The Outcasts of Time

by Ian Mortimer

  ‘William, there is no question of me leaving you. Not for any cause. You are not only my brother, you are everything I’ve got in the whole world. I can no more leave you than walk away from my own heart.’

  ‘Do you want to see me die?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  ‘Then go your own way. Go, and do your good deed.’ With that he reaches out and clasps me to his chest, and hugs me, and holds me.

  ‘William, don’t be a cut farthing. You did not desert me when I’d lifted up that baby, so I’ll not leave you. I’ll be your brother until the end of time. Until the end of time, William – not just until the end is in sight.’

  ‘You will not go your own way?’

  ‘No. Never.’

  ‘Then give me your fardel.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Give it to me. I need to be carrying the letter of safe conduct.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Either give it to me or go your separate way from me.’

  We look at each other. ‘Not until you tell me the truth of your mind.’

  He takes a deep breath. ‘Back there, those people were all too keen to entrust us with their secret message. I’ve been thinking over the matter. You raised their ire by talking of the changing nature of God’s will. They thought we were Catholics. And yet they still told us all those things about Fulford.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘No one is that trusting with strangers, especially those who differ from them in religious matters. Would you trust a heretic with your secrets?’

  ‘Mistress Parlebone said it does not matter whether we persuade her brother – as long as the message is delivered.’

  ‘Exactly. All they care about is that he receives the message. And do you know why?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Because they want him to fight on.’

  I stare at him, trying to understand their duplicity, hardly believing it. And then I remember Mister Parlebone’s words when the name of the younger man was mentioned. He referred to the dangers of living in Oxford or Exeter – the last two Royalist strongholds.

  ‘Give me your fardel.’

  I hand it to him. He opens it and takes out the letter of safe conduct. It is written on white material that is like vellum but much thinner. He reads it.

  ‘What does it say?’

  ‘The script is unlike that of our time but, as far as I can make out, it asks that whoever receives the letter give us safe passage.’

  ‘Is that all?’

  ‘Apart from a few niceties and greetings, yes,’ he replies, putting the letter back in the sack and shouldering it. ‘Let us go up to Cranbrook.’

  We start walking towards the bridge. The snow is between two and three feet deep, and in places deeper still. The road is completely covered – no one else has been this way all day. Birds call to our left and right and fly between the bare branches of the trees, no doubt in fear that the snow will leave them starving, with the sparrowhawks avid for prey. We try climbing the snow-laden granite walls that run alongside the road, in the hope that the snow on top will have settled less thickly, but we are slowed even more by the hidden brambles, holly and bracken, not to mention the crevices in the stone. The temperature is falling already, our clouds of breath catching the odd ray of sun behind us.

  We walk through Whiddon Park and find the old lane from Chagford to Cranbrook that we know so well. But here we are tracing a path that others have taken – and not so long ago. Deep imprints in the snow indicate that a number of men have come this way. I know we have three days left to live but still I worry that we might be caught by soldiers. I glance up at the old fort, its ramparts covered in snow; I half expect to see people up there watching us. It is not just the cold that makes me shiver. It is the awareness of how obvious we are, two dark-clothed figures stumbling through this white landscape.

  William notices. ‘It troubles you?’

  ‘If we meet with a company of soldiers, I don’t know what we’ll say.’

  A few minutes later we see a group of men at the crossroads. They are wearing breastplates, back plates and round helmets, and bearing long pikes. As we get closer, we see that more men are coming up the valley to this point, and mustering here.

  ‘I presume these are all Parliamentarians,’ I say under my breath.

  ‘If they were the king’s men, they’d be less easy in their manner.’

  They do not appear grimly determined, as men are when they know their lives depend on the outcome of a forthcoming battle. But nor are they kindly.

  We walk past.

  Just before Cranbrook itself the road twists to the right and then slightly descends into the small valley where the mill stands. Here the road has been cleared. There are piles of snow flecked with twigs and dead leaves on either side. Holly grows from the top of the hedgerows, and beech and oak trees shield the old mill from the worst of the weather. There are more men standing at the small ford, where the road goes through the brook that runs down from the mill. On our right, I see a low wall where once there stood that stone barn in which we slept our first night after visiting the stones. Behind, remnants of the old house seem to have been incorporated into a newer one. On the other side of the road are new barns, set around a yard. As we draw nearer to the brook it is clear that there are several dozen men in the yard too.

  We walk on.

  Three rooks in the branches of the oak trees flap their way from perch to perch, watching us. I remember the bird on the dead man soaking into the earth of that field near Honyton, all those years ago. Maybe one of these will alight on my corpse.

  No, I have three days.

  The door to the mill opens and a tall man strides out, catching our attention. His clothing is much the same as his fellow soldiers’ but his movements betray his power of command. Out of the corner of my eye, I see two men from the yard move to block our way, levelling their long pikes before us.

  ‘Where you going?’ one of them says.

  ‘To Exeter, by way of Dunsford,’ William answers confidently, turning to make sure all the men around us can hear. ‘Should you wish to see it, we’ve a safe conduct, signed by a Justice of the Peace.’

  The man who challenged us glances at the approaching commanding figure, and then back at William. ‘You sound strange.’ He looks from William to me. ‘What’s your business in coming this way?’

  ‘We were born here, in Cranbrook,’ I reply as William pulls out the safe-conduct pass. ‘This is our usual route.’

  I turn to see the commanding officer right behind me. He is about thirty, clean-shaven, dark-haired and with curiously deep-set eyes. ‘Who are they, Goodman Tozer?’

  ‘They claim to be from this place, Captain Baring. But they speak most strangely.’

  ‘And where is your destination?’ asks the captain, taking the letter from William.

  William was so fast with his answer last time that I leave him to respond. But now words fail him. ‘We are heading . . . to the church.’

  The lie falls flat, like a stone dropped in the snow.

  The captain points to another man. ‘Fetch the miller,’ he says, keeping an eye on us. ‘He’ll know if these men are local or not.’ He starts to scrutinise the document. He pauses for a moment, then looks William in the eye. ‘What’s your business in Dunsford? It must be important to warrant a safe-conduct.’

  William pulls a couple of chisels out of my travelling sack. ‘We are masons, carvers of stone. We’ve completed our contract at Mister Parlebone’s house, where there was some damage to his porch, and now we’re heading to see the rector of Dunsford, who has told Mister Parlebone that he too requires our services.’

  Three men approach: the first is an old man with wisps of grey hair on his domed head, rough working clothes and milky blue eyes. The two men behind him both carry long gonnes, similar to the one we saw at Master Hodge’s house in Moreton. These must be what Mistress Parlebone called muskets.

  ‘Miller White,’ says Cap
tain Baring, ‘do you know these men?

  The old man shakes his head. ‘Not seen ‘em before – never in my life.’ He spits into the snow.

  ‘They claim to have been born here, at Cranbrook.’

  ‘Can’t remember their faces. Don’t know their names.’

  The captain gestures for the miller to leave. ‘We are looking out for two men travelling together, one of whom is bearded. They were stopped by a patrol on the road north from Bovey last night. These two men had pistols. One opened fire on our patrol, killing a man. They both got away but one was wounded – at least, he screamed in pain when the patrol fired back.’

  Captain Baring looks me in the eye. ‘Do you know where these men might be?’

  I shake my head.

  The captain then stands before William. ‘Royalists travelling north from Bovey are heading only in one direction. Is that not true?’

  William says nothing.

  The captain turns to me. ‘If you are from these parts you’ll know the answer.’

  He turns back to William. ‘Does it not seem unusual for a Justice of the Peace to grant a letter of safe conduct for someone merely doing masonry work?’

  I think frantically, trying to remain calm. I plan to tell the captain that the lord of the manor has died and we are to produce a funeral effigy; however, I realise I don’t know who the lord of the manor is these days.

  William suddenly launches himself away from us and runs across the lane and through the yard. Immediately a pike is levelled in front of me and a musket pointed at my chest. ‘Stay where you are!’ snaps Captain Baring, quickly turning from me to shout several orders to the men. I watch my brother hurry past the new barns, and into the snow-filled field. Then he runs down the hill, through the snow.

  A mighty explosion booms across the land, and another. The rooks all fly from the trees. Another two deafening musket explosions ring out in quick succession, and another two. Several men are kneeling in the snow and shooting. More shots are fired. Smoke rises from their muskets and obscures my brother.

  Captain Baring shouts, ‘Cease fire!’

  I look for William, all over the snow-covered field. No one is running any more. Instead a dozen or so men are trampling over the snow towards a motionless figure lying darkly against the snow.

  ‘Let me go to him,’ I plead.

  ‘Lock him up,’ says Captain Baring to the men nearby, not even looking at me. He heads into the field.

  ‘Let me speak to my brother,’ I shout, as three men seize hold of me and push me towards the barnyard. Over my shoulder I see two men dragging William over the snow. I hear him screaming in agony, as if his nerves were being rent with a rusty blade.

  ‘William!’ I yell. ‘William!’ The men bundle me through the snow. ‘Go with God, William!’

  They shut me in a dark barn near the mill pond and leave me there on the earthen floor.

  I have wanted to scream ever since the plague started; now, there is no will to yell left in me. I whisper my brother’s name again, and then again. I sound like Lazarus crying – imploring help yet expressing such disappointment and outrage with the world.

  There are noises outside: men moving to and fro, shouts, orders and horses whinnying. I look through the chinks in the barn door. But I do not see William.

  I kneel down and feel the tears welling.

  After about an hour a latch on the outside of the barn is unfastened and the door swings wide. The light dazzles me, even though it is fading. A voice commands me to get to my feet. I am manhandled across the barnyard to the old house. Two men drag me into the hall. Although it is my childhood home, I barely recognise it. It has a fireplace now. There is a table at one end where Captain Baring is seated with several loose papers in front of him. There are three other men standing around the room, all of them armed.

  Then I see William.

  He is barely alive, with bandages around his head, right arm and left leg. He is lying slumped on a chair, mouth open, eyes staring at the light coming in through the window. His shirt is stiff with dried blood from his arm. His beard is crusted with blood too. Some blood is trickling still from a wound under the bandage around his head.

  ‘Why did you run?’ I ask him.

  He lifts a hand, weakly, but says nothing.

  ‘Do not speak to the prisoner,’ says Captain Baring sternly. ‘Do not say anything without being spoken to. What is your name?’

  I turn to him. ‘John of Wrayment.’

  ‘Is this man your brother?’

  ‘I am proud that he is.’

  ‘Why does he call himself by a different name from you?’

  ‘Because of his beard. They called me after Wrayment because that was my home.’

  ‘Your brother is a traitor to the people of this country. He was carrying a traitorous message sewn into the collar of his cape, and has confessed he knew its contents. He shot one of our soldiers last night . . .’

  ‘He did not. He was with me.’

  ‘And where was that?’

  ‘In a tinner’s hut, out on the moor.’

  ‘Then he must have made his way there after the deed. Today, when challenged, he resisted arrest. In his bag he was carrying coins that are marked with the figure and motto of a pope. He had a crucifix and rosary on him, contrary to the law.’

  ‘The sack was mine. If he is guilty then I am too.’

  ‘Are you also a Catholic spy?’

  ‘I was taught to cross myself when the name of the Lord was uttered and I pray to Him for His blessing to be on us all. Your Protestantism corrupts everything. Everyone thinks only of himself, not of the common good.’

  ‘We all think of the common good. And the extirpation of the Catholic superstition and the destruction of the Antichrist is part of that common good.’

  I shake my head, and laugh at the ludicrousness of it all. ‘What do you know?’

  Baring just looks at me. Then he says, ‘Fortunately for you, I am not here to hang Catholics. However, it is my duty to hang Royalist soldiers, collaborators, spies and messengers. The document sewn into your brother’s collar is unambiguous, and by his confession on that score he has convicted himself.’

  ‘If you hang him, you will have to hang me also. We are guilty of the same crime. The sack was mine.’

  ‘Do not play games with me, John of Wrayment. It will cost us nothing to use the same rope twice.’

  ‘That cape was not William’s, it belongs to Mister Perkins.’

  ‘Where did you meet this Mister Perkins?’

  ‘At the house of Mister Parlebone, in Gidleigh.’

  ‘So, not at a tinner’s house on the moor.’ He pushes a piece of paper forward. It has writing on it. ‘Read it.’

  I shake my head. ‘I cannot.’

  Captain Baring beckons me with his finger. I go nearer until I am within an arm’s length of the table. He stabs down with his finger on the unfolded letter. ‘Read it.’

  I stare at the black marks. ‘I cannot.’

  ‘Then write the name of the man who is in command of the Royalist forces at Bovey.’

  I shake my head. ‘I never learned how.’

  ‘Do you know his name?’

  ‘Lord Wentford.’

  ‘Wentworth. Write it down.’

  ‘I do not know how.’

  ‘To save your brother’s life.’

  I shout, ‘I do not know how!’

  I turn to William. He looks dead.

  ‘Spare him, please,’ I say, turning again to face Captain Baring. ‘He is a good man.’

  Captain Baring gets to his feet. He comes around the table and faces me. ‘Do you want to die?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘We will hang William Beard at the old fort on top of the hill,’ he says, addressing the others in the room. ‘I am satisfied that this prisoner is ignorant of the plot. He did not shoot our man last night and I do not believe he even knew what message his brother was carrying to Fulford. He could not have writt
en it or read it. Nevertheless, he assisted the traitor, and so his punishment will be to act as William Beard’s executioner.’

  ‘No!’

  Captain Baring looks at me. ‘If you perform the duty, we will bury your brother in the churchyard, and you may walk free. If you refuse, you will both be shot and buried here, in unconsecrated ground.’

  ‘Why? Oh, Mother of Christ. Hang me too!’

  Captain Baring clicks his fingers at two of the guards. ‘Take these men out of here. Let this one help carry his brother to the fort. He can go when he has done what is necessary.’

  ‘You heard the captain,’ says one of the men, pointing his musket at me.

  I look down at my poor brother. ‘In Christ’s name, William, we should have embraced the plague. We should have accepted death then.’

  Tears come painfully, as if so many are welling up within me they are pressing on my eyes from behind, trying to burst out of me. I wipe them away, and blink, but they keep coming. I put his arm around my shoulders and try to lift him. He is heavy, and when he is on his one good leg, he cannot put weight on the other. The musket ball did not just lacerate the skin; it pulverised the flesh inside and broke the bone. I wince at the thought of him being dragged across the snow. Between my lifting him and him reaching out for the wall to steady himself, we manage to get him to the door.

  When we are outside, William gestures to one of the men to pass him a long stick on which to put his weight when he shifts his good leg, and thus we move through the snow, at a snail’s pace.

  ‘Fear not,’ I say in the lane. ‘We still have three more days.’

  ‘No,’ he says in a parched voice. ‘No, not for me.’

  ‘William, the voice at the stones said we had six days. You were there too.’

  ‘The voice told me three.’

  ‘No, William. It said six! You are saying three now to calm me.’

  ‘It said six to you. It said three to me.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Listen, John. You asked me once, three hundred years ago, as we walked towards Exeter, what have I ever done to save my soul? Well, I am doing that thing now. When you said that you had heard that you had six days left to live, I knew that we were not hearing one voice but two. And knowing that there is but one Lord God, and that He speaks with one voice, I felt I had to help you. That was why I changed my mind, and decided not to go back home but to join you on this quest.’