Havoc, in Its Third Year: A Novel

by Ronan Bennett

  “Pay them no mind,” Brigge said. Starman mumbled that he would not and pulled down his hat. Brigge glimpsed in his lashless, stricken eyes the utter depths of his shame.

  Brigge led him out of the way to a table by the back wall of the room. He looked over the men, searching for Quirke. Many—the women as well as the men—wore the blue ribbons of Savile’s partisans. Some cursed Challoner and the men who governed the town for their oppressions and taxes. Others discoursed on the swarm of outsiders who came to settle in the town and had but to ask for doles but were given them, while those born here, and whose fathers were born here, were neglected and disparaged. One man spoke of the diseases lately found in the neighbors’ sheep and another of how if it did not rain soon their crops would wither, for the weather was remarkable for its unseasonableness of heat after so bitter a winter, at which there was much nodding and spitting and reminiscence of previous hard years of hunger and want.

  Brigge turned to see a man come through the curtain that separated this room from the next. It was Quirke. He went to a bench where men sat by a fire roasting a side of pork. Quirke brought them wooden cans and blackjacks and sat to join their company as one cut meat from the roasting and passed portions of it around his friends.

  “There is the man we have come to see,” Brigge said to Starman.

  Brigge did not get up but was content to watch his quarry. He saw a pair far gone in drink approach the alehouse-keeper to ask for use of a room and saw Quirke nod as they stumbled to the stairs, the alehouse-keeper’s companions noisily offering the woman to perform whatever duties were required of them should her lover be not a good doer for the drink he had taken. On their going there was raucous laughter, mockery and coarse mime.

  It was then Quirke became aware that someone was taking interest in him. He looked Brigge in the face. He was puzzled but gave no sign that he recognized him. Brigge did not move. Quirke whispered to his friends who, one by one, looked over. Still Brigge did not move but gazed at him steadily. Quirke attempted to compose himself, pretending to ignore Brigge. But after some minutes, with Brigge’s stare yet upon him, he set his jaw and got to his feet and approached with one of his companions.

  “I know you,” Quirke said on coming up. He became agitated.

  “Sit down,” Brigge commanded him.

  Quirke did not move but looked uncertainly at his friend.

  “Do as I say,” Brigge said.

  “Stay where you are,” Quirke’s friend advised him. “This papist has no power to order you. He has been dismissed from among the governors.”

  “Sit down. You can choose to talk to me here or be brought directly to the Master where you shall answer for your deception of me,” Brigge said. “It is your decision.”

  Quirke turned to his companion and dismissed him with a nod. The man hesitated, then went to rejoin his friends at the fire. Quirke sat across the table from Brigge and Starman.

  “Where is Susana Horton?” Brigge said. “Do not lie to me as you did during the inquisition.”

  Starman tugged at Brigge’s sleeve and, nodding, indicated that the one who had come over with Quirke was making his way to the door, doubtless to summon the watch or the constable.

  “Let him be,” Brigge said; then, turning to Quirke, said, “She was never in Burnsall as you alleged. I went there in search of her. Now tell me where she is.”

  Quirke had begun to sweat. His hands moved restlessly over his face; he rubbed his temples and put his fingers together again.

  “Be quick in your answer,” Brigge said, “or I swear you shall regret it.”

  “She is not here.”

  “Where is she?”

  “She is in Langfield at the house of her aunt.” Under Brigge’s disbelieving stare Quirke swore he was telling the truth.

  “Why did you say she was in Burnsall? Why did you lie?”

  Quirke glanced nervously at the door. “She pleaded with me not to reveal where she was.”

  “Why?”

  “I do not know.”

  “Why?”

  “I swear I do not know.”

  “You are a rogue and a liar. Tell me why you said on your oath she had gone to Burnsall. Answer me!”

  “She was afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  Quirke shook his head, unwilling to say more. Silence had fallen over the room, the tipplers entranced and amazed by what they saw.

  “Do not play with me, Quirke. Answer me,” Brigge shouted.

  “No!” Quirke said, rising to his feet and backing across the room. “You have no authority over me,” he muttered.

  Quirke turned and hurried through the curtain. Starman rose to follow him, but Brigge put out his hand to delay him.

  “We will learn nothing more from him,” Brigge said. “We must go to Langfield at once.”

  Some of the tipplers were already on their feet, ready to do violence. Brigge showed them the hilt of his sword to leave them in no doubts he would defend himself. And so he and Starman exited out of the alehouse without they were molested.

  On mounting their horses they heard a great commotion of shouts and excitement which they assumed to be the watch coming to apprehend them. They set off as quickly as they could through the darkness, retracing their steps through the passage and across the river.

  They followed a bridleway by the side of the river, picking their way carefully, for the moon was in its first quarter and there were clouds in the night sky. Arriving at Langfield before it was light, they tended the horses, then rested and slept. At first light Brigge woke Starman from his heavy sleep.

  “Now we will see if Quirke was telling the truth,” Brigge said as he mounted his horse.

  Brigge sensed that the journey he had set out on when Scaife came to the Winters that freezing day to summon him to the town was at last nearing its end.

  THEY CAME TO a wooden bridge where, below, some maids were digging pignuts by the river’s side. Brigge watched them awhile, then, leaving Starman on the bridge, descended to be among them. Coming into their midst, he hailed them and asked if they knew of one Susana Horton. The girls turned to one working among them. Brigge supposed her age to be sixteen or seventeen. Her open fair face was streaked with sweat and her brown hair was loosened under her coif.

  Brigge came down from his mare. “Susana?” he asked gently.

  “Have you come from the town, sir?” the girl said, her voice small and uncertain.

  “Yes,” Brigge said.

  To Brigge’s surprise she broke into a smile. Her teeth were white and her eyes were very blue.

  “He promised he would send for me but did not say how long I should have to wait,” she said, her voice growing joyous, “and with so many weeks passing, I did not dare believe he would keep his word.”

  “He is not a man to forget his word,” Brigge said carefully, summoning a thin smile to his lips.

  “I never doubted him, sir,” she said earnestly, as though made anxious by her earlier words. “Do we go directly?”

  “As soon as you are ready,” Brigge said.

  Again she smiled a great smile of contentment, as though her prayers had been answered, but then a look of concern came into her features.

  “I must first go to Anna my aunt to tell her. She lives in that house,” she said, pointing across the river to a dwelling on the far side.

  Brigge nodded; he began to feel pity for the girl. She wiped her forehead, then wiped her palms on her petticoat. She ran to say farewell to her friends, which she did with kisses and embraces like one who, having come into sudden great fortune, was leaving a poorer place for a better one.

  Brigge went up to where Starman waited, trying to think how he might continue to dissemble himself to Susana that she would reveal what he wanted to know.

  “She thinks we have been sent by one she knows and has affection for to fetch her back to him,” he explained quickly to Starman.

  “Who?” Starman asked.

  “That is wh
at we must discover.”

  Her leave-taking done, Susana came up to the bridge. She flinched at seeing Starman.

  “He will be overjoyed to see you again,” Brigge said to distract her suspicions.

  “Did he say so?”

  “Often.”

  She let out a little laugh of happiness and skipped along.

  “He regrets he could not come himself to fetch you,” Brigge continued.

  The look she gave him told Brigge she was beginning to have doubts and that he should tread carefully.

  “What is your name, sir?” she asked.

  “Brigge,” he said.

  “I have not seen you before in the town.”

  “I live at some distance from the town and am not frequently there.”

  “Where do you take me now?” she asked.

  “Why, to him,” Brigge replied with a warm smile.

  Susana bit her lip and looked down at the broad river and the twisted waters boiling over the rocks. She said nothing more until they reached the other side of the bridge.

  “Anna will be at her neighbor’s, Mrs. Scargill,” she said, indicating a house in the street ahead of them. “I will fetch her and return presently.”

  “We will wait for you here,” Brigge said.

  Susana left them and walked on.

  “She suspects you, sir,” Starman whispered.

  Susana turned her head to look at them. She was young, little more than a child, but her instincts were sharp and she was not deceived by Brigge. She saw from his face that he had given up all pretense of being her friend. She broke into a run. Brigge hurried after her and easily overtook her. She began to cry.

  “Who is he?” Brigge said, holding her by the upper arm. “What is his name?”

  She would only cry and wail. People came out from their houses to see what was the commotion and what man this was that assaulted a child.

  “I am John Brigge,” Brigge said. “I have come to take Susana Horton to give evidence at an inquisition into the death of a newborn infant.”

  Susana let out a great scream and would have fallen faint to the ground had Brigge not caught her. He carried her to her aunt’s house and, setting Susana in a chair in the parlor, found the said aunt, Anna, inside at her knitting. He told her who he was and what he had come for. “What is the name of the one Susana has been waiting for?” he demanded.

  “I do not know, sir,” Anna said. “I swear I do not. She never said his name and would never say it. I know nothing of him except that my poor niece claims him to be a gentleman that is very kind and loving to her.”

  “Has she received letters from him, tokens of any sort?”

  “No, sir. And since she had no proofs of him, I would tease her and say there was no such man. But she was adamant there was and would rebuke my scoffs.”

  Brigge looked to Starman, triumph in his eyes. Who else could the gentleman be but Doliffe. Brigge felt light and free. His suspicion had been justified. He and his family would be saved.

  SUSANA CALLED ON heaven to forgive her. Her aunt tried to be a comfort to her, embracing her and encouraging her as best she could, but Susana cried bitterly and begged that Brigge not have her hanged, for she was used and deceived by others and did what they told her because they knew better than she, but who these persons were she would not say and crumpled into tears and frenzy whenever Brigge pressed her.

  Brigge waited until her sobs had subsided and she was whimpering in her aunt’s arms. “How long were you serving in Quirke’s house at the sign of the Painted Hand?” he asked.

  The girl sniveled and chanced a look at him. He made his eyes gentle for her. “I went there at harvest last past,” she said in a voice so quiet Brigge was scarce able to hear.

  “Were you there when the Irishwoman, Katherine Shay, came to the house?” She gave a small, reluctant nod. “Do you remember the said Katherine,” Brigge said in the same patient manner, “how she was?” Again Susana nodded. “Did you see that she was great with child?”

  Susana neither spoke nor moved. “You must answer me,” Brigge said. “Katherine was pregnant, was she not?”

  Susana remained silent for so long that Brigge had given up hopes of her answer and was about to be strict with her and threaten her for her lies. Seeing the change in his demeanor, she said suddenly, “No, sir.”

  “She was not pregnant? You are certain?”

  “She was not with child,” she said, and began to screech again, pleading to know from her aunt if ever she would have forgiveness of God, her sin being so wicked.

  “You must be truthful with me,” Brigge said. “If you are false, it will go badly with you. Do you understand?” Susana sobbed loudly. “You had opportunity to see her clearly?”

  Brigge had to repeat the question twice more before she could be brought to answer. “She was never with child when she was there at the Painted Hand,” Susana sniveled.

  “Do you know that Katherine Shay stands accused of murdering her child?” Susana whimpered that she did. “The child that you yourself found in a cupboard in the room where Katherine lodged?”

  At this the girl went into convulsions and hysterical passions, and it was all her aunt could do to calm her.

  “Who sent you away from the town?” Brigge said. “What is his name?” Susana begged him with violent and incoherent pleas not to press her but to leave her be. “Why did he send you away?” Brigge said. “Tell me, child. I promise you will come to no harm by him.” She buried her face in her aunt’s breast. “If you will not tell me now what I wish to know, I must have you carried back to the town where you will be compelled to answer me.”

  Susana flew into a passionate rage. She careered about the room, her eyes rolling. When Brigge attempted to touch her, she sprang at him to scratch at him and tear his hair and cursed him for a dog and a knave that was trying to murder her by his questions, and even her aunt, when she went to Susana to soothe her, received a stroke that made her nose bloody. Brigge took hold of the girl from behind and pinned her arms to her sides. She was neither thin nor plump; he felt her round high haunches in his groins. She fell forward, screaming at him to leave her, and so he gave her wish and left her to lie on the floor like a child in a fury.

  “The child was yours, Susana,” Brigge said, “was it not?” Anna looked up at him as though he were a devil. “It is true,” Brigge said. “The child was hers.”

  Anna put her hands to her niece’s face to hold her fast so she might look in her eyes. “Is this true, Susana?” she said.

  Susana, her nose and mouth shiny with mucus and spit, her eyes red and wretched, cried that it was.

  “Who was the father?” Brigge asked.

  Susana shook her head, still in the grip of her aunt’s hands.

  “Tell me his name.” Susana wailed that she would not tell him, and when he pressed her further, she seemed then to go into a fit, her whole body convulsed by tremors and gagging and choking at the mouth.

  “His name is Doliffe,” Brigge said loudly so she would hear his voice above her own screams. “The father of your child was Richard Doliffe, is that not true?”

  Susana became suddenly quiet. She rubbed her red nose with her hand and sniffed. She wiped her eyes and became strangely calm.

  “I know the truth of it, child,” Brigge said. “Richard Doliffe, the constable of the town, got you with child, did he not?” Susana continued in her silence. “Did he come to you when the child was born?” Brigge waited for Susana to respond, but she said nothing.

  Brigge sent Anna and Starman out of the room so he might be alone with her, the better to coax her to the truth. “Did he come to you at the Painted Hand?” he asked her gently when the others were gone. “Tell me and I will do all in my power to keep you from harm. Did Richard Doliffe come to you at the Painted Hand?”

  She nodded her head a fraction.

  “It was Doliffe who came?” Brigge said, his heart pounding in his breast.

  “Yes,” Susana s
aid; her voice carried it in tones of childish but vehement bitterness.

  “The child was his?”

  “He was the one who misused me and got me with child.”

  “What happened when he came to you that night?” Susana seemed uncertain what to say. Brigge prompted her, “Were you abed?”

  “Yes.”

  “With the child?”

  She nodded her head.

  “The child was alive?” She drew her upper lip into her mouth and sucked on it. Brigge said, “Susana, was the child living?”

  She nodded her head again.

  “What did Doliffe do?” She glanced uncertainly at him. “Tell me what he did.”

  Her eyes darted around the room.

  “Susana,” Brigge said in his kindest voice, “you know you must tell me what he did.”

  “He lifted my child from my arms,” she began.

  “Yes.”

  “And, laying it on a chair, covered its face with a pillow.”

  “He killed the child?”

  She nodded. “I begged him not to do so wicked a thing and cried for help but no one came, and when I saw what he had done, I fell into a faint and never saw the child again.”

  “Is this the truth?” Brigge asked.

  “It is God’s truth,” she said.

  BRIGGE CALLED ANNA in again and told her to make her niece ready to journey to the town, then summoned the constable from his fields and directed him to keep guard over Susana.

  Brigge had great need to take the air and move about and settle his agitated spirits. All would be well, all would be well. He trembled as he crossed the bridge with Starman.

  “What will you do now?” Starman asked.

  “We will take Susana directly to the Master and have her sworn and repeat before him what she has confessed,” Brigge said. He could not conceal the delight he felt in the imminent downfall of his enemy. “Doliffe is destroyed,” he said. “No one will believe him once he is revealed as a murderer. No accusation he makes against me or my family shall stand.”