Forged in the Fire

by Ann Turnbull

  Where was he? I raged against him in my heart, remembering how he’d sent me away. I should have stayed, faced danger with him. Anything would have been better than this waiting.

  I was in the thick of such thoughts when I became aware of women’s voices calling my name. “Susanna Heywood? Hast seen Susanna Heywood?”

  I sprang up, my heart leaping. He was here! He was asking for me! All my fear and anger vanished in an instant. I ran back into the yard, where the voices came from – and stopped short in bitter disappointment. The man who stood there with his back to me was not Will.

  And now my alarm increased, for I saw that this man was not a homeless Londoner at all, but someone from outside that chaos: clean, well dressed, with an air of authority; a man of middle age who had travelled here with a servant and horses.

  My mouth went dry. He has come with bad news, I thought; I don’t want to hear it.

  Then the man turned towards me, and I saw that he was Will’s father.

  Henry Heywood looked at me, uncertainly at first, as if he was doubtful that he’d recognized me aright, and then he said, “Susanna … Heywood?”

  “Yes,” I said, trembling.

  He frowned. “Are you here alone? Where is my son?”

  So Will was not found? His father knew nothing? “I don’t know!” I exclaimed. “I hoped thou’d tell me! He said he’d come without fail last night but he never did, and I’ve waited here all morning and no news of him. I don’t know where he is!”

  To my shame I began to cry. The tears welled up and would not be stopped. I hated to be seen like this, by Henry Heywood of all people – this man before whom I’d always wanted to appear strong, certain, even defiant. And now I was sobbing like a child and conscious of my dirty, crumpled condition and how I must smell and what a foolish slut he must think me.

  I sniffed and wiped my eyes. I was surprised to see that he had come closer and his expression had changed to one of concern. “Please,” he begged, “please, my dear, don’t distress yourself. We’ll find him, never fear. Come…”

  He led me inside the farm kitchen and asked the maidservant for a chair for me and a glass of beer – for all the world as if it were his home and not a stranger’s. And the girl obeyed him.

  I sipped my beer and said, “I’m sorry. I’d hoped so much – when I heard my name called…”

  A silence fell between us, and I knew we were both thinking that we shared a name now, and I wondered how he felt about that.

  “Thou had my letter?” I ventured.

  “I did.”

  He looked at me, at my face and body, and I knew he was looking at my belly, and I said, “The child will be born at the end of January.”

  He nodded. “I read your letter many times. I did not know what to think of it, what to believe, what to do. I decided, at last, to go to London.”

  He sighed and shook his head. “This is a great catastrophe.”

  I did not know whether he meant the destruction of London or my marriage to his son, and so said nothing.

  He turned to me. “What was Will doing, yesterday? What caused you to separate?”

  I explained about the books. “He sent me away. I didn’t want to go.”

  “He was right to do so,” he said. And his tone told me that he thought it had been my duty to obey.

  I said, in a small voice, “All I want is to find him.”

  “And we will find him!” His voice was kind, reassuring, and I saw that he liked me better like this, tearful and womanly, as he saw it. “I’ll ride to Aldersgate; make enquiries. If he is out of the city, I’ll find him. I have my man with me; we’ll go together. But you” – he looked at me sternly – “you will wait here.”

  He sounded so confident, so sure of getting people to do his bidding and answer his questions, that I was reassured, and I warmed to him for the first time. It was comforting to be in the care of such a man.

  “We’ll go now,” he said, “while you rest and eat. I’ll tell the girl to fetch you something—”

  “No!” I cried. “Do not! There are many here in need – some sick, or with babes…”

  But he was up and away, summoning the maid as he left, and sending her off to fetch bread and bacon.

  He had not been gone five minutes, the maid not yet returned, when I heard from outside loud voices and exclamations – one of them the voice I’d been waiting for.

  “Will!”

  I jumped up, and ran outside. He was there, in the yard, he and his father standing a few paces apart. Each of them looked wary, as if unwilling to be the first to move closer.

  “Will!” I cried out again.

  He turned to me. I raced across the yard and into his arms, unmindful of folk around us looking on, and Will caught and hugged me and kissed me hard, and hugged me again, and then stood with my hand clasped in his, facing his father.

  William

  When I came into Sylvester Wharton’s yard and saw my father there, I was at first so astonished that I thought I must be mistaken, or having delusions. But I saw him recognize me. He shouted in surprise, and I cried out too, my voice cracking from the smoke in my lungs. I sprang towards him and then, remembering the coldness between us, fell back, uncertain what to do or say.

  Susanna, flying to my arms, spared me the decision. Now, with her hand in mine, I saw that my father’s expression was not hostile; indeed, he appeared to be on the brink of tears.

  “Will! My boy!” he said – and I let go Susanna’s hand and ran into his embrace, and we held each other close and wept.

  “It has been too long,” he said. “And the fault is mine. I should have written to you.”

  We broke apart, and I began to cough, hoarsely apologizing: “I’m covered in ash … dirty…”

  “No matter.” He held out a hand to Susanna, bringing the three of us together.

  “You must come to the inn,” he said. “You can’t sleep in the fields. I am lodged at the Angel. It’s not far, and I have horses.”

  “But, Father, how came thou here? At this time?” I asked, between fits of coughing. “What brought thee?”

  I saw him wince at my “thee” and “thou”, but he let them pass.

  “Your wife wrote to me.”

  “My wife…?” I turned to Susanna.

  She looked me in the eye, defiant. “I told your father of our marriage and asked him to forgive thee,” she said.

  “Thou wrote? And didn’t tell me?” I was astonished and a little annoyed – and I saw my father frown in disapproval.

  “I made up my mind to come,” he said. “Not to write first and arrange it, but to come and see…” – he paused, and glanced, embarrassed, at Susanna – “how the land lay. We reached Islington on Sunday afternoon, and heard reports of a big fire spreading on the river front, but we were in time to find room at the Angel before people began flooding out of the city.”

  “Thou did not enter the city?”

  “No. By Sunday night I knew that would be unwise. Instead, I looked for you in the fields. All day yesterday Ned and I were up and down the fields, making enquiries. We came across several groups of Quakers. Very civil, most of them, and willing to help – though coarse in their outward manner, as all those people are. This morning I was told there were more Quakers at Wharton’s Farm, so I came here – and found your wife.”

  He took Susanna’s arm – a gentlemanly gesture which startled her, I noticed with amusement. “You must come to the Angel,” he said. “You shall have my bed and I’ll sleep downstairs—”

  “No, Father!”

  “I insist! I have a large room. We may eat together in private. It’s a busy place, an excellent hostelry, warm, good food. You would not have your wife spend another night in the fields?”

  He was leading us towards the stables, where we found Ned waiting with the horses.

  I had not seen Ned for four years, and the sight of him reminded me sharply of home and the battles I’d had with my father, when I’d bee
n sent to eat in the kitchen with Ned and the other servants. We greeted each other warmly, and then Ned turned to my father. “Is it back to the inn, sir, now they are found?”

  “Let me fetch a few clothes,” I said.

  I went with Susanna to our store in the cart, and we took out clean linen and breeches, a skirt and bodice for Susanna, and her hat.

  We found Nat, who had melted into the crowd when he saw my father, and told him of our arrangements. We promised to meet soon. When we returned to the yard Ned offered his horse to us, but Susanna refused to ride, even as pillion.

  “I have scarce ever been on a horse before,” she said to me, “and I fear for the child now.”

  “We’ll walk,” I said.

  And so we walked, all of us, leading the horses.

  It was less than a mile to the inn. As we came into the yard Susanna and I brushed ourselves down. I was covered in a layer of ash and dust, the brim of my hat full of blackened fragments.

  “Thy face is scorched,” Susanna said. It felt sore. I hadn’t noticed until now.

  My father opened the door and a warm smell of hospitality wafted out: beer, roasting meat, new bread, rosemary, sage. I felt my appetite sharpen.

  Susanna hesitated, straightening her collar, tucking in ends of hair. “I am not fit to enter this place,” she whispered to me.

  But my father ushered her in. “Come. Come in, daughter. You look well enough.”

  It was a great pleasure to be in the well-furnished room my father had secured. There was a bed of dark carved wood, hung with patterned cloth in russet and blue, and a washstand with scented soap and clean linen cloths. In the window embrasure at the far end were a table and several chairs. I looked out of the window, which faced north over fields, the road to Islington winding between them. All along the road, travellers laden with their household goods were walking or riding, and still the fields were filling with people.

  Susanna and I were eager to wash, so we called for hot water, and took turns. While she was busy my father and I went downstairs, where we found the inn full – in great part with people who had fled the fire. We heard stories of loss all around.

  “There was no cart to be had. All will be burnt.”

  “The poor little dog ran off and could not be found…”

  “We hired a cart for forty pounds. They loaded up our goods – and we never saw them again. Paid forty pounds for the cart and all our goods stolen! We have nothing left…”

  My father and I found a bench in a quiet corner and drank beer and talked. We were to talk much over the next few days, but this was when I learned what Susanna had put in her letter and how it had brought my father to me.

  “I never thought to have had such a letter from a woman,” he said, pulling it out from under his jacket and showing it to me – though I could not see to read it since our corner was too dark. “She writes a fair hand, Will – very fair; Anne cannot write at all, and neither could your mother. But, you know, I don’t like a woman to be writing. You see what it leads to: a letter like this, sent without her husband’s knowledge… You must manage her better, Will.”

  “Father, Susanna and I had nothing but letters to sustain us for three years…”

  But he brushed this aside and went on. “When I saw it was from her I was minded to burn it. You know I had no love for her; I admit it freely. But curiosity got the better of me. When I read of your marriage I was angry, and when she claimed she was with child I thought: That whore has lured him into marriage—”

  “Father—”

  “No! Hear me out. I won’t mince words. I’d always mistrusted the wench; you know that. But then … she wrote of how much you missed your home, Will. And how she believed you and I should be reconciled. I have it here – you may read it yourself. There was a truth to it that touched my heart. I thought of your mother, and how she would have felt, knowing that I had broken with you. But then – I must tell you this, Will; do not be angry – a little doubt crept in, and I asked myself: Is the wench after my money—”

  “No!”

  “It came into my mind, Will. I thought: She has married him and now she means to get him back his inheritance. I talked about it with your mother – your stepmother – and she agreed I must go to London to see how things stood. Was the marriage legal? Could it be undone?”

  “It cannot! Will not! I am twenty-one and—”

  “I know that. Hear me out. I came here today, and met Susanna. Will” – he turned to me in a gesture of contrition – “Will, I saw at once that I was wrong, that I’d been wrong all along, that she loved you and had only your good at heart. She was not bold and scheming, as I remembered her. The poor girl was distraught – feared you were lost to her in this calamity…” He paused, and shook his head. “What will you do, Will? How will you live? She is carrying your child.”

  “We will find a way,” I said. “When we wait upon God in the silence—”

  “Oh, don’t talk to me of that!” he exclaimed. “God is all very well but it’s money you need, boy. Food in your bellies; a roof over your heads. Your lodgings are gone, I suppose?”

  “I believe so. And the shop may burn too. But the stock of books is safe. We worked all day to store everything in the crypt of Paul’s. No fire could get in there. We will rebuild the business.”

  I told him about Nicholas Barron and saw that he was shocked.

  “I thought to see your future there,” he said. “Well, you would have gone to another master. But I’m sorry for the man. To lose so much is a great blow.”

  The three of us ate together in my father’s room. There was a good spread of food: beef, a mutton pie, woodcock, bread and herbs. We paused a moment to give thanks before falling to.

  Susanna was somewhat subdued, I think because she felt herself to be an outsider in this reunion; but my father likes reticence in a woman, and I saw that he approved of her quietness. She was pretty, too, in her brown dress that matched her eyes, a few curls of hair damp on her neck. I saw that he was warming to her. He asked after her parents, and whether they missed her, and what trade her brother was in. He was at his most charming – but he could afford to be, I thought; he was away from his home town and his status as an alderman. Would he welcome her into the heart of his family in Hemsbury? He had said once that he never could.

  I asked after Anne, who was now seventeen. She was, he said, a dutiful child, pretty and accomplished, who should marry well in due course. He talked also of his business, which flourished; of his new apprentice; and he told stories that made us laugh about the foibles of some of his customers and suppliers. It all seemed familiar, and yet remote from my life now, and I wondered if I could ever truly regain my place in the family – or even whether I wished to.

  Later, as night fell, we went downstairs and out into the yard, where several dozen others were gathered, and from there gazed at the terrible sight of all London on fire. Flames seemed to be bursting through Aldersgate, and someone came running with news that Goldsmiths’ Hall was destroyed, and all of Foster Lane, and the fire was advancing on Paul’s.

  “Nothing can halt it,” the man said. “Christ Church and Newgate will be next. They’ll have moved the prisoners by now.”

  Newgate! I thought of that hated place, and rejoiced at the vision of fire consuming it. The straw would blaze, the lice pop and crackle; the iron shackles would melt. Flames would race up the stairways and into every cell, feeding on the grime-encrusted walls, the smoke-blackened ceilings, the plague rooms where my friends had suffered, the stocks and whipping posts. The whole structure would blaze from cellar to roof, and be cleansed.

  Perhaps, after all, the fire was from God.

  But those around us were talking of plots.

  “It’s the papists. A papist plot. They’re in league with the Dutch and French. No fire could spread so fast by accident. They planned it: strike out the water tower, the wharves; start fires here, there, all about. Confusion and chaos. Then invasion. We’ll hear
of invasion next, I tell you.”

  The talk washed over us. We were tired. Susanna went to bed, and I followed soon after. The landlord had somehow managed to find my father a small room on an upper floor, even though the inn was full; no doubt a servant or family member had been displaced.

  Susanna and I lay and talked.

  “Thy father has been kind,” she said. “I met him once in Hemsbury; I think I told you. I sensed the light in him then, and felt pity for him.”

  “He has taken to thee.” I would not tell her all his remarks about her letter, but I added, teasing, pulling her closer, “Though he thinks I should demand more obedience from thee.”

  We laughed and kissed.

  “Thou’rt not angry that I wrote to him?”

  “No. It has brought us together. But for him to arrive, now, with the city in flames! It is extraordinary that he found us.”

  “It is God’s work, I think.”

  Next morning, when we went outside, I felt a change.

  “The wind has dropped.”

  We looked at the city. The smoke pouring from it now rose straight up and formed a dense black cloud above.

  This will help, I thought: the wind no longer fanning the fire. It seemed to me more than ever that I saw God’s hand in these events. The fierce east wind had arisen on the night the fire started, and now that the entire city had burnt it had dropped.

  The explosions continued. News came that Paul’s had blazed all night. I thought of the books, sealed in the crypt of Faith’s. The fire would not reach them there, no matter how hot it became.

  We stayed several nights with my father at the Angel. The fire at last ceased to spread, and we saw the leaping flames die to a red glow and then to a view of blackened walls and ruined buildings. Few dared go back at first. Those who did reported stones too hot to walk on, fires still burning in crypts and cellars.