by Smith, Skye
"He was enraged that he was not allowed to do his job. Black or white. He was elected to represent Huntingdon, all the folk there, whether they voted for him or not, whether he agreed with them or not. He was their messenger to government and he was obliged to make their case. When he spoke out for the cottagers against the enclosures, he was dragged in front of the Privy Council. He was enraged that the Council treated him like the leader of the cottagers rather than just their messenger, and they were enraged enough to ruin him with fines."
Blah, blah, blah, she went on about how they had to flee the town and scrape a living from a farm in Saint Ives that had been bought for them by the Montagues. Those were dark days, hard days, endless days. Her Ollie had bounced from religious sect to religious sect. Once he had almost joined the Brownists, which would have meant moving to their colony in Plymouth, Massachusetts. Another time he had almost joined the Mennonites, which would have meant pledging everything they owned to the community.
"Aye,” he interrupted hoping to shorten her rant, "that was when he realized that the underlying problem of any farming community was that without a public common, a small farmer cannot make a go of it. You proved that on your farm because the village common was already enclosed. With no common you had no place to graze your animals, or cut wood or peat, or draw water in the dry season, or fish or hunt."
"Exactly, and the religious communes were trying to create new commons," she replied. "but meanwhile I still needed milk for my children. Oh, how I hated being a farm wife. I am a city girl from Cripplegate in London, and from a wealthy family. Ollie had sunk so low. We were so desperate."
Daniel tried to hurry her rant by showing that he already knew all this. "And then Oliver's uncle took ill so you moved here to help him do his work as tithe collector, and when he died the Abbey offered Oliver the position, rather than to his cousin."
"Well, poor Willie has always been a bit touched." Everyone in Ely knew Willie. He was the duckherd who moved his flock from garden to garden to eat the slugs. A gentle man, but as thick as a post. "But now, that sodding husband of mine has become the Member of Parliament for Cambridge, and he is up to his old tricks again. He is being the best representative that he can be, and these days that means speaking out against the king." She sobbed, "and I fear he will say too much and be punished again. And you and Cleff fill his head with wild ideas."
"Because I tell him about the Republics of the Netherlands, and Cleff tells him about the ancient traditions of the Fens, and the customary laws."
"There is a dangerous side to him." Her breath hitched on a sigh. "A side that isn't satisfied with collecting tithes for the Abbey and raising children. A side that isn't satisfied with the king. A side that thinks it's wrong to privatize land that is better left public for all times. If I didn't love him so much I would leave him and take the children to live with my parents in London."
"Love, you can't blame Oliver for wanting to make things better for all. Times are getting harder for the folk because of the short summers and cold winters. It will be very cold in London this winter. Even the king will have a hard winter."
"It is not the king that worries me, but his Star Chamber. A dozen years ago when they ruined us, the Privy Council warned Ollie that next time he would be judged by the Star Chamber. Do you know what that means? They can charge you with treason and you are not allowed to defend yourself. Ollie is keeping the company of republicans, but he himself is a democrat."
"You've lost me there, love. Aren't all democrats republicans? Aren't they two words for the same thing?"
She looked at him with disdain. Why did this otherwise intelligent man resist book learning? "All democrats are republicans but not all republicans are democrats. Anyone who wants an elected king for a term rather than an inherited king for life is a republican. Most of the House of Commons are now republicans, but they are mostly wealthy men from wealthy families. T'were it left to them, only the wealthy of the kingdom would have a vote to choose the king. A democrat wants everyone to have such a vote, rich or poor, aristocrat or commoner."
"They sound much the same to me, and both better than what we have now."
Again the look of disdain. "Don't you see that with one the folk work for the king, while with the other the king works for the folk?"
Daniel sighed. This discussion could go on forever. "Do you have anything to drink, love? I'm a bit parched."
Elizabeth felt so much better having gotten all that off her chest. She picked up the basket of beans and led him to the kitchen shed, pausing briefly while she checked the renderings of her slowly boiling soup pot. Satisfied, she led him into the only room in the house that could fit all of her family at once... the kitchen-dining room. Putting the basket down on the table she asked, "Was Bridget in Wellenhay?" Bridget was her mule-headed teenage daughter, whose best friend was the girl Teesa, of Daniel's village.
"She is teaching Teesa to read. Umm, they are practicing with some play by Shakespeare. A comedy, so not the play 'Rome and July'. They did tell me the name. Oh, ... 'A Midsummer Night's Dream'. Is that one of his?"
"Teesa should be taught to read from the Bible!" Before the words could leave her mouth she had her first hard laugh in a week. Just the thought of Bridget and that amazon huntress, Teesa, reading that play … of all plays … while floating in Teesa's punt somewhere misty and mystical that only clanswomen like Teesa would know had her going again. Was that life imitating art or art imitating life? Teesa would have to explain all the naughty bits to her daughter, because Bridget hated boys.
Elizabeth had a sudden worry and spoke again, but her words became mixed up with her thoughts. She had meant to ask a question about Teesa but she said 'Bridget' instead. "Do you think that Bridget is still a virgin?" She blushed as soon as she realized it, but did not correct the name, for his answer might prove interesting.
Bridget frequently slept over with Teesa in Wellenhay, and Wellenhay was village known for its strong-headed women. Since their men were at sea for months at a time, it was the women who ran the village. For this reason, the line of inheritance still passed through the eldest daughter in the ancient way. The clanswomen therefore had a sexual morality that was very different from the morality forced upon Puritan women by their men.
Daniel didn't know what to answer or even if he should. He stalled while he thought about it. He suspected that Teesa would have seduced Bridget's little brother Richard, just to get that over with, but what about Bridget? Better to say nothing and change the subject.
Though he had left his carpet bag outside by the shed, he couldn't leave his pistols out there, not with children about. Now he took his time draping the gun leathers over the chair with the tall back. As he turned to do this, he ran his eyes along the shelves of the room searching for a jug of spirits.
Elizabeth glanced with disgust at his pistols, so carelessly hung over her best dining chair. Daniel saw her face and decided not to beg a dram of Oliver's whiskey after all. As an aging mother of eight, she would have a puritanical hatred of strong drink, weapons, and most of all, drunks carrying weapons.
"Betty, you are a woman of letters. In Scotland I learned a new word for when a people kill their own king. Regicide. What is the word for when a king kills his own people?"
She forgave him his use of her pet name. He was handsome enough to forgive him almost anything. "I don't know. We could form a word in the Latin way, like 'Citizencide'? No, too singular. 'Publicide'? No, not that, not unless he hates innkeepers." She smiled at her own wit. "What about Politicide?" The very saying of the word made her face age. "Why? What did you hear in Scotland? Is my Ollie in danger?"
"Shouldn't think so,” he said in a calming tone, "so long as he stays clear of Pym and his rabble rousers."
"But he is with Pym now, at a rally in Cambridge."
He stood, turned, and threw his gun leathers over his shoulder as he strode out of the back door and into the sunshine. "I'm borrowing a horse."
She dropped to her knees to beseech the Lord, but instead she sniffed up her tears and called after the tall pistoleer, "Oh please Daniel, keep my Ollie safe!"
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Daniel rode hard until he reached the George Inn, the first Inn in Cambridge as you approached it on the River Cam from Ely. The innkeep, Will, was a good friend to Wellenhay, because his wife Tara was a clanswoman. As he tied up his borrowed horse he instinctively scanned the garden to see who was here, hoping to see Oliver. There was only one group. Three students from one of the colleges were completely fixated on a ravishing alewench. She was Britta, Teesa's older sister. She would be all of nineteen by now and still hoping to make a husband out of a rich student.
Daniel walked by her carrying his leathers and his carpet bag but instead of speaking to her, he just tapped the side of his nose with his index finger. "Oops,” he heard her tell the adoring students, "customer. I must get back to work." The clip-clop of her wooden clogs followed him into the inn and up to the front desk. Once there, he hooked his leathers over a peg and threw his carpet bag onto a bench. It was a good thing that he emptied his hands because a moment later they were overfilled with wriggling girl.
"Welcome back,” she whispered into his ear as she kissed his cheek. When she released his neck she purposefully slid her chest down his and then squeezed one of his thighs between hers.
"Behave yourself. You risk your reputation doing such things in public."
"Who me? Do you know what the students now call me? The angel of all virgins. It's so unfair."
"Unfair? Any other alewench would be pleased by the name. Think of what else the men call them."
"Well," she said in a sultry, teasing voice, "I do tell everyone that I am saving my honor for my future husband."
"And they believe you?"
"If I want to bed a man, I will do it far away from Cambridge. If I am seduced even once in this town, my reputation will be shattered, and with it my hopes of a rich young husband." She pulled a book out from under the desk and flipped it open to today's page. "If you need a room we have only one left. Number Six."
"Your worst room for your favourite uncle?" In truth he shared no blood with the girl. Even though her mother Venka had been his older brother's wife, both of her daughters had been flower girls at their wedding.
"We've been full all week,” Britta repeated to pull him back from his thoughts. "There is a big political rally this afternoon and some of the members of parliament are staying here."
"Oliver?" he asked hopefully.
"Mr. Cromwell? No room in his name, though he has been dining here with them. He could be bunking with someone else. Since he is the local member he could be staying at the college where the rally is to be held." She swung her hips to roll around him and then skipped to the garden door to yell at her admirers. "Oye, you lot! Where is the rally this afternoon? Oh, good. Thanks!" She danced back to him making sure her cleavage gave his eyes a treat. "Sidney Sussex College."
That made sense. That had been Oliver's college. "Is there a John Pym staying here?"
"Why yes, it was he who rented most of our rooms,” She handed him the key to room six. "I don't know the names of the other members who are staying here because no one else but Pym is registered. Pym's valet keeps that all straight. His name is Trevor. Do you want me to find him for you? He's a bit sweet on me."
"Everyone is a bit sweet on you, love. That is why you are still not married. None of your suitors thinks they are good enough for you. It's the same reason that no lad asks you to dance with them at the summer faire. You are always the prettiest girl at the faire, and yet you are always left dancing with the girls." He immediately regretted his words. Young pretty girls did not want to hear a brutal truth about themselves. She lost her smile and without another word she turned away and left him standing there alone.
He cursed him self under his breath. "Well, that went well. Fool!" It was not easy being responsible for four comely women. Worse still, that they were two sets of sisters aged 16, 19, 36 and 40. Worse still, since the village had lost a third of its men in one ship's disaster. There was no hope of any woman becoming his first wife, his actual wife, with four other comely women already sharing his life.
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The Pistoleer - Slavers by Skye Smith Copyright 2013-14
Chapter 10 - A rally at Cambridge in September 1640
At Sidney Sussex College, Pym's rally had spilled out of Hall Court and onto the street. Daniel was six inches taller than most men in the crowd and his navy blue Spanish cavalry officer's hat made him seem even taller. The hat matched his fine navy blue cloak, which he had worn mostly because it hid well the pistols he was carrying, his double-barreled dragon and his small wheel-lock.
Each of the very different, very expensive pistols had been a gift from different men as a thank you. The ornate dragon had been a gift from Alex Leslie for helping him to keep the ford over the Tweed River against overwhelming odds. The wheel-lock had been a gift from the parliamentarian Henry Martin for saving his wife from highwaymen.
Despite his height and hat and swagger there seemed to be no easy way through the thick mob to reach the gate into Hall Court. Pushing was not going to see him through, at least not until the crowd thinned. That would take too long.. "Make way," he called out to some students directly in front of him. "Make way. I have urgent news from Newcastle for Mr. Pym." Luckily a student who looked far too young to be in college took up his call, and slowly but surely he was allowed through to the gate.
Once into the actual Court, it became even more difficult to move. He had always hated the crush of crowds, or was it a fear, like the fear of small spaces. Instead of moving forward into the crush, he pushed to the side until his back was against the brick wall of the college. There he took some deep breaths to restore his calm. He had never been in this college's grounds before, so while he was composing himself he took a good gander around.
Unlike the more famous ancient colleges, this building was not built from stone in the way of Latin masons. It was a modern brick building, perhaps twenty years old. He remembered Oliver saying that he had been one of its first students. Although it was not awe-inspiring as was, say, King's College , it would be clean, efficient and warm.
Hall Court and the smaller Chapel Court were separated from the street by a high brick wall. A large E shaped brick building formed the other three sides of each Court. This meant that there were many windows with views of this court. Windows that would brighten every room.
From here, he could not see all of the windows, but those he could see, he scanned for any that were open or suspicious-looking. Suspicious as in having a gun muzzle pointed out of them. It was not a relief that he did not see anything suspicious, because from here he could not see the windows of the wall he was leaning against. To see them he would have to push his way out into the crowd and then look back.
He had no desire to be blocked in by such a crowd of young men, so instead he moved sideways along the wall to get further away from the madness near the gate and closer towards the raised platform at the head of the court on which Pym was standing. Only twice did his grand floppy hat brush against another head, so only twice did he come eye to eye with men near his own height. Once closer he recognized two other members of parliament standing with Pym; John Hampden his wordsmith, and Arthur Haselrig his strategist.
Eventually he rounded the inside corner of the court and thus was less than half the width of the Court from the platform. Now he had a better view of the windows he had not yet checked. Nothing suspicious, so he turned towards the speaker's platform. He recognized some of the members standing on it with Pym, but Oliver was not there. Good, one less target to worry about. The one target he didn't want to worry about. He leaned back against the wall and went still so that he could listen. Once, in front of Lollards Tower in London, he had watched Pym take control of a mob using just his fine voice and his simple words.
Within ten minutes he realized that this time it was different. This was not a mob of apprentices that Pym was speaking to, but a gaggle of intellectuals. College students, lecturers, lawyers, in short ... debaters. Pym's well thought out sayings, which would have been chanted back to him by any mob of workers, were instead were being torn apart by debaters who were treating them as a challenge. In other words, Pym was quickly losing the approval of this gaggle, if indeed he had ever gained it.
Just by watching the faces and the body language of the other men sharing the platform, you could tell that the eloquent parliamentarian was in trouble. Word trouble. Logic trouble. His political statements rang clean and true, but the audience was more interested in playing games with his words. It was when Pym began to criticize the king for sending an English army and an Irish army to attack Scotland, and thus break the peace treaty that he had signed just six months ago, that the volume rose, and dozens of voices began shouting at him. In the uproar no one could hear him.
There were some well-dressed, very well-dressed, students and masters between Daniel and the platform, and they were yelling over Pym's words by calling out things like, "You are a traitor! Our army has been crushed by the Scots because men like you undermined it. How many good Englishmen died because of you? Traitor, traitor!"
Anyone on the platform could have easily rebutted such nonsense, except that no one would have heard the rebuttal. Every time they tried to speak out they were shouted down by this same well-dressed group. Daniel began to search their faces to see if he recognized any of them. The group seemed to be a mix of two types … there were crow-like college masters with their expensively-groomed students, and six or eight hard-looking older men with dirty faces wearing heavy, well-used cloaks.
