A Far Horizon

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  So that was how the guildhall kitchen was supplied, she thought.

  When she returned to the shop Ben, inventorying her basket, grinned from ear to ear. ‘I cannot believe you found vegetables. I didn’t even know we could get honey.’

  She noticed with a conflicting mixture of relief and disappointment that James had left. That thought might have confounded her if she’d had time to consider it.

  ‘You just didn’t know where to look,’ she said. ‘We have all this and more in the guildhall kitchen, but it wasn’t cheap,’ she said as she handed him the change. ‘This is all that’s left for the “puddle,” as milord calls it.’

  Ben’s insinuating smile was a little irritating, ‘If you bought all this, and had two crowns left, then he’s more generous with you than with me. Wonder why that is?’

  ‘Maybe it is because he is tired of dried meat,’ she said. ‘I will boil the bird and the parsnips before adding them to your pot, so it will be ready when the boys return. Unless you need me to help with the printing,’ she added, remembering that the boy of yesterday who she once bossed was today a man and her superior.

  ‘Apples! Caroline, you found apples. No. You go right ahead with your preparations. The sooner the better. I am tired of tough beef too.’

  The skinny little chicken was already boiling, and she was peeling the parsnips when the bell on the front door tinkled. ‘I will see to it, Ben,’ she called, wiping the sweat from her face with the corner of her apron.

  She recognized John Milton immediately. It took him a minute, even though she had visited him at his home.

  ‘Mistress Pendleton, I believe.’ He was staring at her apron. ‘I … I did not expect to see you here.’

  ‘The printer’s helper is my stepson. I help out too on occasion.’

  ‘Is Lord Whittier about?’

  ‘No. Is there something I may do for you?’

  ‘I stopped in to see if I could purchase the new pamphlet by Roger Williams.’

  ‘We don’t usually sell anything here, Mr Milton. But they are widely available at the vendors in St Paul’s Churchyard.’

  ‘But surely you have a copy,’ he said, smiling a little sheepishly. ‘I dined at the tavern down the street with friends. This is much more convenient than walking to St Paul’s.’

  ‘I will see if I can find one in the back. If you would care to wait here.’ She indicated the bench in the entrance.

  Ben looked up from the press with a frown.

  It was plain he had recognized the voice. ‘We have a man who wants to purchase a copy of the Bloody Tenent of Persecution. Do we have any?’

  He pointed with the ink mop toward a chest on the other side of the room. ‘In there,’ he said, ‘hidden under yesterday’s broadsheet. About a dozen.’ Then he added, mumbling, ‘Make him pay, Caroline. He’s a pinchpenny.’

  She nodded, wondering how he knew that, or if he just automatically assumed the worst about him, and closed the door to the print room as she went back out. ‘That will be three pence,’ she said, handing him the pamphlet.

  He looked a little surprised. ‘I am sure that Lord Whittier would discount the price for me.’

  She did not want him to get the best of her. Ben had said to make him pay for it. How was she to know if James would give him a discount? But neither did she want to prejudice him against her. For Mary’s sake.

  ‘Unfortunately, Mr Milton, Lord Whittier isn’t here, and I have no notion when he will return. I shall be glad to hold it for you. I will take care of it personally.’

  Milton did not look pleased. She was thinking maybe she would pay the three pence herself and not tell Ben, when a tall shadow paused in the door open to the street.

  ‘John Milton,’ James Whittier said. ‘How good to see you. Give the pamphlet to him, Caroline. Compliments of the print shop. Without his referral, there would be no pamphlet.’

  Caroline handed it to him, trying to hold her irritation against Milton’s smug look as James said, ‘Come on into the print room, Mr Milton. I have just returned from Parliament House, and I have news which, distressing as it is, you will want to hear.’

  ‘I can guess what you are about to tell me. I have already heard from friends in Parliament.’

  Caroline removed herself to the kitchen in the side alcove to be less conspicuous, but she could still hear.

  Milton continued, ‘Parliament has condemned my treatise on The Doctrine and Discipline of Divorce. I understand they are planning a book-burning.’ That had her complete attention. ‘It is not that it is my book. The ideas in the book – my words – are already out there. Parliament will sweep up the local copies, but people will be reading my arguments for a hundred years. Maybe more. Despite their best efforts, my work will endure.’ Then came the clap of angry hands. ‘But it is the thought that they dare burn any book. Better to burn the man than to burn his words, his ideas. To kill a good man is to kill a reasonable creature; to burn a good book is to kill reason itself.’

  James nodded in agreement. ‘That is why this shop publishes unlicensed voices and will continue to do so or it will close – or be closed by the censors. I have seen what the licensed printers are printing. Parliamentary propaganda, exaggerated tales designed to seed discord and feed the flames of war. How can an Englishman learn the truth about the war, about anything, if he cannot trust the source?’

  Milton’s small mouth pursed in anger. ‘I am going to wait until after they have their big bonfire. And they will have a public bonfire. Political spectacle always engages the ignorant. But I will not be silent. I am going to write an open letter to Parliament, decrying this tyranny. Will you print it for me?’

  ‘If I am still in business when you finish it. Which is no sure thing.’

  ‘We are agreed then. Let us firm up terms for publication. I want enough copies to place in St Paul’s Churchyard, of course, but also to post in every coach house and every tavern in England and surrounding. They will not be able to find and burn them all.’

  ‘How many copies are we talking about?’

  ‘About two hundred. I will try to keep it spare but, as you know, Lord Whittier, I am not a man of few words.’

  ‘Try to keep it to forty pages. Even that will be expensive: two hundred copies, ten sheets per each printed in quarto – that’s two thousand printed pages.’

  ‘I know it will be expensive. That is why I am willing to forgo any profit. Print it as cheaply as you can. Cheapest paper. Some of them will be burned anyway.’

  ‘Can you underwrite my expense?’

  ‘Some. But I was hoping, Lord Whittier, that since we are like-minded, you might take on some of the cost.’

  ‘I cannot afford to underwrite it. Not with so much risk. I could be shut down if I am discovered, deprived of my livelihood and my investment. Being a very good writer, perhaps a great one, you are at less risk. But I will price it so that perhaps I can recoup my costs along with – I am not promising, you understand – something for you. Banned books always increase demand.’

  His boldness almost took Caroline’s breath away. He would wind up in Tower Prison, or worse.

  ‘All that depends on how quickly you finish it. If they trace Williams’s Bloody Persecution back to me, I won’t be able to print it for you.’

  ‘I will get the manuscript to you as soon as possible.’

  ‘Do you want your full name on it?’

  ‘Not J.M. this time. John Milton. My name will carry some weight, I think. Are we agreed, then?’

  ‘We are agreed then. I will be in touch.’

  Milton stood up and started toward the door and then, approaching her said, ‘I bid you good day, Mistress Caroline. Have you any news from Forest Hill?’

  ‘Not since we last spoke, Mr Milton.’

  ‘I would appreciate any news you might have in the future.’

  James had not followed him over to Caroline, but stood staring out the window as if in a deep study. She was considering the best way to
answer, when James interrupted.

  ‘Mr Milton, I have given another thought to our arrangement.’

  The poet’s back stiffened, so that Caroline could swear he grew taller by half an inch.

  ‘How would you feel about a barter? My labor for yours. And you will have to pay nothing toward the expense of publication.’

  ‘My labor for yours? Do go on. I am intrigued.’

  ‘I have a young boy who works for me, an orphan named John – we call him Little John. He possesses an extremely alert mind for a boy of six years. I think there is a potential there to be realized, if the boy but had a chance. He displays a remarkable eagerness to learn but has nobody to teach him. You are a teacher. I am curious to see what a gifted teacher could make of him. Patience and Ben have taught him his letters, but he needs more.’

  ‘Patience? Patience Trapford?’

  ‘Patience and Ben are good friends. She comes here on her days off.’

  ‘She told me she was going to church,’ he said indignantly.

  ‘She does go to church. An independent congregation, Baptist I think, in Norton Folgate. Ben goes there too. Mostly because she goes there. They met when she brought your first manuscript to me. She started helping him with his work in exchange for his teaching her to read.’

  ‘Teaching her to read! She couldn’t read? Are you sure? I often gave her lists for the market and other things. She never said. If she needed to learn to read why didn’t she ask me?’

  James laughed. ‘Ben asked her that same thing once and she told him in an outraged tone that it would be like asking a master violin-maker to carve a reed whistle. She just wanted to be able to read the Bible. Not translate Latin and Greek.’

  ‘And your young John? What does he want to learn?’

  ‘I don’t know. I just have a feeling about him. My labor for yours?’

  Milton paused in consideration then said, ‘Maybe two days a week, but I will have to evaluate him myself. I have one other child his age who is just beginning. Send him to me Monday next and I will see. Better yet, I shall send Patience to fetch him, since he is familiar with her. I should know if he has the mind of a scholar by the time I have finished Areopagitica.’

  James raised his eyebrow. ‘Is that your title?’

  ‘Named from the Areopagus, the ancient Greek tribunal that met on Mars Hill. I am addressing our Areopagus.’

  Even Caroline knew that was a bad title. The man was too clever, always soaring to heights that ordinary people could never reach or simply did not want to. No wonder Patience hadn’t told him she couldn’t read. While Caroline was thinking it was kind of James to want to help the boy, she wasn’t sure this was the way – or that John Milton was the best person – to do it.

  After he had gone, James came into the kitchen. ‘We have a new project,’ he said.

  ‘I heard.’

  ‘Your tone suggests disapproval.’

  ‘It is not my place to approve or disapprove.’

  ‘I value your opinion.’ But he did not wait for her to give it. ‘You met with success in the market place. I can smell it.’

  ‘I gave Ben what was left. I spent—’

  Before she could give him a reckoning, he held up his hand to halt her. ‘No need. I trust you. We will eat and drink well – I brought a bottle of wine – until our business dries up or Parliament shuts us down.’

  We. He had said, we. ‘And what then, James?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘We will think of something else. You, me, Patience and Ben. And we will take care of the boys too. We are a team.’

  ‘Is that what that was about just now with Little John?’

  ‘It is an avenue to explore. If Milton becomes attached to the boy’s quick mind, he might be persuaded to take him in. His own little scholar to mold. That might appeal to him. After all, he is expanding to run a boarding school. If something should happen here, I mean. You and Ben could survive. Ralphie too. He’s almost old enough to be apprenticed to a printer. I know a licensed printer who would be more than willing to take him in for room and board.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Caroline. I am just preparing against whatever might come. But, for now, we are going to print up some more copies of Roger’s pamphlet – St Paul’s has already sold out – then we’re going to eat our food and drink our wine and celebrate that fate has brought us all together. Let tomorrow bring what it will, it will anyway.’

  As she finished slicing cucumbers and peeling an onion, a merry little tune ran through her head. Before long it had found its way to her throat. Ben called out to her, smiling for the first time since Milton had gone, ‘You used to hum that at Forest Hill. Sounds good, Caroline. Really good.’

  The workload was heavier for the next few weeks. James had been right about the popularity of banned books. Ben, Caroline and James worked feverishly, Patience too when she came on Sunday afternoons. They were ever mindful of the urgency and the need for secrecy as they printed out a second edition of Roger Williams’s censored pamphlet and increased the price a ha’penny. On Sundays they had to keep all doors and windows shuttered even in the golden light of early autumn, because it was unlawful to work on the Sabbath.

  In the meantime, the broadsheets still went out under the mark of the crossed swords. James had become an associate member of the Worshipful Company of Stationers and had registered his mark when the Licensing Act passed. That relationship gave them a measure of cover to print the other pamphlets that bore no imprimatur. Lord Whittier even showed up at some of the guild meetings on Ludgate Hill, paid his licensing fees, was companionable to the masters in the hall. They were careful. Yet it was only a matter of time, Caroline thought, before they were caught – but that would be on some hopefully distant tomorrow, and this was today. She worked as hard as she could. And as the Sundays passed, she grew more comfortable with Patience. The girl was a hard worker, and the way she worked with Ben at the press was comforting to watch. Except for the high esteem she held for John Milton, she also had a keen eye for reading people.

  ‘Thou needest not worry, Mistress Caroline. Little John is doing well. I have never seen Mr Milton dote on a lad so. I think some of the others are a little jealous.’

  The child appeared happy when Patience showed up each Monday to escort him. When it was official, and he was to be allowed to go on Tuesdays as well, Mr Milton suggested that he stay Monday nights to ‘spare Trapford a trip,’ he said, though Caroline knew Patience looked forward to those trips.

  ‘Has Mr Milton settled into his new house in the Barbican yet?’ Caroline asked this Tuesday when the girl looked less energetic than usual.

  ‘Aye. At last,’ she said. ‘Every pencil in its angel-ordained place.’ Then she immediately apologized for her cross tone, saying it was just that Mr Milton had taken on two new students already. More mouths to feed. More chamber pots to empty. More slates to wipe clean.

  ‘You are too conscientious,’ Caroline wanted to say. ‘Some men will use you up and never even know they are doing it.’ But she did not. Though she decided that, come next Sunday, she would see that Ben and Patience had some time to be together without having to work so hard. She would speak to James about it tomorrow.

  TIES THAT BIND

  Had it any been but she,

  And that very face,

  There had been at least ere this

  A dozen dozen in her place.

  From ‘The Constant Lover’ by John Suckling (published posthumously in The Last Remains of Sir John Suckling, 1659)

  October 1644

  With Caroline close to him, it was hard for James to concentrate enough to keep the hackney out of the ditch. When he first asked if she would like to join him on his trip to Reading to order supplies, she had declined. But when he suggested they go on to Forest Hill, so she could have a short visit with her friends and retrieve some of the belongings she had left behind, she appeared open to the offer.

  ‘Is Ben going?’

  ‘No. He s
aid he was too busy.’

  When she seemed to at least be considering the invitation, he said, ‘Consider the expense of your private lodging in Reading a gift from me for all your hard work these last weeks.’

  ‘Can you not buy paper in London?’

  ‘The Reading broker is cheaper. Fewer taxes. Anyway, if the London stationers’ guild pokes around and sees how much paper we use, they might get suspicious. I plan to leave early in the morning. You are heartily invited to accompany me.’

  She had said that she would think about it but had not mentioned it again.

  When the ostler delivered the coach and pair to his door a little after dawn, James loitered, casting a hopeful eye down the empty street. He probably should take the coach back to the stable and swap it for a horse. It would be faster. He could get the contraband pamphlets meant for Reading and Oxford in his saddlebags. The paper and ink supplies were to be shipped via the river anyway. But just as he was about to head out, no more reason to linger – she wasn’t coming – he clicked the reins, cast one last glance down the lane.

  Was it? Yes, not quite running, closing the distance between them.

  ‘I would have picked you up,’ and then before she could answer, he had added, ‘I hope you brought your pistol. Just in case. Mine is already under the driver’s seat.’ Alarm bloomed in her face. ‘I expect no trouble, of course, but two would be better than one.’

  She pointed to the familiar scrip he remembered seeing spread out on the table in the garrison guardhouse when Arthur Aston had questioned her.

  ‘Do you want to sit in the back or on the bench with me?’

  ‘It promises to be a beautiful day. I will enjoy the autumn sunshine and the scenery better if I sit outside. At least until we stop.’ But when they paused at a roadside alehouse for refreshment and relief, she had climbed back up and had ridden with him the whole day.

  Above the steady clopping of hooves, they spoke of many things: of the scarred countryside and the beauty of the autumn light; how she missed the country even though she’d grown up in London’s crowded streets, delivering pies for her aunt’s bakeshop; how, when her aunt died, she’d gone to live with the Powells at Forest Hill Manor before marrying William. Most of her story he had already gleaned bit by bit from Ben, but when she paused he asked questions, just to hear her voice so close. In answer to her tentative questioning, he told her about his childhood, how he came to be alone without family. It was easy talk, sharing opinions: political and religious, of which she had plenty. They talked print-shop talk, about how grateful she was that Ben had found work he loved. But when he mentioned that if Ben could get journeyman status, he would probably ask Patience to marry him, she grew silent.