Flood (The Fenland Series Book 1)

by Ann Swinfen

  My mother and I hurried to bring out bread and hard cheese, and Tom rolled the beer cask into the kitchen for me.

  ‘Father seems hopeful,’ I said as I filled a jug from the spigot.

  He turned his mouth down. ‘We shall see. Sir John is full of fine words, but his father never came to the aid of our grandfather. I shall believe in him when I see those Dutchmen sent packing back to their own dykes and ditches.’

  It was decided by common consent that morning that nothing should be done against the surveyors while we awaited word from Sir John’s lawyer. However, Father did approach the leader of the Dutchmen, who was called Piet van Slyke, to ask him civilly not to walk across our crops. I do not know what van Slyke answered, for Father would not say, but he looked grim afterwards.

  Barley was sown for beer and beans and peas for the pot. The medlands were filled with the carefree scamperings of the new lambs, while the young calves, one moment quietly following their mothers, would suddenly flick their tails in the air and gallop across the grass in joyous freedom of their youth, innocent of the heavy bodies and lumbering gait that would burden their mature years.

  ‘It will be the first of May next week, and soon after that Rogationtide,’ Gideon Clarke reminded my father, as they sat on a bench, leaning against the warm southern wall of our house and smoking their long pipes while I cleared weeds from my rows of onions and carrots.

  ‘And have the Puritans banned that too?’ Father asked.

  ‘No doubt. I have not heard. In any case, I mean to beat the bounds with all who will accompany me.’

  ‘We will come. The whole village.’ My father had no need to ask the rest of us. We had not missed the beating of the bounds even during the War.

  I stood up, easing my back and dusting the soil from my hands.

  ‘And shall we have a Maying?’ I asked.

  ‘Fetching in the May, and a maypole, and a summer queen? Every bit. Would you be our queen, Mercy?’ Gideon was laughing and I blushed, with his eyes on me. For the last few years Alice had been the queen, but she was a married woman now.

  ‘That would be for the village to choose,’ I said with a fine show of modesty. ‘But I do think we should have a Maying. Beat the parish bounds to show that we are not afraid of these men who would steal our land. And hold a Maying to show we are not afraid of the godly Genevans who would put an end to all joy.’

  ‘The surveyors have been gone these three days.’ Tom had come out of the barn and joined us. ‘’Tis to be regretted. I would have liked to lift two fingers to them as we beat the bounds, but – surveyors or not – I agree that we should have both the Maying and the beating of the bounds. Let them think what they will.’ He did not say who he meant by ‘they’, but we understood him well enough.

  Preparations went ahead swiftly. Before dawn on May Day, all the young people of the village went out to fetch in May blossom from the hedgerows, to deck our houses and the church. It was the first time in my whole life that I went without Alice, but I took our little Kitty with me. She was one of the village paupers, a church-door foundling, though it was whispered she belonged to Joseph Waters’s daughter, who had gone off, soon afterwards, with a travelling pedlar. Kitty had scrambled up, hand-to-mouth on parish charity, and had come to us, at eight years old, as general servant. She was eleven now. Not a stupid child, and willing. She had never been a-Maying before and skipped along at my side, her eyes bright with the excitement of a few hours away from washing greasy pots and muddy flagstones.

  ‘Is this what we want, mistress?’ She broke a cluster of whitethorn blossom from the branch and held it out to me.

  ‘Aye, but not like that. We need long stems so we can weave them round the pillars and altar rails in the church. But take care! The thorns are sharp.’

  ‘I remember last May.’ Her face glowed. ‘And we will have some for the master’s house too?’

  I laughed. Kitty was in awe of Father. In her eyes our house belonged solely to him. The rest of the family counted for little.

  ‘We’ll gather plenty, then we can pin it up round the doors, and along the mantel.’

  ‘Can we put some over the barn door too? I know the beasts will love to celebrate May Day. Especially Blackthorn and Blaze.’

  I smiled at the thought of the staid cow and our quiet gelding rejoicing in the Maying. ‘Aye, if we gather enough. We need sweet eglantine as well. There’s a hedge of it further along. And sops-in-wine.’

  ‘Is that a flower?’ She laughed. ‘I don’t know it.’

  ‘It grows in low clumps. A deep red flower with white patches. So it looks like red wine with sops floating in it, such as rich invalids are given.’

  ‘Like the bread sops we put in pottage?’

  ‘Aye, like that.’

  The heady scents of spring followed us along the lane. The young people of the village, all those unmarried, had turned out every one. Parliament might try to ban our merry-making, but for this last year at least we would have our Maying. There must have been twenty of us, all who had grown up together within the boundaries of this parish, and later in the month we would follow Gideon with his cross and prayerbook, and beat the young children at the parish bounds, that they would know their land and their rights and never forget them.

  From time to time some of our companions would pair off and slip away behind a hedge, for May is the time for courting. And if we heard squeals and laughter, we smiled and passed on along the lane. There would be new babes in the village, come the turn of the year, and perhaps a few hasty weddings beforehand. Though I was fond enough of the village boys I had known all my life, none could tempt me away to tumble in the young grass, despite hints and a few stolen kisses.

  The lads were collecting supple young birch branches, just coming into leaf, which would provide a strong framework for our garlands and wreathes. Tom, with his friends Toby Ashford and Jack Sawyer, cut down a straight young beech to make our maypole, and carried it back between them to set up on the green, accompanied by the blowing of horns and beating of drums. While they dug a hole and set the maypole, firming it in with the edge of their boots, the rest of us decorated the church, winding the branches through the carved openings of the ancient altar rail, garlanding the font and pillars, and draping swags of blossom across the altar. By now the sun was fully up and we went home to decorate our doorways and eat our breakfasts. I gave Kitty the rest of the branches and flowers to swag the animals’ quarters, while I joined Tom in the kitchen for a hasty meal of porridge and ale. As we were eating, Gideon came in, his eyes lit with laughter.

  ‘So, it is to be your turn this year, Mercy. The village has chosen you our summer queen.’

  He took my hand and kissed it, dropping on one knee. ‘Your humble servant, Your Majesty!’

  I looked down at his thick curls and felt my breath catch in my throat. I feared he was merely humouring me, as he used to do when I did well in my lessons, but he held my hand tightly, and his lips lingered on my skin. Then he turned my hand over and kissed the palm, so that a shudder ran through me.

  ‘So many years in Alice’s shadow,’ I said, as lightly as I could. ‘At last I will lead the revels! I hope I will not disgrace the village.’

  Gideon stood up, and released my hand slowly.

  ‘You will wear your crown with beauty and dignity,’ he said, looking at me intently.

  I could not hold his gaze, but dropped my eyes and felt the heat of my skin burn from my neck to my hair.

  After we had eaten, I changed into my best bodice and skirt, then the whole family walked down to the village, where I would don the summer queen’s cloak, which was kept for safety from year to year in a chest in the church vestry. In our grandparents’ time, the May celebrations had included a church ale, when the village gathered in the churchyard for feasting and games, everyone contributing a few pennies to parish funds, but church ales were banned now. And even when my father was young there had been a summer king as well as a queen. He would
choose a band of followers and they would travel to all the villages for miles around, accompanied by pipe and drum, the purpose being to visit every yel-hus within walking distance. The kings of the other villages would return the visits and an uproariously drunken time was had by all, over several weeks. My father had twice been chosen king and spoke of it with a certain gleam in his eye that sat ill with his present dignity.

  The May queen’s cloak was grown threadbare by now, for it dated back to the old Queen’s time, Queen Bess, whom Hannah had once seen making a progress. Gideon lifted it carefully out of the chest and as he did so I saw how fragile it was. The spring sunshine slanting in from the window shone through the bare patches in the velvet and picked out a random lace of tiny holes. Gideon draped it about my shoulders and pinned it together at my throat. I scarcely dared to draw the edges together.

  ‘I hope it will not fall apart while I am wearing it,’ I said.

  ‘I think it will survive for one more ceremony,’ he said. ‘But after this year – who knows? As with so many of our customs, we may be forced to abandon it.’

  ‘We have made you a fine crown, Mercy.’ Alice held it out for me to see.

  Alice and the six girls who were to be my May maidens had shaped a crown framework out of supple willow twigs, then bound in roses and May blossom. It was a beautiful thing and I held my head steady while they pinned it in place.

  ‘Now, Your Majesty!’ Gideon took my hand and led me out of the church, down the steep path and across the green to a seat beneath the maypole. ‘May you preside in peace over your subjects’ revelry.’ His tone was mock-heroic, but in spite of his vocation I knew that he loved these old festivals as much as we all did, and would be as sorry as the rest of the village if the new powers of Puritans put an end to them.

  Many of the villagers joined hands in a ring around the maypole and began to dance to the music of fiddle, pipe, and drum. Circling first to the right, then the left, forward then back, they went through the steps of the traditional maypole dance. Around the green the older folk were already drinking beer and nibbling at cakes and suckets. When the dancers tired, they joined them and I wondered whether it would be consistent with my royal dignity to fetch myself a drink.

  ‘Here.’ Alice appeared, carrying a tray with two cups of beer and a plate of sweetmeats. She sat down on the grass beside my chair.

  ‘It is all very well to be dressed up in finery,’ she said, ‘but I remember how hot and thirsty I was, sitting there.’

  ‘You are an angel sent from heaven,’ I said, drinking deeply. ‘This velvet cloak is a little too heavy for a fine spring day.’

  She brushed it gently with her finger. ‘Poor old thing. It cannot last much longer.’

  ‘No. I wonder how much longer we will be allowed to bring in the May.’

  ‘If they knew of this in London, they’d clap us all in fetters.’

  ‘It’s a sad, dreary world they would condemn us to, these ardent reformers,’ I said. ‘As well as cutting up our lands and giving them away to rich men.’

  Our festivities went on all day and I was glad when I was allowed by custom to leave my throne under the maypole and join the rest. The children played at hoodman-blind and skipping games, the young men wrestled and ran races. Even the young girls kilted up their skirts and batted a ball with gloved hands. It was my task to award prizes: a sucking pig to the victor of the wrestling matches and a silver spoon to the girl judged the winner of the ball game, whose rules I had never been able to fathom. In the evening, as I took off the ancient cloak and gave it back to Gideon, I felt some of it come apart in my hands.

  ‘Oh, no! I did not tear it, it just fell in two pieces.’

  He folded it carefully and laid it in the chest.

  ‘It could not have lasted any longer. It belongs to the past. As, I fear, does our Maying.’ He smiled at me, rather sadly, I thought. ‘At least you had your chance to be our queen, Mercy.’ And he touched my cheek lightly with the tips of his fingers.

  Early on the Monday morning before Ascension Day, we set out to beat the bounds, Gideon at our head reading the Rogationtide homily, prepared to bless the fields, crops and animals. I followed next with my May maidens, and behind us every villager who was sound in wind and limb. The children who were to be beaten, mostly five or six years old, looked suitably solemn and important. All the youngsters carried sticks.

  Our first boundary stone lay where Baker’s Lode met a stand of sallows which we coppiced regularly for baskets and hurdles. First the children beat the stone with their sticks, then lined up and one by one had their heads gently knocked against the stone and held out their hands to be beaten. Father, foremost of the villagers, tapped their palms lightly with a willow wand, and then Hannah Green, the oldest of our neighbours, gave them each a honey sweetmeat.

  On we went to the next boundary marker, an oak so ancient that its hollow centre could hold five men, yet whose outer skin and branches, knobbled and gnarled like the arms of an ancient labourer, were hard as iron. Always the last of trees to raise its sap along those mighty limbs, it was just putting forth the first tips of its leaves. Beneath our feet the few acorns overlooked by the village pigs crunched and crumbled. I picked one up, smoothing its golden shell with my thumb, then slipped it into the pocket of my apron. The children were tapped against the rugged trunk, Father made a pretence of beating their hands, and Hannah doled our her sweetmeats. No wonder we had always looked forward to the year when we would be old enough to beat the bounds!

  It took us until sunset to make the circuit of our entire parish, though we stopped at midday on the boundary of the Fen, near Hannah’s cottage, to eat the eel pies and gingerbread we had brought in our baskets. We drank our ale straight from the leathern jacks, passing them from hand to hand, and dabbled our tired feet in the small mere that provided Hannah with fish. By the time we reached the village I was ready to fall into my bed, but there were still the cows to be milked and the eggs collected. I sent Kitty to fetch the eggs, while I milked. Before I had finished, Tom joined me and milked the last two.

  ‘A good day,’ I said, stretching my arms above my head.

  ‘I hope it will not bring trouble down on us.’

  ‘Why do you say that?’

  ‘I saw that we were watched from the next parish, beyond the oak. Villagers from Crowthorne. There’s a nest of godly Puritans there, who like nothing better than to sour the happiness of their fellow men. And their preacher is a rampant Genevan, bent on rooting out all who take a kindlier view of mankind.’

  ‘I’ve heard the talk. Why should they care? In their eyes we are already the Damned, are we not?’

  ‘Damned indeed.’ He lifted his pail of milk to carry it into the cool, stone-walled dairy next door, and gave a sharp sigh. ‘Sometimes I do not know which way to turn, Mercy. I do not love the Stuart monarchs, who think themselves God’s Appointed, nor do I love the Puritans, who think themselves God’s Chosen. Why can we not be left to ourselves, here in the Fens, to grow our food, and rear our animals, and mend our houses, troubling no one? We need no courts or kings or Parliaments.’

  ‘Or drainers,’ I said.

  ‘Them least of all.’

  As if conjured up by our thoughts, the drainers returned the following week. This time van Slyke was accompanied not simply by his small group of surveyors. Hordes of labourers followed them, more of the Dutchmen, but Englishmen too, of the poorest sort, clad in rags and with the pasty skins of townsmen who have never walked across a field or snared a rabbit or ploughed a furrow. There was also a miserable group of men wearing nothing but rough cloth wrapped about their waists, and no more than three shirts amongst the dozen of them. They clanked in the rear of the company, chained together, right ankle to right ankle. Word soon flew round the village that these were Scotsmen, prisoners captured in the War.

  ‘Savages!’ the whisper went round, ‘worse than the Hollanders. If they are unchained they’ll slit our throats while we sleep.’ />
  Fear stalked abroad, and fear of the Scots was but the beginning of it. It served as a cover for the true underlying fear: What is to become of us?

  There had been no word from Sir John’s lawyer.

  The company of drainers set up camp in one of our common pasturelands, amongst our grazing beasts, building themselves rough huts out of our timber, gleaned from our woodlands, covered with rough canvas cloths. They fed their open fires from our firewood, their smoke rising mockingly into the spring sky, and it wasn’t long before chickens disappeared from our runs, and then one or two of our sheep. Like the soldiers of both armies during the War, these men were bent on foraging off the land. Our land. And the War was over. When a group of our villagers went to protest to van Slyke, he pointed to sacks of meal and onions and turnips.

  ‘We provision our men ourselves. They have not touched your goods. You should shut up your chickens away from the fox, and keep your sheep from wandering off over these desolate marshes. Little wonder that they drown or are swallowed by the bog.’

  And he smiled his superior smile.

  The men came back muttering angrily into their beards, but no one was quite sure how far these invaders could be challenged.

  A few days after their arrival, I made my way round the far side of the pasture where the strangers were camped, keeping a wary eye on their activities. Van Slyke and his surveyors were ordering some of the labourers about and the men were laying out lengths of rope along the ground. I did not approach so near to them from choice, but I was worried lest any harm come to Hannah Green, whose cottage stood at the far edge of the pasture, where it met the Fen, embowered in the constant murmur of sedge and rush. Her home was dangerously close to the enemy and distant from help in the village.

  ‘Hannah, I’ve brought you a basket of goods.’ I called out ahead of myself, so that she would know who was approaching.

  As usual, when the weather was warm enough, her door stood ajar. She had not yet been troubled by the strangers, then.