He smiled. ‘Well, you should ask. I like to see beautiful things preserved, but I am a businessman too. Those large drawers hold caches of gold coin, given to me on deposit for safe-keeping, which I can loan out for interest within the time of the contract.’ He went over to one of the small numbered drawers and pulled out an object wrapped in soft wool. ‘This item belonged to one who is awaiting trial. Upon his death, if the certificate is not presented by one of his heirs before its redemption date, then by terms of the contract, this will become my property.’ He unwrapped an exquisite little snuffbox inlaid with emerald and rubies. ‘This and other of his effects he put into my safe-keeping before he went to Tower Prison. He will not need it much longer.’
‘How can you be so sure?’
He looked surprised. ‘You mean you have not heard? All of London is preparing for a celebration at his execution. Archbishop Laud is much despised in this town. There will be plenty of drunken Scots celebrating with their raucous pipes. There may even be looting. Have you not noticed the street is shut down and all the windows empty?’
‘Today? He is being executed today? I did not even know the trial was over. Are you sure?’
‘I am sure. Why else would I close my shop?’
What if Princess Elizabeth should witness the execution? Or be threatened by ruffians? Why had Bathsua Makin not warned her?
‘I had no love for the Archbishop, Master Simpson, but I have no wish to see his bloody head. I am sorry, I must go. I will get back to you about the diamonds and maybe some other things. Thank you for your advice, and be assured I shall keep your confidence. But, right now, I must see to it that a child in my care does not witness such a spectacle. We must get out of town before the crowd turns violent.’
‘The execution is scheduled for noon today. The crowds will already be gathering on Tower Hill. Which way are you headed?’
‘Chelsea, to gather my charge. And then west toward Richmond.’
‘If you go now you will likely escape the greatest press of people.’
When she arrived at the tutor’s house, Mistress Makin met her at the door, her face ashen. ‘Thank God. I felt sure you would come as soon as you became aware. I am sorry, Lady Carlisle. I have not been out, and I did not know until one of my servants asked for the afternoon off. You should have no trouble going back to Syon House. Everybody will be in a hurry to get good viewing positions for the spectacle. I have already explained to the princess that you will be coming back to get her sooner than expected, but that she may come again. Is your coachman trustworthy?’
‘Yes, I have used him often.’
‘Dominus vobiscum,’ Bathsua shouted as Lucy guided the princess into the carriage.
‘Pax tecum,’ Elizabeth called back.
If anything was different about the London streets, Elizabeth seemed not to notice, only once asking why the horses were in such a hurry. She chattered constantly about how Bathsua had praised her, stopping only to ask when they could return.
‘When she is feeling stronger,’ Lucy answered, relieved, as the coach turned into Syon Lane, that both had been spared the bloody spectacle. Her heart squeezed a little thinking of the frail old man and the manner of his death. The magnificent little snuffbox, smaller than a human heart and encrusted with gems, was symbolic of a prideful life marked by power and ambition. All is vanity, sayeth the prophet.
As they hurried across the lawn, the garden dial pointed straight at 12.00. A shiver that had nothing to do with the cold crawled up her spine. She said a little prayer for William Laud then, importuning mercy for the soul of the old churchman. Surely, he would get some consideration before a throne of judgment for his lifelong devotion to the Church of England. And then she remembered the cruelty he had imposed on those who disagreed with his interpretation of the sacred, and the prideful imposition of his arbitrary liturgy that had ignited the war. But weighed in the scales of Divine Justice, how could any soul survive? Christ, have mercy on him.
Christ, have mercy on us all.
How empty the print shop feels without its chief workhorse, Caroline thought as she swept gray spider wool from the spot where the great press had crouched. She already missed the wooden giant they would no longer need to feed. It was mid-afternoon now, and Ben had gone with the buyer from the guild to help set it up in its new home, leaving her alone with her thoughts.
James had been gone only a week. It seemed an age. When she was not terrified that he would not return at all, she dreaded his return because he would demand an answer. And whatever answer she gave would surely change her life forever in ways she could not possibly foresee. How could she know what hazards, what hardships, waited beyond the waters? He was a man too driven by reckless impulse. How could she trust him? Right now, he was bewitched by a dream. She wished Roger Williams had never come into the print shop, spreading his contagious freedom talk. Freedom for what? Freedom to starve? Freedom to be killed by savages? Freedom to wrestle bare sustenance from raw, unyielding land and fickle seas?
She opened the door to sweep the broom’s gleanings into the dirty, stinking street, and tried to imagine what visions James Whittier conjured in his head: pristine snow on green trees, clear blue skies unsoiled by smoke from ten thousand coal fires. Birdsong instead of cannon fire. And every man master of his own land and household.
But she could not see what he saw. No clean air filled her lungs, just grit that made her cough. All she felt was the dagger-edged wind whistling down Fleet Street, empty now, the crowds, satiated with revenge, having gone home to sleep it off. All she smelled was the stench of the river. Shivering, she shut the door. Very probably, despite his earnest protestation of love, she was no more to James Whittier than a prop in his imaginary utopia. And when his golden dream turned out to be thinly gilded, would his love prove likewise of baser substance? She bent to retrieve a piece of straw that had broken away from the broom, threw it on the fire. It flared and was consumed. Like love too easily won, promises too easily made.
Yet, what could be worse than here, she wondered, remembering the morning’s horror. To remain in England without James meant meeting each new day’s struggle alone. Did not Scripture promise a new heaven and a new earth? Could there really be a new England? What sane person would not wish to abandon the old kingdom after having witnessed what she had seen this noon?
She had been coming home from the Smithfield market, exhausted from searching out a bit of stringy stew meat, when she turned toward Fleet Street. Just after eleven bells she noticed a growing crowd of people, striding purposefully toward Tower Hill. It was a hostile crowd. Something or someone had stirred a hornets’ nest. And then it occurred to her.
Today was the tenth day of January. Preoccupied with her own emotional turmoil, she had remembered too late the screaming headlines of last week’s news books. How could she have forgotten something so horrible to contemplate?
She paused only long enough to take two deep breaths and shift her bundle safely under her arm. If she hurried she could get safely home before the streets became too clogged. Peering anxiously as the pace of the mob quickened, she darted down an alley, thinking to avoid the main thoroughfare, only to discover the alley too was filling up, cutting off her exit. Angry voices assaulted her ears as, jostled by the growing mob, all headed in the same direction, she struggled against a surging tide. Too late. Her heart was seized with a cold dread. Trapped in a foul knot of humanity pressing in upon itself, she was carried along like a swimmer fighting a swirling current,
At the western edge of Tower Hill, the mob slowed to a standstill. Wedged between an ill-smelling tanner and a pair of stable boys, Caroline tried to get her breath. Neither they nor she could move for the press of people all around.
In the distance, Caroline caught only a glimpse of the small, bent stick of a man, slowly climbing the last steps he would ever climb. Oh God. Please. No.
Shouts erupted all around her as she shut her eyes, but she could not shut out the cries. �
��Laud. Laud. Laud. Give us his head. Give us his head.’ Raised fists pumped the air, around, behind, in front, as a chant rose up. ‘Cut off his papist head. His head. His head. Give us his head.’
The great mass of flesh inched forward. She could not breathe. But her companions had no trouble. Their chants and curses paused only when the Puritan chaplain, who towered over the condemned priest, lifted his powerful arms and thundered, ‘Silence. Let the condemned man speak.’
When the Archbishop stood to speak, she could not hear his fainter words from her great distance. Unfortunately, the platform was high enough that no man or object blocked her vision. As the old man lowered his head on the block, she lowered her head too, so that all she saw was brown earth being scarred and beaten beneath shuffling, stamping feet. But no matter how hard she pressed her hands against her ears, she could not stop the jeers and cheers of the crowd when the axe fell. A great moaning of bagpipes joined the chants and shouts as the bloody head was lifted high. For one flashing moment she thought this must be what Hell was like. Her throat closed against the burning that erupted from her stomach. Dizzy with horror, she fought to keep her balance as the crowd surged forward and around her. But, arms flailing, she held her footing, working her way backwards until she was on the outer fringe. From somewhere she found the strength to run. Somewhere along the way she had dropped the hard-won meat she was carrying; all that was left was a smear of blood that had leaked onto her sleeve.
She had not heard Ben come in. Nor did she have any memory of how long she had been sitting in the chair, rocking back and forth, thinking of nothing, watching the embers in the fireplace sputter and fall away, the only other sound the numbing rhythm of the rocker, back and forth, back and forth, solace in its repetition. Slowly she became aware of his voice, close to her ear, leaning over her.
‘Caroline, thank God, you are here. I have been looking everywhere for you. I came home too late to remind you against going out.’ Then, his voice catching on his breath, ‘Is that blood on your sleeve?’ He tilted her face toward him. ‘Talk to me, Caroline. You have a bruise on your cheek. Are you hurt?’
She touched her cheek. It felt warm and knobby. She flinched, finding her voice slowly. ‘Did you see, Ben? Did you see them cut off the Archbishop’s head?’
‘No. I was too busy looking for you. The last thing milord said when he left was for me to look after you.’ His voice broke then, ‘My father would have been so angry with me for not keeping you safe.’
She looked down at the rusty stains on her sleeve. ‘I was coming from the market. I lost the meat that was to be your supper.’
‘Never mind about that. You need to rest. Drink this. It will calm you.’ She took a swallow from the cup he was holding before her, scarcely feeling the burn in her throat. ‘Let me help you upstairs. It is over now. You are safe. Try not to think about it. I will bring you something to eat after you’ve rested.’
But she did not sleep. Each time fatigue claimed her, dreams and visions of the day jolted her from her dozing, and she felt the fear rising. She longed for William. The warmth of his body, his sturdy presence, was the kind of assurance she needed now. But when Caroline envisioned the man she missed, try as hard as she might, it was not William’s dear face she saw.
When the printers came to haul away the press, she was still awake. She waited until they were gone, and Ben with them, to go downstairs. Fatigue clouded her mind and slowed her steps. She picked up the broom and began to sweep. When Ben came back, she would need to help him set up his father’s bed. Soon to be his marriage bed. The banns for his wedding to Patience Trapford had already been read. They were planning to wed when James returned. When James returned, he would want an answer from her. For the hundredth time since he left, Caroline wondered what that answer would be?
She looked down at the pearl ring on her finger. She had given her wedding ring to Ben to give to his bride, telling him it had been his mother’s, insisting that his father would want him to have it. She knew he couldn’t afford one. But her finger felt naked without it, so she had put the pearl ring in its place. But it only reminded her of the opportunist and the thief who stole it. Suddenly unable to bear it, she slid it off her finger and placed it on the mantle.
‘William, tell me what to do,’ she murmured. William did not answer.
DREAMS AND ENDEAVORS
All great and honourable actions are accompanied with great difficulties and must be both enterprised and overcome with answerable courages … such attempts were not to be made and undertaken without good ground and reason, not rashly or lightly as many have done for curiositie or hope of gain.
From the Journal of William Bradford on the exiled Puritans in Holland and their decision to emigrate to New England in 1620
Mid-morning and already the girl was restless. Lucy watched as Princess Elizabeth stared out from the salon windows at the bleak landscape. The grey skies portended ill for another long day of trying to keep her happy. The nurse helped occupy Henry, and Carter – bless his soul – never complained as he went about his daily chores about the boy being underfoot. The long-suffering servant had contrived a miniature feather-duster for the young prince, who wielded it with more industry than result, sometimes teasing the lazy cat that slept beside the hearth until the cat, with Henry chasing after, indignantly walked away to hide behind a cupboard. Elizabeth’s occupation was harder won. Since their hurried flight from London, the girl had seemed unsettled, almost as though she had witnessed the dreadful scene from which Lucy had, by sheer good fortune, managed to spare her.
‘If Mistress Makin cannot come here, why can you not take me back to her house?’ The girl’s tone was demanding, as only a royal’s can be, but with a pinch of childish whine added for seasoning.
‘As I have explained before, Your Grace, it is not safe to travel just now. I thought you were engaged with reading the Hebrew Scriptures.’
‘But there are many words I cannot translate. I worry that I might lose what I have already learned if I do not have regular lessons.’
The almost panic in her voice was touching in an odd way. A young girl, with one parent in exile and the other under siege, a child whose world was literally threatened with falling apart, and she was most upset because she could not study with her favorite tutor? Or was she merely anxious without knowing why?
Lucy was no stranger to that kind of nagging anxiety. It first appeared after Wentworth’s death. Since John’s death, unease had become her closest companion, nudging her like a rapacious lover in the middle of the night, bludgeoning sleep until the day’s distractions brought relief. But the fact of the Archbishop’s death, even though Lucy had not witnessed his execution, increased her unwelcome companion’s constancy. The knowledge that Parliament could be so bold was chilling. Who was outside its reach? Certainly not an unprotected, childless widow.
‘I am indeed sorry to see you so distressed,’ Lucy said, hugging the child gently. ‘Why don’t you join Carter and Henry in the kitchen? I think Cook might have some marzipan biscuits.’ An ages-old distraction, she thought. But such treats were harder to come by these days.
‘May we go to the attic afterward to watch the deer foraging in Richmond Park?’
‘Henry has a snotty nose, and it is too cold in the attic today for you as well. Besides, the sky is so overcast you cannot see the deer from that distance.’
The girl looked as if she didn’t know whether to cry or protest. Lucy was thinking she couldn’t stand either when the idea occurred. ‘After you have had your biscuit and Henry has gone down for his nap, you and I will go to my chamber and each write a letter to your mother. Would you like that?’
Elizabeth eyes widened with interest. ‘But how shall we send them?’
‘Chancellor Hyde has a trusted friend at St James’s Palace. He once told me if we needed anything, I could send a message through him. Well, we need something. We need to write a letter to the Queen. The messenger from St James’s will delive
r it to Oxford, and the next time the chancellor goes to France, he will personally take our letters with him and place them in the Queen’s own hand.’
An inspired idea. Henrietta needed to hear from the children, needed to know too about the Archbishop’s execution so that she could consider what Parliament’s new boldness meant for her and her family. And Lucy needed to make sure her channel to Henrietta was still in good working order.
‘You should hurry, before Henry eats all the biscuits. Be sure to ask Cook for milk. It’s good for your bones.’
But the girl would not be hurried. ‘Shall I write in Latin? Maman’s Latin is very good. Though not as good as mine.’
Lucy couldn’t help but smile at this girlish pride. ‘French, I think,’ she said. ‘Your mother would like to know her daughter loves her native language. It will give her comfort in your absence. Besides, if you go to visit her in Paris before she returns, you will need the practice.’
The girl visibly brightened, whether at the prospect of pleasing her mother or the promise of exercise for her eager mind, Lucy couldn’t surmise.
Lucy’s spirit was also refreshed by the idea. It was a little thing, but action, any action, even small ones, helped to push back anxiety. Who knew where this insanity would end?
‘You had better hurry,’ she said, ‘before Henry licks all the marzipan off the biscuits.’ Then, to the girl’s retreating back, ‘Tell Carter I said for him to make time in his schedule to take a message to St James’s Palace on the morrow.’
But Elizabeth was scarcely out of sight before Lucy began to question whether it had been prudent to disclose her arrangement with Hyde. What if a delegation from Parliament should show up at her door? They never had, but now that John was gone, it suddenly might occur to some busybody to come nosing around. They would surely question the girl. Not only would learning of Lucy’s arrangement with the chancellor put Lucy under suspicion, it could endanger Carter as well.
Hoary-headed worry, her unwelcome companion, had not retreated into the shadows after all, it appeared. Where was the fearless young woman she had once been: The spirit of the girl who had fled the Tower to elope with an aging Scottish courtier; the spirit of the young woman who had stubbornly refused to worship in the Queen’s Catholic chapel, risking royal displeasure? But she had been young then and the world ripe with possibility. Pray God she would never have to flee the Tower again. She took a deep breath as a visible shudder passed through her body. It would not be so easy the second time.
A Far Horizon Page 24
