Belial’s Band

  Chapter 2 Things Fall Apart

  Chapter 3 Losses

  Chapter 4 Robberies?

  Chapter 5 A Trap For A Thief

  Chapter 6 Confession

  Chapter 7 On The Trail Of A Cart

  Chapter 8 Captured!

  Chapter 9 Nat

  Chapter 10 Two Treasures

  Chapter 11 A Wise Man

  Chapter 12 Belial’s Band Again

  CHAPTER 1 BELIAL’S BAND

  IN THE YEAR of our Lord 1643, I was returning home up a dark alley in Dorchester, after taking a decoction to a sick person, when I stopped in a doorway to shake a piece of grit out of my shoe.

  I could hear people’s footsteps and voices coming towards me, and drew further into the doorway to let them pass—not that I was afraid, for this is mostly a law-abiding town, though with all the soldiers about it was wise to be careful.

  Although there was some light from the moon the alleyway was in deep shadow, and I must have been invisible in my dark cloak. Two men were coming.

  ‘If he resists we’ll kill him,’ said one.

  His companion, who sounded younger, exclaimed, ‘My God, Horney, why?’

  ‘It makes no difference, captured or dead, the result will be the same. Dead could be better, for then we wouldn’t have to hold him, except that those damned Puritans will call him a martyr.’

  The man almost brushed my shoulder as they passed, and he seemed of more than average size.

  ‘But I don’t want to kill the old man, affliction though he be,’ said the younger one.

  ‘Oh, don’t be a coward, Nick. Besides, there’ll be a ransom or reward. You could pay off what you owe me and Lucifer and have some over. But killing won’t be necessary, I think...’

  They were passing out of earshot, and I began to follow them, for thought I, some evil is afoot. Near where the alley opened into the High Street they paused and I was able to move near enough to overhear more.

  ‘You can’t draw back now, Nick,’ the older one spoke fiercely. ‘You know too much. You’ve sworn to obey too, by God,—remember the blood-oath—and you can’t just back out of Belial’s Band. Besides, you know as well as I do what great things will follow if we pull it off. Dorchester’s spirit depends on that man, and if he’s taken out the people will falter. We’ll be able to take over the town, open the gates—and presto! Why, he’s known all over England, and with him in prison or dead it’ll be a mighty blow against this Roundhead rabble.’

  ‘I... I suppose so,’ agreed the other.

  ‘Wait—who’s there?’ His companion must have heard me or seen my shadow. I saw the flash of a dagger, and as he began to move towards me I ran, stumbling over the cobbles and trying desperately not to trip. I didn’t pause until I reached the double gates (or rather doors) that opened into my back yard and slipped through. I stood there trying not to pant loudly, listening for footfalls. Hearing nothing I guessed they had given up the chase.

  But what was to be done? There were devilish things abroad, and clearly a plot to capture or kill someone. Who in our little town was ‘known all over England’, and whose removal would have such a dreadful effect upon our people? Why, it could be none other than our famous minister, the Reverend John White!

  Mr White had made Dorchester ‘the godliest town in England’, known throughout the land for its sober Puritan rule. He was even honoured in the New World, where he had helped many Dorset folk to go and settle in Massachusetts.

  I went through the yard and into the house, where I found my wife Agnes suckling little Mark.

  ‘Supper is ready,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry, dearest, I must see Mr White.’

  ‘Your supper will be cold. You’re always dashing in and dashing out. Surely Mr White can wait.’

  ‘What I have to tell him won’t. I’ll be back as soon as I can.’

  ‘If the pie is spoiled ’twill be your own fault!’ she cried as I went out of the other door and through my shop to the street.

  I went down Durn Lane warily in case those men were still about, and crossing High Street towards the Shambles arrived at Mr White’s house.

  He had just finished supper, and his servant-maid was clearing the table.

  ‘What brings you here at this hour, Micah?’ he asked.

  I waited till we were alone, then told him what I had overheard.

  ‘I know that there are children of Satan still in this town’ he said. ‘Well may they be called “Belial’s Band”. There have long been some who would be glad to see me gone, but (God willing) they shall not succeed.’

  ‘But you are in danger, sir!’

  ‘That’s as may be, but you don’t know who these men are, nor when or where they hope to act, so there is little I can do unless the Lord reveals more of their devilry. I can but take what care seems possible, and trust in him for protection. Verily, as the Scripture says, the Lord shall keep me from their snare.’

  ‘But is there nothing to be done, sir?’

  ‘Watch and pray, my son. But hark ’ee, Micah, see what more you can learn and let me know. In your work you may hear some rumour of this plot. ’Tis possible the Pouncey brothers may know something of it.’

  The Pounceys are butchers in the town, and well known as opponents of Mr White and supporters of the Cavaliers. But I doubted that they would go so far as to kill him. However, it was true that in my apothecary’s work I meet many people of all sorts, and might learn more; so I promised to see what I could find, and hurried back to Agnes and supper.

  I should explain that at this time the horrid Civil War had been fought up and down England for several months, often dividing father against son or brother against brother, though so far we in Dorchester had been spared attack. But now it seemed we might be in danger from within.

  The very next day I heard the name ‘Nick’ again. Nathan Whittle, an acquaintance I sometimes exchanged a word or two with in the town, a red round-faced old fellow with a pretty daughter, came into my shop to buy a salve for a cut on his hand. He’s a glover, a prosperous widower.

  I asked him how his daughter was, and that set him off.

  ‘She’s well enough —at least I hope she is, but who knows what goes on in a woman’s head? But when a good-for-nothing guttersnipe puts hisself in her way, who knows what may come of it?’

  ‘What do you mean, Mr Whittle?’

  ‘What I mean is, if I catch that branten varmint making eyes at my daughter agin I’ll squot ’im, by the Lord I will, I’ll drub ’im out o’ town!’

  Mr Whittle was liable to lapse into broad Dorsetshire speech when he was angry. I was afraid his waving arms would break some of my precious glass vials. He was telling me how he would ‘squot’ (knock down) the ‘brazen-faced vermin’ who had dared to look at his daughter.

  ‘He’s a nobody, no family, no money, and coming from God knows where, and he’s had the barefaced by’r lady impudence to try to bring himself to her notice! It makes me mad, Micah, it makes my blood boil, it makes —’

  ‘Hold hard, Nathan,’ I interrupted, for his choleric humour was suffusing his face and putting him in danger of a fit, ‘has Elizabeth given him any encouragement?’

  ‘I don’t know, Micah, how shou
ld I know? How can a father know what his daughter’s up to? I tell you, lad, you should thank God your baby’s a son not a daughter. They’re nothing but worry and distress from the day they’re born till the day they’re married, and often after that as well I’ve no doubt.’

  ‘Now sit you down,’ I said, for he had been standing in the middle of the shop all this while. I pressed him down on the stool I keep by the counter and cast my eye along the shelf behind me and took down a bottle of rose-hip syrup, very good for soothing those of a choleric nature. ‘Drink this,’ I said, pouring a few drops into a glass with a little water.‘It will settle your spirit, and then you’ll be able to consider things more calmly.’

  He snorted angrily but drank the mixture, while I spoke gently, but with a hand on his shoulder to prevent him leaping up.

  ‘Elizabeth has always been a dutiful daughter, hasn’t she? and I thought you were arranging her betrothal?’

  ‘I have, I have, and a mint o’ money she’s costing me. It’s due to take place o’ Sunday, the betrothal I mean.’

  ‘And who’s the lucky man?’

  ‘Mr Stephen Dashwood’s son, young Nicholas. But I fear that if they hear about this Denis, whatever his name is, hangin’ about her they may draw back. A whiff o’ scandal and the Dashwoods won’t want to be involved.’

  ‘But there is no scandal. A girl as pretty as Elizabeth is bound to have lots of young men making eyes at her. It should make the Dashwoods all the more eager to have her.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Micah, I do indeed. But you’ve no idea the trouble and worry I’ve had and the money I’ve had to spend to arrange this match for her. It would break my heart if anything happened to prevent it now.’

  ‘And would it break her heart too? This young man—Nicholas, did you say?—isn’t he said to be a bit wild? Will he make her happy, think you?’

  ‘What’s happiness to do wi’ it? It’s marriage we’re talking about. As Mrs Dashwood she’ll have horses and servants and never want for the best of everything. Happiness in marriage is a blessing if you can have it, Micah, I know. I had a good life with my Mary till she died, God bless her. But I had a struggle to make ends meet in my early days, and I want Elizabeth to be spared that. An’ as for wildness—most young ’uns are a bit unsteady. I daresay you was yourself. But that don’t mean he won’t settle down.’ He slapped his hands on his knees and stood up, and I was glad to see that he wasn’t quite so red in the face. ‘Well, I must be going, Micah. Give my compliments to your lady.’

  Only after he had gone did the name strike me: Nicholas, Nick—could he be the young man I had overheard? There must be many men called Nicholas in the town, there was no reason Mr Whittle’s chosen suitor should be the one. Yet I couldn’t help wondering, and resolved to find out more about him if I could. The Dashwoods were wealthy gentry of the town, related to other leading families, and with an estate in one of the nearby villages besides the house they had in Dorchester. It would be a triumph for Whittle to marry his daughter to one of them. Nicholas I did not know, though I must have seen him around, and I had heard that he had been in trouble with the town constables for drinking and gambling.

  I picked up another hint of trouble when that afternoon I went to buy a joint Agnes had asked me to get from the Pounceys. When I looked into their shop one of them was sounding off about our minister.

  ‘That damned Mr White is a spoil-sport,’ he was saying. ‘Why shouldn’t we play football on the Sabbath? Don’t it say in the Bible “The Sabbath was made for man”? So why does he say it’s wrong? The sooner the Cavaliers come here and boot him out the better!’

  ‘Steady, steady,’ said another man in the shop, ‘take care what you say, or you’ll be doing penance at the church door!’

  ‘And swearing,’ Pouncey went on, taking no notice, ‘why shouldn’t a man swear now and then to relieve his feelings? It does a fellow no good to bottle ’em up. An’ I tell you that parson makes me want to swear sometimes, and swear I will if I want to.’

  ‘And pay your fine, I suppose,’ said the other. ‘But I agree he’s a bit too severe. Don’t forget though that he’s made Dorchester famous all over England.’

  ‘And beyond that, in the New World,’ said another, whom I recognised as a merchant from Fordington. ‘My cousin’s out there—went out in the Mary and John thirteen years ago—and he would never have gone, none of them would, if it hadn’t been for Mr White. I heard from my cousin a little while ago, and he said how our Mr White is revered over there, and how grateful they all are to him for his help and encouragement in settling them overseas.’

  ‘Then I wish he’d go out there and join ’em,’ said Pouncey. ‘But never mind, we’ll soon be rid of ’en.’ At that I pricked up my ears, as he went on, ‘He won’t last, I say. Belial’s Band’ll get ’un. The devil take him!’

  ‘What do you mean by Belial’s Band?’ I demanded, pushing forward.

  ‘Oh ho, Mr Judd, I didn’t see ’ee by the door there. But never you mind—I was just a-saying that our Mr White has been here a devil of a time, so he can’t last much longer, eh? And I for one won’t be sorry. There now, doubtless you’ll run along and tell him what I’ve been saying, and get me into trouble.’

  ‘Not I, Mr Pouncey,’ I said. ‘I don’t like that sort of talk, for Mr White’s my pastor, but I don’t go carrying tales to him about other people.’

  ‘Then you must be one of the very few of his blue-eyed children who don’t,’ he said.

  ‘You’ve no right to call me that,’ I said, somewhat stung. ‘’Tis true I look up to him, and I think of him the father of our town. And he will hold us together and firm to resist the enemy. I don’t see what grounds you have for saying he won’t be here much longer.’

  He put his greasy finger up beside his nose and winked.

  ‘And what’s this Belial’s Band you spoke of?’

  ‘I know nothing, mister, so I’m saying nothing. But I still maintain he won’t lord it over us here for long. Not with Cavaliers on the march.’

  ‘Well, if they come I hope you’ll do your part. You could crack a few of their heads with that cleaver of yours!’ I said this to tease him, for it was obvious he would rather be governed by Cavaliers than Roundheads.

  ‘I know whose heads I’d like to crack,’ he said, chopping at a piece of shoulder as if it was an enemy.

  ‘Well, as for me, as far as I can I live and let live and mind my own business,’ I said, ‘and my business at present is to buy a leg of mutton, if you can bring yourself to come down from your pulpit to think about meat.’

  At that he laughed and served me. I walked home slowly, wondering how much he knew. Was he part of this Belial’s Band, or had he merely heard the name somewhere? And did his saying that Mr White would soon be gone mean that he knew of some definite plot?

  I had no opportunity to look further for the plotters just then because the defence of the town became so urgent, and the Town Council ordered: All able-bodied townsmen must report for duty. We were told to abandon our businesses and all other work, take picks and shovels and baskets and saws, and join in raising defences for the town.

  Work had begun nearly a year before, in July 1642, on the wall and ditch which protected the three sides of Dorchester not defended by the river. At that time the Council had employed labourers to repair the old walls, which were said to be based on Roman foundations, and to deepen the ditch which ran outside the walls. They were also meant to make platforms for cannon at intervals.

  Although a very great deal of money had been spent the work had gone forward so slowly that the defences were still far from complete. But now news that Royalist armies were on the march and seemingly on their way to Dorset stirred the Council to action. We needed everyone to join in a final effort if we were to make Dorchester defendable.

  So it was that I found myself down in the bottom of the great ditch a little to the west of Gallows Gate, tired and muddy and looking forward to the end of my sh
ift. I paused for a moment to straighten my back and wipe the sweat from my eyes. Then I craned my neck upwards to marvel at the huge bank we had made.

  From the bottom of the ditch to the top of the inner bank must have been two or three times as high as a house. The beaten chalk and clay stretched up smooth and white and almost impossible to climb. It certainly looked invincible to me, even though from where I was I couldn’t even see the full extent of the fortifications, and could only catch a glimpse of the palisade of sharpened stakes that crowned the top.

  How we had laboured, wielding picks, shovelling and carting the chalk in barrows and baskets! We had lowered the ditch and raised the bank and tamped the soil firm. Parties had gone to neighbouring woods and parks, and brought back waggon-loads of timber to reinforce the bank and form the palisade. Others had gone out to clear trees and scrub from a wide area all around, so that we would have a clear field of fire. The work had gone on in shifts, from well before dawn until it was too dark to see, day after day. Along the ditch men—and quite a lot of women—were still hard at work, shovelling and carting soil, going to and fro like ants.

  Suddenly there was a shout, ‘Look out!’ and a cry of fear. I turned just in time to see the body of a young man falling down the bank. He spread his arms and legs in a vain effort to slow his fall, but the newly-tamped chalk gave no holds for hand or foot and he slithered and bounced to the bottom and lay still in a crumpled heap.

  I flung down my spade and ran towards him, as did others of those working in the ditch.

  ‘Don’t move him!’ I called as I ran. ‘He may have broken bones.’

  When I reached him there was already a ring of men gathering round, but they had heeded my warning and not touched him.

  ‘Here’s Mr Judd,’ said one as I pushed through and knelt by the body, ‘he’ll know what to do.’

  Gently I felt his limbs and down his back.

  ‘Is ’ee still alive?’ someone asked.

  ‘Yes,’ I said,‘I don’t think there are any breakages, but his backbone may be damaged for aught I know—and see, his head is bleeding.’

  I felt him again and straightened him out, and as there seemed to be no great damage I asked the onlookers to bring a board or hurdle for us to carry him home.

  ‘Does anyone know who he is?’ I asked.

  ‘’Tis Denis Faire,’ said another man. ‘He’s not been long in the town.’

  ‘Do you know where he lives?’

  ‘’Tis in one o’ the back alleys behind East Street, but I don’t know ’xactly.’

  Now the young man was beginning to stir. His body twitched once or twice, and he opened his eyes. They were brown, I noticed, like his hair. He stared blankly for a moment, then looked at me.

  ‘What happened?’ he said.

  ‘You fell down the bank.’

  ‘Oh, Lord above! I remember now. I was trying to fix a stake and the ground gave way. Where am I?’

  ‘At the bottom of the ditch,’ I said. ‘I don’t think you’ve broken anything, but you’ve hurt your head.’

  ‘So I have. God, it hurts!’

  ‘What about the rest of you? Can you move your legs?’

  He drew his legs up and straightened them again.

  ‘I think they’re all right,’ he said, ‘but they feel bruised.’

  ‘Thank God you’re no worse. I’ll bind up your head when we get you home. They’re fetching something to carry you on.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ he said. ‘I think I can walk.’

  He sat up and tried to stand, but lay back again.

  ‘No, maybe not,’ he muttered. ‘I feel giddy.’

  Men arrived with a wicker hurdle, and we gently lifted him onto it. Four strong men began to carry him towards the ramp which led out of the ditch. I told them I would go ahead to fetch bandages and ointment, and hurried on up the ramp and across the causeway which had been left to give access to Gallows Gate.

  I ran past the gallows just outside the gate—two stout uprights and a cross-beam—and shuddered as I thought of the poor wretches hanged there after the last assizes. There was a worse place, of course, just a bit further west, beside the Weymouth road—the old Roman amphitheatre we call Maumbury Rings, where the really important executions take place and crowds of spectators line the banks.

  I hurried on and turned uphill in Durn Lane, and soon came to my little apothecary’s shop. I gave Agnes a kiss as I passed, and ran out to the yard at the back to wash my hands. More thorough washing would have to wait. I ran back through to the shop, calling out to Agnes, ‘There’s been an accident. I’ll be back soon.’

  ‘You had better be, or there’ll be another spoiled supper,’ she called after me. I couldn’t wait to explain further, but stowed what I needed in my apothecary’s bag and ran down Durn Lane. I turned left towards East High Street, and was just in time to see the hurdle-bearers at the next corner.

  The young man was able to direct us down a couple of narrow alleys to his dwelling, a little tumble-down old cottage in a row of similar ones near the river. The neighbours saw us coming and crowded round to look as we took him indoors. His door opened straight into the one downstairs room. There was hardly any space to lay him down, for the room was full of an amazing collection of chipped cups and plates, odd saucers, worn baskets, dented pans, and much more of the same sort of discarded bits and pieces.

  Beside the fireplace there were stairs which I supposed wound up to a bedroom, but they were too steep and narrow for us to carry him up. We helped him into the one chair, and I washed the gash on his head with a clean rag and some spirit, and applied a salve of moneywort and oil and fixed a bandage round.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling better already, though my head aches.’

  ‘If it keeps on send for me, Micah Judd in Durn Lane, or send for a physician. But I hope tomorrow you’ll be better. You’ve had a lucky escape not to have broken anything.’

  ‘What do I owe you, Mr Judd?’

  ‘Nay,’ I replied, for I do sometimes give way to my better nature, ‘let it be a part of my work for the Lord and the defence of the town. You have shown us what will happen to any foe who tries to scale our walls!’

  He thanked me again, and I asked whether he had anyone to look after him.

  ‘My family, that’s my sister and her family, are far away—at Poole. But I’ll manage.’

  ‘I’ll see he’s all right,’ said a stout old woman pushing forward. ‘I live next door, and I’ll keep an eye on him.’

  ‘Have you anywhere to lie down?’ I asked, glancing at the medley of things that filled most of the room.

  ‘Oh yes, upstairs. I’ll be able to get up the stairs, I’m sure. This is my stock for the stall I’ve just started in the market,’ he explained.

  The young man’s name, Denis, should have made me guess who he was, but I was tired after the day’s work, my hands were blistered from digging, and I had other things to think of.

  As soon as I got home I went to the yard for a more thorough wash and then attended to my blisters. At last I went to join Agnes in the parlour. She was cross with me at first for being so long away, but when I told her what had happened she was quite concerned.

  ‘Oh the poor man!’ she said. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘His name is Denis Faire,’ I said, and only then did I remember (although Whittle had not told me his surname). ‘Agnes,’ I exclaimed, ‘I wonder if that’s the young man old Nathan Whittle was getting so worked up about!’

  ‘What do you mean?’ she asked, and so I told her about Nathan’s fear that some scandal connecting the man with his daughter might spoil his plans for her marriage into the Dashwood family.

  ‘But there’s no likelihood of that,’ I added. ‘The betrothal has taken place, and Elizabeth is a dutiful girl, and will do as her father orders.’

  ‘And this young man, Denis—are you sure he’s not badly hurt?’

  ‘Nay, he’ll be all right. He’s bruised,
but no bones broken. One good thing though—he’s proved how strong our defences are. Anyone who tries to attack us will slither down the slope as he did!’

  ‘How are the works coming on?’ she asked. ‘Are they nearly done?’

  ‘They look as though they are, but I expect it’ll take a day or two more for us to complete ’em. But when we’ve finished you must come and see it all. You’ve never seen anything like it—massive steep banks of white chalk, smooth and dazzling, with a palisade of sharp stakes at the top. And when you look down into the ditch you’ll feel quite dizzy. I wouldn’t like to be an enemy trying to get in, specially if stone and shot were being showered down on their heads by the defenders.’

  ‘But do you think they’ll really protect us?’ she asked. ‘I had a dreadful dream last night that an army had come, and soldiers with swords were rushing through the streets and everywhere was flowing with blood. It was horrible!’

  ‘You mustn’t worry,’ I told her. ‘When you see the works we’ve done you’ll be comforted, I’m sure. I can’t imagine how anyone could get across. But I don’t know, of course, for I’ve never been at a siege. One of the old fellows I was talking to the other day, Ted Barlow, who’s been in the wars in Germany, said no defences can hold out for ever. If the enemy is steadfast enough they’ll get over or through the strongest walls. But he said that the idea is to make it cost so much in time and men to capture a place that they won’t bother, but will move on to somewhere easier to take.’

  ‘But if they do break in...?’

  ‘Then we could all be killed. It’s the law of warfare, I believe. An army that storms a castle or a town has the right to kill and pillage as much as they want. But don’t worry, my dearest,’ I added, fearing that I might cause her more nightmares if I painted too black a picture, ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that.’

  ‘But even Sherborne Castle couldn’t hold out,’ said Agnes.

  The Parliamentary commander, the Duke of Bedford, had used his house in Dorchester as his headquarters while he ordered the attack on Sherborne last September, and we had seen soldiers marching off and cannon being hauled and messengers riding to and fro, and finally had heard the news that the Royalists had been forced to surrender the castle.

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed, ‘but Sherborne wasn’t prepared properly for a siege, and its stone walls were no sure defence against cannon—not like our earth banks. And they weren’t fighting for the Lord as we shall be. Anyway,’ I comforted her, ‘there was no massacre. The garrison were allowed to march away and the townspeople weren’t harmed.’

  Certainly, back at work on the defences next morning, I felt confident when I looked at all that we had done. The night shift had smoothed the banks on each side and completed fixing the palisade at the top of the inner (and higher) bank, so our main task now was to level and gravel the walk-way behind it and move cannon into position on the platforms we had prepared for them.

  Drastic measures were being taken in some parts of the town, where thatch was being stripped from the roofs of houses near the walls in case attackers should shoot rockets or red-hot cannon balls over and set them on fire. Older people remembered how nearly half of all the town had been burned in what Dorchester folk still called the Great Fire.

  ‘That young chap who fell down the bank yesterday—he’s doing all right,’ said a voice behind me. I turned and saw one of the men who had helped to carry the man Denis home on the hurdle. ‘The old ’ooman who lives next door to him told me he’s better, but she’s going to mother him for a day or two.’

  ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ I replied. ‘He should recover quickly. An older man would have surely broken something, but he’s young and springy and was lucky not to fall on a rock.’

  Later in the morning the Mayor made a tour of the defences, stopping at intervals to admire the work and praise the workers.

  ‘Excellent, excellent,’ he said when he came to us. ‘Your hard work will surely preserve us Dorchester folk in peace and safety, whatever may befall elsewhere. This town will be a City of Refuge, an island of security and true religion in the midst of a world gone mad!’

  He shook hands with one or two, then moved on, and I heard him saying, ‘Excellent, excellent,’ to the next group of workers.

  By mid-afternoon our work was done, and we could leave any final touches to the soldiers or the town militia who would patrol the defences. I had a great sense of relief that I would no longer have to labour in the mud with blistered hands, and could return to my business. But what if something happened to our inspirer, Mr White? Would our courage match our defences? I still felt anxious as I went home to wash and take up the neglected duties of my shop and family once more.

  I was pounding herbs in a mortar with my hardwood pestle, thumping the harder as I thought of what I would like to do to the Cavaliers if they attacked, when Elizabeth Whittle came into my shop. She had not been there before, nor had I seen her since her betrothal. Her light brown curls showed under her bonnet and framed her frank open face, and she wore a plain collar of spotless linen and a blue skirt down to the ground.

  I’m careful not to give Agnes cause to berate me, but I still like to see a pretty girl, so I smiled at her entry and waited to see what she wanted.

  ‘I wonder, Mr Judd, do you have any rose-water?’

  ‘Indeed yes,’ I replied, and turned to reach a bottle from the shelf behind me. As I turned back I noticed a short, somewhat stout young man standing just outside the shop door. He had black hair down to his shoulders, a feather in his hat, a rather fleshy face and fashionable dark clothes. His rings flashed in the sunlight and he was tapping one foot with an impatient air. Although I had never spoken to him, I guessed who he was. Elizabeth, noticing my glance, confirmed, ‘That’s my betrothed, Mr Nicholas Dashwood.’

  The young man looked rather like his father Stephen, who had always seemed to me a rather proud cold sort of man. His son had the same hard eyes, though his mouth was softer with somewhat fat lips.

  ‘Then I wish you all happiness, Mistress Elizabeth,’ I said as I wrapped the bottle. ‘A happy marriage is something I can heartily recommend.’

  I said this in spite of broken nights with the baby, Mark, and our little quarrels (usually because I’m rushing out when Agnes wants me in). Mostly since my marriage to her a little over a year ago life had been better than ever before. My parents had both been carried off by the plague when I was still quite young. Aunt Alis, who then cared for me, had been well-meaning enough, but could not take the place of a mother.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Elizabeth. ‘I shall be happy, I know.’

  As I handed her the package I thought, Yes, at any rate your father, Nathan Whittle, will be happy. Though not very happy yet, I added to myself, thinking back to our recent conversation. Something might yet prevent the match even though the betrothal had taken place without a hitch. But as long as Mr Whittle could offer a large dowry I had no doubt that the marriage would be celebrated as arranged.

  It seemed an opportunity to try to engage this Nicholas in conversation, if possible to see whether he was indeed the man I had overheard in the alley. So as I showed Elizabeth out at the door I bowed to him.

  ‘May I offer you my good wishes, sir,’ I said. ‘I know Mr Whittle as a very worthy man, and I wish you all happiness with his daughter.’

  He gave a sort of grunt, as if unwilling to accept my good-will, or indeed to talk with me.

  ‘You will be happy as long as the wars keep away,’ I said. ‘But we in Dorchester should be secure, even if the enemy do come.’

  ‘Which is the enemy?’ he said. ‘Who knows? I don’t.’

  ‘Some say Satan is already loose within the town, and Belial’s people are at work.’ I did not say ‘Belial’s Band’ for fear of arousing his suspicions. As it was he frowned and took a step towards me.

  ‘What do you mean?’ he demanded.

  ‘Simply that there are those in the town who would undermine
our defences if they could; though truly our Patriarch, Mr White will keep us secure.’

  ‘Or not. He cannot last,’ he muttered, then turned abruptly away pulling Elizabeth’s arm. ‘Come along, woman, for God’s sake—or are you going to keep me waiting all day?’

  ‘Good-bye, Mr Judd, and thank you for the rose-water,’ she smiled.

  ‘Oh come along,’ he repeated. ‘I trust the apothecary has better things to do than gossip all morning.’

  She’s a bright young lady, full of joy and life—does she know what the Dashwoods are like? I wondered. And her Nicholas seems as proud, impatient and rude as his father. But was he rude because he had a guilty conscience and did not want to talk further lest his doings might come to light? I strongly suspected that he was the man I had overheard, but what could I do on mere suspicion? And did his words, ‘He cannot last,’ which echoed what Pouncey had said, mean that some attack upon Mr White was about to be made?

  The following day was Wednesday, and a lot of farmers and their wives had come to town from the nearby villages. I noticed a farmer-like fellow with a bald head talking to another acquaintance of mine, Lawrence Huatt the pewterer. Had I known how our paths would cross later I would have examined him more closely; as it was I hurried by.

  I paused at a stall I had not seen before. The young man who had fallen into the town ditch was standing in the midst of a strange collection of battered things laid on the ground, some of which I had no doubt seen at his house: old copper pots with rivets mending holes, short lengths of rusty chain, knives with blackened wooden handles and half the blades honed away, odd china plates and cups, various carpenter’s tools, baskets, ornaments—there seemed no end to the variety. On a small folding table was a box of trinkets—bracelets, necklaces, rings.

  ‘Mr Faire, how are you?’ I asked. ‘Has your head recovered?’

  ‘Why, Mr Judd! I’ve been meaning to come and thank you. Yes, my head seems all right, though it’s still a bit tender.’

  ‘You’ll maybe have a bit of a scar, but it won’t show much,’ I said. ‘And so this is the stuff you were gathering to sell?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘and if you can’t see anything you want here, I’ve more at home.’

  ‘I wonder you’ve room to live there!’ I laughed. ‘But no, I’m just idly looking.’ However, I turned over two or three trinkets, wondering whether Agnes would like a pendant or a necklace.

  ‘Wherever do you find all this—this stuff?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, here and there,’ he said. ‘What one person throws out as rubbish is just the thing another will treasure, and I convey it from the one to the other.’

  ‘Is there a living to be made by that?’

  ‘Oh yes, you’d be surprised. I’ve been gathering stock for several months, and if I do well I shall maybe open a shop. There’s need for such in the town.’

  ‘You’re probably right,’ I agreed. ‘Not everybody can afford new things. I wish you success—and I think I’ll have this brooch, if it’s not too expensive, as a little present for my wife.’ I held up a little silver brooch in the form of two fishes intertwined.

  ‘That’s a good piece,’ he said. ‘It belonged to an old lady in Fordington who died. Her daughter has been disposing of her things.’

  ‘Then my wife will be doubly pleased, for she comes from Fordington. Do you have a wife?’ I asked the question to see whether he was indeed the young man who had so annoyed Nathan Whittle.

  ‘No,’ he said abruptly. He took my money and handed me the brooch. ‘Not for want of asking,’ he added.

  ‘She won’t have you perhaps?’

  ‘She would, I think. It’s her father. I’m not rich enough for him. I shall be, if this business prospers, but then it’ll be too late, and Bess will have been married off to—pah!’ He made a sound of disgust.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. ‘Do I know the lady?’

  ‘Probably,’ he answered. ‘It’s Mr Whittle’s daughter, Elizabeth. He’s going to marry her off to that Nicholas Dashwood. But there, I can’t shift him, and he’s forbidden her to speak to me.’ He turned away and savagely moved a cracked crock.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said. What more could one say, seeing that the betrothal had taken place? We were both silent for a moment, and as he didn’t seem to want to talk further, I wished him good day and walked on.

  When I happened to pass near his stall a little later I saw that he had a lot of customers, and thought, he’ll do well, and no doubt get over his disappointment in love. When—or if—he’s successful, and has made a bit of money, he’ll be able to choose a good wife and won’t be refused. But until then any careful father is going to look rather askance at a man with such an odd, not to say low, profession. But I liked the fellow, and thought I would put in a good word for him if I got the chance.

  Agnes was pleased with the brooch, and I resolved to keep an eye on the young man’s stall from time to time in the hope of finding other trinkets or useful things for the house.

  Elizabeth Whittle came to my shop by herself next day.

  ‘Mr Judd,’ she said, ‘I am worried. I don’t know whether I ought to say anything to you. In fact I don’t know whether it is important or not. But perhaps you will know. But promise me that you will not tell anyone that I have told you. If it got back to Nicholas he would be so angry.’

  ‘Certainly, mistress, I will not say you told me. But what is it? Has he confessed to some plot?’

  ‘Do you know about it then? I don’t know—I fear there may be some such, but what I have no idea.’

  ‘Then what did he say? for I take it that he has said something?’

  ‘It was on Tuesday, after we had been here. I asked him what he meant by saying Mr White would not be here much longer. And he said, “Within a week he’ll be gone. This Sunday will be his last.” I said, “How do you know?” and he said, “It’s not for your ears, but you’ll soon see that I’ve told you the truth.” He goes about with rowdy fellows of a Cavalier persuasion, and I do fear (for I have been worrying over what he said) that they may be plotting something against Mr White. I dare not tell Mr White myself, or my father for that matter, for they might confront Nicholas and tell him I had told them. But I thought perhaps you would know what to do. Or am I making too much of his words?’

  ‘Certainly not, you confirm what I have already suspected, though I haven’t known when the attack on Mr White was due to take place. But now we can take measures to foil it.’

  ‘Can you—will you be able to keep Nicholas out of it? I am so afraid he may be mixed up in something wicked or foolish.’

  ‘If he takes part he will have to bear the consequences. See if you can persuade him to keep away from his friends when they do whatever it is they plan. I promise I won’t go out of my way to bring him to harm; but he must look after himself too. But perhaps if they see that Mr White is well guarded they will call off the attack.’

  The next Lord’s Day Mr White was to preach as usual in St Peter’s Church. What if some attempt were to be made against him between his house and the church? Who could I consult? If I went to the Mayor he might not believe me, for really I had very little firm evidence to go on, and there had been other rumours of royalist plots which had come to nothing. Then I thought of Lawrence Huatt the pewterer, the man I had seen in the market.

  He was a firm supporter of Mr White and the Parliament cause, and a strong fellow able to wield a cudgel. He much affected the speech and manners of the Puritans, which I thought then showed he was a godly and reliable man. He would surely help to defend Mr White. So I went to him and told him my fears.

  ‘You are right, Micah,’ he said. ‘We must take all care. Let us both assemble our friends—I will gather some stout fellows with cudgels and you do the same— and we will escort Mr White from his house to the church and back again.’

  So it was that a group of some dozen of us armed with stout sticks met outside Mr White’s house and went with him the short way
to the church. There was no trouble on the way, though I noticed Nicholas Dashwood talking to one of the Pounceys down near the Shambles. Their talk might have been quite innocent, but I did not like the way they looked sideways at us.

  I believed then that Mr White would stay with us through thick and thin, whatever enemies might come against us, and keep us steadfast and true in defence of what he called ‘the great Cause for which all Christians ought to fight’. He would steady the waverers and fire the spirits of the brave.

  He was small in stature but big in every other way. He had glittering eyes that held one spellbound and a voice that could be gentle or fierce and clear to the farthest corners of his church.

  When he donned his preaching gown and mounted the pulpit the crowded church fell absolutely silent, with no one coughing or shuffling their feet. Every eye was fixed on the preacher, as he slowly let his gaze take in the whole congregation.

  ‘My text is taken from the Book of Psalms, number sixty-eight: “Let God arise, let his enemies be scattered; let them that hate him flee before him. As smoke is driven away, so drive them away; as wax melteth before the fire, so let the wicked perish before God”.’

  This was the bracing sort of text we wanted to hear, and the people settled more comfortably in their pews. We knew we were not the wicked, and we would enjoy hearing a thorough roasting of the Cavalier party. We all looked forward to a stirring sermon.

  Mr White reminded us of how long he had been pastor here, ‘eight and thirty years’, and spoke of the threats now approaching us.

  When he mentioned ‘ravening wolves attacking the Lord’s flock’, and the ‘wiles of Rome and the machinations of the Pope’, a murmur like a growl came from the congregation.

  Fear of Rome was very real to most people then, and children were brought up (as I had been) on stories of the dreadful time when Bloody Mary had burned over three hundred Protestants at the stake. There were still old people alive who could remember seeing the dreaded Spanish Armada (sent against us with the Pope’s blessing) sailing past the Dorset coast. We knew the present Queen was a Roman Catholic, and we feared that influence of Rome would grow.

  ‘Let not England sink again into darkness!’ cried the preacher. ‘Let the enemies of God be scattered!’

  ‘Amen! amen!’ came answering cries from the congregation.

  ‘My people, do not be afraid. God will arise, His enemies will be scattered. They will be driven away like smoke before the wind’

  ‘Amen! amen!’

  He reminded us how the Lord had delivered us quite recently, when two Royalist armies, led by Sir Ralph Hopton and Prince Maurice, had seemed poised to attack us. But when the Prince was less than twenty miles away at Blandford he and the others had led their troops elsewhere.

  ‘The Lord himself fought for us; the Lord spared us from attack,’ Mr White’s voice rang out. ‘So now let us not be like wax that melteth.’

  ‘No no! Amen! amen!’

  ‘Yea, verily, our hearts shall be stout and our hands strong!’

  ‘Amen!’

  I really felt at that moment—I’m sure everyone there felt the same—that we would be invincible. When the time of trial came we would not flinch.

  ‘Stand firm, then, my people!’ shouted Mr White, ‘stand firm for God and His Kingdom, stand, fight, and if need be die for His Cause. Stand and be of good courage, for the Lord will preserve us!’

  We believed him. Our hearts were warmed, our blood coursed hotly in our veins; if we had not been in church we would have clapped and cheered. Behind our new defences, and with God on our side, we could not fail.

  Mr Huatt and our other friends gathered round afterwards to escort Mr White back to his house. We had gone about half way there when there was a cry from somewhere down the High Street, ‘To the walls, everyone! The enemy are upon us!’ We heard the sound of a trumpet or bugle blowing a few urgent notes, and hesitated, wondering what we ought to do.

  ‘Go quickly, my children,’ said Mr White. ‘I shall go home to pray. I shall be safe now.’

  But we had scarcely left him when a mob of men with scarves or kerchiefs hiding their faces came running up from the Shambles. They were led by a great bull of a fellow with black hair and a drawn sword. But they mistimed their charge, for we managed to rush back and reach Mr White just before them, and dragged him into our midst.

  ‘Stand back! Hand him over!’ shouted the leader of the mob, but we crowded more closely about him.

  ‘Do you come against me with swords and staves, as they did to my Master?’ Mr White’s strong voice rose above the hubbub.

  ‘You shall come with us,’ shouted the leader. ‘Come now, no delay, or someone will be hurt.’

  He brandished his sword, and indeed seemed ready to use it. But then folk came running from the High Street crying, ‘False alarm. There is no enemy.’

  ‘Help, good folks, help!’ shouted Huatt, and we all joined in, and as more people were coming up all the time the mob of attackers wavered and broke. They ran back down past the Shambles and disappeared in the alleys towards the river. Some men ran after them, but rather half-heartedly I thought. Maybe they didn’t want to get hurt. I and our friends took Mr White back to his house.

  There were angry words in the Council next day. Someone had given the false alarm about the enemy attacking, though no one could say who it was. But it seemed that it had been intended to draw people away to the bottom end of town so that Mr White could be seized. The Mayor accused some Council members of hindering his inquiries as to who was involved. Clearly, divisions in the town were now deep.

  In all the jostling and movement I had not noticed whether Nicholas Dashwood had taken part, though having seen him near the spot before the service I suspected he had. I wondered how much Elizabeth Whittle really knew about him. So when a day or two later she again came into my shop alone I was glad to have a talk.

  She had come for some more of the rose-hip syrup I had given her father, for (she said) it had done him good. She seemed happier than when I had seen her before.

  ‘Are you looking forward to leaving your father and having your own household?’ I asked.

  ‘I shall miss him, and worry that he is not looking after himself as he ought. But he is eager for me to get married and have what he calls “a good position”.’

  ‘And will you be happy, do you think?’

  ‘I hope so. Daughters like me have no real choice. But I’m sure Nicholas loves me, and I shall grow to love him.’

  ‘So you managed to persuade him to keep out of trouble?’

  ‘I asked him, but he professed not to understand, so I don’t know. But all is well now, isn’t it?’

  ‘Do you mean he and his friends have abandoned their plans, or do they still mean to attack Mr White?’

  ‘Oh, Mr Judd, I do hope not. I really don’t know whether Nicholas or his friends had anything to do with what happened on Sunday. He’s not really a Cavalier, you know, but he’s got a friend he calls Horney who I think leads him astray.’

  ‘So that’s the man I overheard.’

  ‘What do you mean, Mr Judd?’

  ‘Simply that one night two men passed me, and one called the other Horney. It seemed an odd name.’

  ‘I think it must be a nickname. But I’ve only heard Nicolas mention him once, when we were talking about his friends.’

  ‘Well, Mistress Elizabeth, if you hear any more about any plots against Mr White, or indeed against the Parliament Cause, please let me know at once.’

  ‘I think Nicolas is more interested in horses and gaming with those friends of his than in kings and parliaments. But I wish—I wish he would break away from them. But there,’ she spoke more cheerfully, ‘when we are married I expect things will be different.’

  CHAPTER 2 THINGS FALL A