‘You may go in now. I will see that you are undisturbed. Stay as long as he wants.’
The room was dimly lit, all but one of the curtains drawn. John was propped up on the bed on pillows. This man bore little resemblance to the John with whom she had fallen in love. He was hollow-eyed and skeletal. His beard had not been trimmed and his hair hung in oily strands. The smell in the room was a sour mixture of incense and vinegar, underlaid with the smell of something rotten. Lucy painted a smile on her face as she approached but she could not sustain the smile or stop the welling tears that threatened to spill. He did not need to see her despair. She looked away, pretending preoccupation with smoothing the counterpane.
The only thing about the frail man lying in the bed that she recognized was the light in his eyes, a light still burning with some splinter of passion for living and doing. But the timbre of his voice was the same, albeit a little weaker. ‘Lucy. Thank God you have come.’ He took her hands in his. The skin felt dry and thin, like the desiccated wing of a dead butterfly.
‘Of course I have come, John. I have longed to see you. Why did you not send for me sooner?’ Dizziness threatened. She groped for the chair beside his bed and sat down. ‘We have wasted so much precious time,’ she said, ‘so much precious time.’
‘Please do not think my delay means that I did not long for you. There was so much to do and so little time to do it in. We are in danger of losing this war, and I know my time is short. I had to make a way.’
She said nothing, just struggled to choke back her tears.
‘You understand that, Lucy, don’t you?’
She just nodded, her head still down, unable to speak. He reached for her hand. It felt so fragile she was afraid even to squeeze it.
‘Now we have finally secured all parliamentary signatures on a Covenant with Scotland for military support in exchange for a religious Protestant Union. It gives the Presbyterians a little too much control in church matters, but it will stop the Catholics and their political predation. You know, Lucy, for me it was never about their superstitious worship. It was about their greed and hunger for absolute power, and all that England has suffered under their power.’
His voice seemed to grow stronger through his will alone. She wanted to shush him, to tell him to conserve his strength, but she knew it would do no good.
‘They must be stopped, or this King will take us right back to the days of Bloody Mary. England must be ruled by the people so that will never happen again. Charles will not even agree to equipoise, to any kind of balance in governing. Did you know, in the beginning, he tried to buy me off, offered me the exchequer’s position. No better than a tax collector.’
She feared he was becoming agitated, patted him gently. ‘I know, John. I know; all of England knows what an incorruptible man you are.’ She stroked his forehead, pushing the greasy strings of hair away. ‘Tell me, my love, what do the doctors say?’
‘I have been poked and prodded by every money-grubbing charlatan in the College of Physicians. They agree on nothing but their fees. But I know what ails me. I have a mass in my stomach and it is growing, crowding out everything else. My father died this way. I knew it would devour me sooner or later. It appears it will be sooner.’
‘But surely there is somebody that can help you. There has to be.’
‘I am beyond their help, Lucy. There was one, a young astrologer and botanist. Nicholas Culpeper could have helped me if I’d found him sooner. Before the physicians leeched the life out of me with their purging and sweating and blood-letting. Culpeper runs an herbal apothecary – simples mostly, a few compounds – outside of London control. In Spitalfields.’
‘Should we summon him?’
‘No. He comes to examine me twice a week. Me – not just to sniff my urine and frown. He is a good young man; he was a Parliament surgeon on the battlefield until he was wounded and had to quit. I enjoy his company as much as his physicks. He left me some bishop’s wort and suggested angelica tea, but nothing stops the pain except the devil seeds from China.’
He reached up and took her hand. She could feel it trembling. He was exhausted. ‘Sit with me awhile, Lucy,’ he said. ‘I have some instructions for you, but I am going to close my eyes. Just for a bit.’
He did not stir for about half an hour, but she could see his chest move with his breathing. Once she tried to remove her hand, but he would not let go. The drapery on the window opposite his bed was open. The light outside was fading. She would have gotten up to close the drape and light a candle, but she did not want to disturb him.
She bowed her head and closed her eyes, wanting to pray, but she did not know what to pray for. A quick release from his suffering? A miracle? In this age when God’s people were at war with each other? Who should He bless? Who punish? Why would He even listen? In the end she just prayed for peace. For John. For herself. For England and all its poor broken subjects. For all the children and the women who had been abandoned. Like the widow she met. Like the King’s children. After a while she felt his gaze and looked up.
‘Our Father who art in Heaven,’ he began, as if he were reading her mind. ‘Say it with me, Lucy.’ As they repeated the Lord’s Prayer, his eyes were open, looking at her, and his hand was still gripping hers. After his softly murmured amen he continued, his gaze still locked on hers. ‘Yea though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil.’ Then he sighed and closed his eyes again.
The bed on which he wasted away had strangely become to her as holy as any altar.
They sat again in silence, but this time he seemed more at peace, his breathing more even, until the sound of gunfire outside the window startled him. A yellow glow brightened the twilight. She went to the window and looked out.
‘What is it, Lucy? Is there fighting in the streets? Have we been invaded?’ She heard the anxiety returning.
‘No. I see no soldiers. Just a crowd of people celebrating.’
The street below was filling up with revelers. Jeering and cheering, cursing and singing. Cacophony and chaos. Outside the window, a growing bonfire hissed and spit into the twilight sky as revelers once again burned their perennial Catholic conspirator in celebration.
‘What are they celebrating? Have we won some great battle?’
‘Today is the fifth of November, John. Once again Guy Fawkes will not live to blow up Parliament.’
He almost laughed, but the almost-laugh turned into a sigh, ‘Ah, but Parliament may blow up itself, this time.’
Lucy watched the little scene play out in the street. She hated the annual celebration of the spoiling of the Gunpowder Plot. Not because it had failed. But for what it had done to young Lucy Percy. That old conflict had stolen her youth and now it followed her into middle age, shadowing the last intimate moment she would share with her dying lover. What were all those boisterous revelers celebrating, anyway? It was not as if it was over. They were once again right in the middle of it. That old conflict had played itself out for ages, empires and peoples fighting over God.
Below, a shower of sparks lit the dark sky.
Where they once slaughtered animals in sacrifice, now they slaughtered themselves and others. But it was never about God. It was about power and ambition. More wanted to be God than serve God. And on whatever battlefield, in climes far and near, today and yesterday and tomorrow, where men butchered each other in holy war, the devil surely laughed and clicked his cloven hoofs in wicked delight.
‘It grows late, Lucy. The streets will become unsafe with drunkards and ne’er-do-wells as the night progresses.’ He reached for the bell at his bedside. ‘Promise me one thing, before you go. Promise you will keep the King’s children safe. Before you let Parliament get their hands on them, give them to their mother. Better they should be raised Catholic than become pawns in a game of “winner take all at whatever cost.”’
Though he had shown compassion for the King’s youngest children, Lucy was shocked to hear this admonition coming f
rom John – shocked and relieved. She had feared that the man who wanted more than any other soul in England to see the King brought to his knees, the man who had sacrificed so much for that cause, had intended all along to use them as pawns to gain what he thought was a righteous and necessary outcome. But the awareness of a hovering death angel might well change a man’s priorities.
‘Oh, my love. I am so relieved to hear you say that. I must confess. They are already with the Queen. I delivered them to Hyde more than a fortnight ago. He has promised to bring them back if Oxford comes under siege. Please do not be cross.’
He didn’t answer immediately, just looked at her, framed against the fiery window. She squeezed her eyes shut tight, praying that God would not let them part in anger. Not this time.
The ghost of a smile played around his lips. He swallowed hard and then said softly, ‘Hyde is a good man, even if he is the King’s lackey. It is just as well. I should never have burdened you with them. And if Parliament loses, you will have some protection. The Queen will be grateful.’
‘It was no burden, John. No burden at all.’
His gaze studied her face, as if to memorize it. ‘Come. Kiss me before you go, Lucy Hay.’
He didn’t say, this one last time. But he didn’t have to.
His lips tasted sour, but she would have held that kiss forever if she could. There was a knock at the door and he gently pulled away.’
‘You may enter,’ he said to the two strapping soldiers who came in. ‘See Lady Carlisle safely to Syon House. Our business here is finished.’
STRANGE BEDFELLOWS
We shall endeavour to bring the Churches of God in the three Kingdoms to the nearest conjunction and uniformity in religion, confession of faith, form of Church government … We shall endeavour the extirpation of Popery, prelacy … superstition, heresy, schism, profaneness … We shall … preserve the rights and privileges of the Parliaments … We shall … assist and defend all those that enter into this league … against all opposition …
Excerpted from Solemn League and Covenant, agreed to by Parliament and Scotland in September 1643
7 December 1643
‘I’ll not sign it. It’s not right. That is not what I was fighting for. Instead of a Pope telling me how and when to pray, now it’s going to be a committee of Calvinists.’ The printer’s assistant removed the last printed sheet for the day, the text of The Solemn League and Covenant, the subject of his scowl. ‘And I know Patience will never sign it. She said she’d go to jail first.’
‘So that is why you are in such a sour mood, Ben. You will probably have lots of company. I don’t intend to sign it either,’ James Whittier said. ‘Don’t worry. You and I are small fry. It will be awhile before they get to our shop, if at all. Tell Patience Trapford not to speak too loudly against it in her Independent congregation, though it is probably unlikely the Committee of Three Kingdoms will bother with a powerless young woman. But they may go after some of those godly preachers she’s so fond of.’
That reassurance did little to lighten Ben’s mood. Maybe it was the approaching season that warned of a Christmas void of all mirth and joy. Or maybe it was the pain. On winter days such as these, his left arm hurt, and that was just crazy because the pain was in his empty sleeve, below the elbow joint where the barber surgeon had sawed off the splintered bone. The whisky they had poured into him had made him retch, choking on his own vomit, until there was only the searing agony followed by blessed nothingness. He tried to push it all from his mind. At least he had survived.
‘None of the dissident preachers or their congregations will sign it,’ he said. ‘I can guarantee it. It will be a matter of honor for some, faith for others.’ He paused in his pressing, resisting the urge to stroke the empty sleeve, then said quietly, ‘You have been very kind to me, milord. I hope you know how grateful I am. But there’s something I need to tell you. I haven’t been exactly truthful with you.’
‘About your service in the war? Who am I to fault—?’
‘No. Not about that. I lost my arm right enough, though not in a grand battle as you might have imagined. I was a scout for Cromwell, not an infantryman. Got caught in the crossfire. A small roadside skirmish. Never knew if the musket ball came from our side or theirs, but, thank God, it was one of our own who hauled me back to camp.’
Whittier had paused in his typesetting and looked up with interest, curiosity in his arched eyebrow, ‘What have you withheld that would be any of my business?’
‘Well, start with my name. Benjamin is my second name. My first name, the one by which I have always been known, is Arthur. Arthur Pendleton. Not Pender.’
Whittier laughed. ‘Well I’d say that’s not exactly a lie. Maybe just an abbreviation. I’m guessing the godly Patience Trapford has raised your standards when it comes to truth-telling. But I am curious. Why did you change your name?’
‘I just wanted to put the past behind me. Didn’t want to think about it. Wanted to start anew.’
‘The war, you mean?’
‘Not just that. Family stuff. My father and his friends are fierce Royalists. You can see how that might lead to bad blood between us. He pretty much disowned me when I went over to the other side. But lately – well, it was something Patience said about having never really known her father and how she would give anything if she could just see him. She has no family at all. Put me to thinking what I had thrown away. I need your leave to go back to Oxfordshire and see if my father and I can come to some kind of reconciliation.’
The light outside was fading. Whittier got up to light the lanterns hanging high above the lines where the newly inked paper had been hung to dry before they were folded and cut.
‘I have no right to stop you, Ben. You are not a bound apprentice. More an underpaid freeman. But there’s a lot of heavy fighting in Oxfordshire. Must you go now?’
Ben picked up the rag and set his good arm to cleaning the platen. ‘All the more reason I need to go. Before it’s too late. I have a stepmother. More like an older sister than a mother. She is much younger than my father. If my father has been pressed into taking up arms for the King, she may need me. I know it is short notice, but I have finished this last lot and already packed a saddlebag.’ He pointed to the said bag by the door. ‘I’d like to leave tonight. It’s a clear night. Full moon. Less likely to encounter soldiers on the road at night.’
‘A man must do what a man must do. You do plan to come back, right? I have come to depend on you. And those newsboys you feed will really miss you.’
‘I will be back, my lord, I promise. No more than a few days. You can count on it.’
Whittier blew out the burning end of the match he was using and flung it in the fire, started to scribble on a scrap of paper. ‘Give this to the sentry at the checkpoint. It says that you are going to Reading to buy paper and ink for the shop. They will honor my signature.’ Then, pulling Ben into a three-armed embrace he said, ‘God go with you, Ben, and may you find all is well with your family. If you are going to be away more than a fortnight, try to get word to let me know you are safe.’
One hour later, Ben passed through the checkpoint, unimpeded except for a regiment of tartan-clad soldiers marching into London. They were accompanied by the groan and whine of a lone bagpiper. As the melancholy sound faded, he spurred his horse westward with a longing for home that was as deep as it was sudden.
When her landlady brought her the bad news, Caroline Pendleton was taking inventory of her rapidly depleting resources: the pistol, but she dared not part with Letty’s silver plate, her last resort; two dozen sixpences, one gold sovereign, six guineas, one crown and two half-crowns – and one extra shilling a Roundhead lad had given her for sewing a rip in his sleeve and buttons on his breeches. Thinking of Arthur, she would have done it for free, but the youth had insisted and Caroline, feeling the pinch of poverty, had gratefully accepted payment. This she added to her little hoard in her token box and put the token box beneath her best dres
s in the chest, wondering what she was saving that dress for anyway.
Outside her small window, darkness was gathering. How she dreaded the long nights. She couldn’t afford to waste even the cheap tallow dips on such a luxury as reading. Most evenings she just wrapped herself in William’s greatcoat and huddled close to the chimney, warmed by the downstairs fire. From outside the only sounds were the comings and goings of the Trained Bands, some of whom were now quartered on the ground floor. For the citizens there was a curfew – though it was hardly necessary, Caroline thought. What honest soul would venture out in the cold, dark and stinking streets?
At least she had a roof over her head and had been able to find work in the kitchen of a nearby house sequestered for Parliament officers. It paid only sixpence a week, but she could eat what she prepared for the officers. Tonight, she had brought home two hunks of bread smeared with pear preserve, two rashers of bacon and some goat cheese – a feast. This she was planning to share with her landlady, as she usually did, when she heard the customary knock and the whispered ‘Caroline.’
But she had only to look at her landlady’s face to know this would not be their usual supper. ‘Mistress Cramer, you look quite pale. Come, sit.’ Caroline helped her to the lone chair beside the hearth.
‘Oh Caroline, it is the worst news. They are taking the whole house.’
‘They?’ But she thought she knew.
‘Parliament. A man from the Committee on the Three Kingdoms came today. He said they need the whole house to billet the Scots.’
‘But what about the law? This house belongs to you. And William had a lease on a whole floor, which they have already invaded, pushing you and me into these attic closets like a couple of cupboard mice.’
A Far Horizon Page 4
