GLENMERE PRESS • WARWICK, NEW YORK
ANNE OF THE FENS
Copyright © 2015 by Gretchen Gibbs
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from Glenmere Press, [email protected], except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This is a work of fiction and is produced from the author’s imagination. People, places, and events mentioned, while based on historical records, are used in a fictional manner.
ISBN eBook edition: 978-0-9852948-7-8
Photographs by Diane Pell Photographer and Stephen Almond Photography
Cover design: Robin Ludwig Design Inc.
GLENMERE PRESS
WARWICK, NEW YORK
CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Afterword
About the Author
More in the Series
Praise for The Book of Maggie Bradstreet
Praise for Anne of the Fens
CHAPTER ONE
May 1627 – Lincolnshire, England, town of Boston
I LOOKED AROUND and saw a splash of green disappearing around the dark corner of the church, in the direction of the market square.
“I’ll catch her,” I shouted to the rest of my family as they filed into St. Botolph’s.
Confound my little sister! I ran after her, wishing I were not dressed for Sunday services in a skirt that stood out to make me twice my usual width. I was nearing the corner of our huge church when I stubbed my toe on the cobblestones. I swore under my breath then hurried on, Sarah lost to sight.
Last night, Father had carried on at dinner, calling the May Fair a sinful nest of rogues and scalliwags who dishonored the holy day, stuffed their faces with roasted meats and sweets, listened to lewd plays, picked pockets, and assaulted young women.
I knew that Sarah had heard nothing about the dangers, only the sweets. I would find her at the booths that sold anything sugared. How did I know her so well? Mother had chosen the right person to mind her — I cared nothing about the confections, but I wanted to see the dancing and the plays. I wanted to see the young men. How would they look at me in my beautiful blue Sunday gown? The only men I got to see were in church, dressed in black and thinking holy thoughts. I wished I could keep my own thoughts more holy.
I ROUNDED THE corner and stopped in horror, choking from the smell of people, sheep, horses, goats, pigs, cattle and chickens. The square was packed so full that nothing could move. I could not see Sarah nor push into the fair at all. There were hundreds of sheep in front of me, and I kicked one in frustration. It bleated, moving only a little. Sarah, smaller than I, would be trampled if she tried to move among them.
I would have to force my way through the flock and hope I would not encounter their owner. It was at least safer than trying to get through crowds of men who might attack me.
As I neared the last of the sheep, a whirl of greasy smoke signaled the meat vendors. Perhaps the sweet stands were nearby. It was the barley sugar drops that would call to Sarah. I found the meat vendor, where men stood about gnawing on huge ribs of beef or turkey drumsticks. I could spy barley sugar in the next stand, and swarms of people, but no Sarah. Had she made her purchase and gone? I pushed to the front of the line, in spite of the curses thrown at me, and shouted at the vendor, had he seen a young girl in a green dress? He acted as though he hadn’t heard me. His face was covered with horrid pock marks, and I shuddered as I turned away.
Had someone picked up Sarah for a ransom? Her clothes would show that her family had a little money. I was out of breath from the pushing and pummeling of the crowd, but at the thought that she was gone I felt weak, and my breath came truly fast.
Which way to go? I heard music and found myself moving toward it with the crowd.
Several couples danced wildly. As I stood there, a young man grabbed me by the waist, pulling me toward him. He was handsome, with blond curly hair and a bold eye. I could smell beer on his breath and the perspiration that stained his red tunic.
“Dance with me, wench,” he said.
The skin under my dress tingled where he touched me. I shut my eyes as he twirled me, and blood rushed to my head. It was what I had imagined. What I had wanted. But it was happening so fast. I felt a pang of fear when he pulled me closer, his body warm against me, and I kicked him, aiming for his shins.
He yelled in pain and let me go. “You common-kissing harpy!”
Shaking, I forced myself into the crowd again, looking wildly about. It was then I heard a woman’s voice raised in anguish.
“Wherefore art thou, Romeo?”
I turned to see a young woman upon a stage, hands clasped to her heart. I stopped, knowing I must hear more. She called for her lover, and he answered.
People shoved at me and stepped on my feet, but I did not feel it. I forgot about Sarah, I forgot about my family in the church, I watched on. The lovers’ families despised one another, but Romeo and Juliet intended to overcome their hatred. They might be forced to say good night, but they were determined to marry.
“Parting is such sweet sorrow.” Romeo’s voice was loving as he reached up to the balcony for her hand.
A sharp jab in my side brought me out of my spell. There was Sarah, icing dripping down her chin. I wanted to hug her and shake her at the same time.
“Ha, ha, found you out! Wait till I tell Father you watched the heathen play!” she said.
“Saucy urchin! Where have you been?” But it was obvious from the icing where she had been. After the sweet stall she had found the cake stall, and I had missed her.
I grabbed her by the wrist and pulled her toward the gate. I led her back through the sheep fold, in spite of her protests that she was stepping in so many droppings that her shoes were in ruins. When I looked down I saw that my lovely blue skirt was covered with dust and grime.
At the edge of the sheepfold, a group of beggars stood. One, a large man in a rat-brown cloak, barred our way as we tried to pass out of the fair. Thin white hair fell over his forehead. He held his hand out toward us, as beggars do, and the open sore in his palm, crusted with pus, made me recoil.
“Do I offend you, Puritan gyle?” He had a Scottish accent.
I was both frightened at his blocking us and annoyed that he could tell so easily that I was a Puritan. I was not dowdy. My lace collar had eight inch points and my flaxen blue dress, however soiled, was in the latest fashion.
“Let us pass.” I tried to sound firmer than I felt.
“A penny,” he said with a leer.
“For what?”
“For my good will. For your good luck in coming out unhurt, two girls alone.” He barred the way, and his body seemed menacing.
It was true that I had not seen other unescorted females in the fair. I reached into my pocket, found a couple of farthings, and put them into his disgusting palm. He looked at the tiny sum with contempt, but he gave way.
“I may see you again, Puritans,” he shouted, as we ran on toward the
church.
Sarah scolded me for giving him money. “I could have stomped on his foot, and we could have run past him.”
“There were other beggars there, probably his friends.”
She continued to cross me. “You didn’t find me, you know, I found you. I was going back when I saw a gaping buffoon watching the play.”
IN THE MARKET we passed the notice board and we both stopped to look, though Sarah was not a good reader. The board was an important source of information about what was happening, and everybody read it regularly. I recognized a notice urging people not to pay the King’s tax, a notice I had seen before. Sarah asked what it said, and when I told her, she asked why someone would have posted it.
“To get more people to know that he thinks the King is a bad man,” I said, trying to explain it in terms she would understand.
Satisfied, she looked up at me with a crafty smile. “I won’t tell about the fair if you don’t.”
I was torn. I should not let her get the better of me. However, if I told, Father would be so angry, both at Sarah and me. Father had a temper, and with all the conflict going on now in England, he seemed to explode even more than usual. The whole family would suffer for days.
No real harm had come to either of us, although Mother would despair over our clothing. In the end, I wiped Sarah’s chin with my handkerchief and told her I would not tell if she promised never to do such a thing again.
She swore by all that is holy, but there was a smile on her face, and I did not believe her.
CHAPTER TWO
WE STOLE INTO the back of the church and stood among the common folk. Mother was sitting on a bench in the front, craning her neck around. When she finally saw us, we waved calmly as though we had been there a long time. Reverend Cotton went on preaching, low and earnest, from his dark cherry pulpit.
His theme was Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and unto God what is God’s. He asked, however, What if Caesar’s will is contrary to God’s will? Even I, even Sarah, knew that he was talking about the King imposing a tax to fight his war in Spain. I had paid little attention to the matter, though I knew we had moved back to Tattershall Castle from our house here in the city of Boston because of it. Boston was not a big city, not like London, but Mother liked the hustle and bustle.
The sermon went on for hours, and it was especially hard to listen because of having to stand. I shifted my weight from foot to foot and thought about the fair, the dance music, and the words in the play. The young man with the blond curls and the bright red tunic kept coming into my mind. He was the first man ever to have touched me. I could still feel the pressure of his fingers on my back. We would have twirled and twirled until I was dizzy. When he pulled me to him, it was like a lover’s embrace, even if we were dancing. I felt weak just thinking about it.
I had begun reading my Bible when I was six years old. Why do I always have to be good? I almost spoke it aloud, and I wondered if I would be struck dead on the spot. Nothing happened.
Nobody understood. Patience, the prettiest of all of us four sisters, was more than a year younger. She was my friend as well as my sister, but she was too good to understand me. Sarah understood wickedness, but she was too young to understand the ways I wanted to be bad. I wanted to be held by a young man, to feel his arms about me, as I had in the dance. Kissing might be nice as well, but I did not know how that would feel.
Our Father who art in Heaven. I tried to say the Lord’s Prayer over and over as a way of calming myself and forcing my feelings down — down deep into my toes where they would not bother me. I wanted to be held.
God would punish me. He had already punished me, with the illnesses I often suffered. I thought of the pock-marked man at the sweets stall at the fair and I shuddered again. If I did not stop these thoughts, I would probably get the pox. Did I have a fever? I would die in pain. I wanted to be held.
At last, Reverend Cotton was getting louder and waving his arms, meaning he was coming to the end. After he and the rest of the congregation filed out, Sarah and I found the rest of the family. Father was talking to Simon, his assistant and my tutor, and some other friends.
“Masterful, how he manages to avoid being arrested for treason, or at least being removed as minister,” Simon said.
Father was so taken with the sermon that he forgot about Sarah escaping into the fair. But when Simon left for his horse that would take him back to the castle, and the rest of us started to climb into the carriage, Father turned to Sarah and roared,
“You hare-brained minnow, where did you go?”
Sarah quickly said that she had seen a cat that was just like Josie, who had left home and not returned. The cat had run into the fair and she had chased her. Then she was caught among all the people and could not move. I said that I, too, had become caught in the crowd, and we had only found each other by chance. I prayed to God to forgive my lie. Father looked at us suspiciously.
“You didn’t set out to see the fair?”
“Oh no, Father,” Sarah said.
Father pulled himself up to the top of the carriage with the coachman, and we were all relieved. I wished I could lie as well as Sarah, and then I wished that I were a better person, not so much like Sarah.
We helped Mother into the best seat in the carriage, facing forward on the outside, where there was less dust. Baby Mercy jumped in next, sitting close to Mother. We shouldn’t have called Mercy a baby, as she was seven, just a year younger than Sarah, but the name stuck because she acted like a baby and Mother spoiled her. Mercy lisped.
That left Sarah and me and Patience, my sister closest in age, for the other side of the carriage, facing backwards. In the carriage we rocked and jogged along, eating a lunch of bread and hard cheese. Father was proud of our carriage with its two horses and its wide seats and small windows. It was not as fancy as the Earl’s, which had leather seats, but it carried the whole family and it was handsome. The Earl often came to services in Boston with his family in the big carriage with the gold decorations, but he had not come today.
Mother sighed, “If only we were going back to our house...” Mother loved our house in Boston, and hated living in the castle. This was a difficult time in England, and Father needed to help the Earl who was quite a young man. We were missing afternoon services because it would take hours to travel the twelve miles back to Tattershall Castle. I said nothing, but secretly I loved that we were living in the castle.
There was a great deal that I did not say to others. As during the sermon that morning, thoughts of Romeo and Juliet and the young man in the red tunic began to swirl through my mind. The wooden bench was hard, and Sarah’s elbow poked into my side.
Finally I fell asleep, the wheels of the carriage seeming to say, “to be held, to be held, to be held.”
I WOKE UP at a sharp pain on my ankle. I started to slap at it then realized it was a flea. I had a special way of killing fleas, rolling them between my fingers till they were stunned and then pressing them between my fingernails. Catching them was the hard part. Sarah and I were probably covered with fleas from wading through the sheep. I looked over at Sarah, who was gazing out the window. Tiny black specks hopped against the white of her collar.
Patience was asleep in one corner, her dark hair peeping out of her bonnet, and Mother was asleep in the corner on the other side. Baby Mercy was leaning on Mother and pulling at her arm. “Mother, Tharah kicked me!”
I followed Sarah’s gaze out the window, at the wide fens with their high grasses. It was good to see them green, after the dead winter.
Mother woke and chastised Sarah. We crossed the moat to the castle just then. The drawbridge was down, as it usually is, and Eric, the guard, let us through without stopping us. It was late in the afternoon, the sky overcast and damp, when we got out of the carriage.
Mother muttered about our lodgings on the third floor, as she always did. I heard something about huge cold rooms, dampness, and the uneven stairs.
Before we
had left for the castle this spring, I overheard a conversation between her and Father.
“You are my wife, no?”
I did not hear her reply.
“Then you cannot live twelve miles away from me.”
That was one argument I was glad Father had won, as we would have stayed with Mother if she had remained in Boston.
USUALLY I DID not mind the stairs, but tonight I was coughing and out of breath by the time we reached the third floor. Patience and I headed to the room we shared off the main hall. It was a small room on the south side of the castle. We liked that the sun came in early to wake us each morning, if only from a small slit of a window. The room had no necessary. I did not like the smell of the rooms with necessaries, as the waste went down the channel in the castle wall to the ground or into the moat, and the room smelled. On the third floor the smell was less than lower down in the castle. I think that was why the Earl and his family lived on the fourth floor.
We began getting undressed for bed. I first took off the waistcoat I wore over my shift, the long shirt that we wore at all times, then the stomacher, the stuffed band of fabric we wore right below the waist to keep our skirts flaring out, and then the skirts themselves. I sighed over my blue skirt — it would take some poor laundress hours to get out the stains.
Patience took off her white starched bonnet with care, putting it on its stand. She sighed.
“What?”
“Only thinking of my ears.”
Patience believes that her ears are too large and that they stick out. She worries that when she marries and has to take off her bonnet on the first night, her husband, appalled, will want to call the whole thing off. Sarah calls her Rabbit, or Elephant.
“Stop it. They are fine. What if you were one of the Puritan martyrs who had their ears cut off? Now that would be ugly.”
“What a mean thing to say!”
It was, and I apologized. I had spoken from jealousy. Patience was beautiful, with pale skin, long dark hair, and gray-green eyes. I wished I could look like her. My own hair was brown with a reddish tint, straight like Patience’s but unkempt, and I, like Patience, was glad to wear a bonnet, although we were hiding different things. I had freckles and, every now and then, a small blemish on my chin. My nose was too large, and my eyes sometimes had an unfocused look, because my vision was bad and things became blurry. Patience sometimes said my eyes were one of my good features, and that they were luminous. I was not quite sure what that meant, but it sounded nice. She also has said that, when I smiled, I became beautiful.
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