Believe or Die

M.J. H
ARRIS

Believe or Die
Copyright © M J Harris 2014

All Rights Reserved

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The traveller stopped and massaged the small of his back. Evening was approaching and soon he would need to find shelter for the night. The road was dusty and his donkey was becoming fractious. On they plodded. Eastcote lay behind them, Ruislip just ahead. Around a bend and lights appeared in the distance. It was not yet dusk, but the sun’s rays were insufficient to bring light to the interiors of the buildings thereabouts. A church appeared away to the left. Noise came to the traveller’s ears as he drew closer to the village and he noted an inn close behind the church. A rowdy crowd were larking outside. The traveller sighed resignedly. He could do without trouble from drunken louts. A detour it must be then. Turning away from the buildings, the evening seemed somehow brighter as he skirted a smithy and passed the village pond. The donkey snorted pointedly and he allowed the beast to drink amidst the reeds. Gazing around, he noted a once fine house, now showing evidence of a recent fire and consequential repair. It sat upon what appeared to be an ancient Norman Motte and Baily, the ditch of which, though now heavily overgrown, was clearly evident. The donkey’s thirst slated, they walked on. If the directions he’d received earlier were correct, the River Pinn lay just ahead. Perhaps there was a bridge or a ford that would enable him to successfully avoid the fools at the inn who, should they spot him, would doubtless seek to make sport of a stranger. Once over the river, he would hopefully be able to resume his westwards trek and remain unmolested; an irritating detour, but an advisable one that would doubtless mean another night in a hedgerow as a consequence.

The track he’d been following now drew him back to a lane. Looking to his left, he could see the tower of the church. He was just out of sight of the now invisible but still audible inn. The traveller turned and followed the lane and there ahead was a small bridge. It looked like it had once been a stout construction of wood and stone but now it looked sadly neglected, as did much of the country he’d observed on his travels. Yet it appeared still serviceable, so onwards then. A hedgerow lined the right hand side of the lane and likewise on the left, except that here a wooden stile interrupted it. Upon this sat a figure cloaked and hooded. The hood turned in the traveller’s direction and monitored his progress. Momentarily the traveller paused, hesitated, then continued though edging surreptitiously to favour the opposite side of the lane. The hood traversed accordingly until they drew level.

“Where are you bound pilgrim?” asked the hooded one.

“Uxbridge sir,” replied the traveller, reluctantly pausing and turning to face the other.

Back went the cowl to reveal a grizzled man of perhaps fifty or more years with a pipe protruding sideways from a not unfriendly face. The face nodded up the lane.

“Yonder takes you to Harefield and ‘tis a dangerous road come nightfall,” advised the man. “Are you a lost pilgrim?” he inquired.

“I thought there might be a track across the river that might lead me to the west.”

“And steer you clear of that rabble at The Swan at the same time I’ll warrant,” sniffed the man. “Well, there is such a track as you seek, but it’s boggy ground and afore long it’ll be too dark and wet to negotiate it safely. No, ye’d best bide the night with me and start fresh in the morning.”

The man hauled himself stiffly off the stile and retrieved a sturdy oak staff from the hedge. He paused and frowned.

“Come pilgrim, why do you tarry? Is the thought of a dry billet with fresh bread and cheese not to your liking?”

“It is very much to my liking sir, but I am a stranger to you …”

“Does the Lord not commend the Good Samaritan?”

“Your Lord or mine sirrah?” said the traveller tossing back his own hood. This however did not get the expected reaction.

“I keep a fair ale as well pilgrim,” grinned the man.

“Sir you mock me! It cannot have escaped your attention that I am a Jew!”

“And your point pilgrim?”

“But it is just a handful of years since your Lord Protector permitted us to reside in this land again. Still we are believed to be devils!”

“
My Lord Protector
is it! And as for devils sirrah,” continued the man with a scowl, “I’ve met devils and none of them were Jews. Now come sir, or I prophesy we will both starve, if of course we do not drown in the forthcoming deluge!”

The traveller looked up into the first fading of twilight and observed but the haziest of clouds. He shook his head and smiled.

“I am obliged for your generous hospitality sir Samaritan and heed your prophecy. Yet tell me I pray, by what means do you divine the weather? Is it the winds? The clouds? The behaviour of the animals?”

“None such pilgrim; by the wounds of an old soldier.”

Their way took them along the riverbank through overhanging willows and beeches towards a rise. Cresting this they came to a small farmstead with a courtyard composed of a stable, barn and cottage attached to which was a miscellaneous collection of outhouses, which had been added apparently at random. A large man with a weather-beaten face emerged from the barn wiping his hands on an apron. To the traveller’s surprise, he touched his forelock to his newfound companion.

“Company sir?” he enquired.

“Aye, a guest for the night Peter. I would be grateful if Martha could set for two at my table.”

“As you say Captain,” said the man casting a suspicious glare over the traveller. “Jonathan!” he bellowed over his shoulder and a lad of about twelve years stuck his head over a nearby wall.

“Father?”

“See to the Gentleman’s beast boy, then take his baggage up to the house.”

The traveller was about to protest that it was unnecessary, that he could carry his own belongings, but his benefactor, the mysterious ‘Captain’, was already unloading the donkey.

“No need Peter, we can shift it for ourselves,” said he.

“As you wish Captain,” nodded the big man.

“Come pilgrim” instructed the Captain, “Yonder is my billet.”

As they traversed the farmyard, the traveller observed that the steading was a lot more organised than he had first thought. Geese and chickens roamed freely, pigs could be heard grunting, and a small orchard lay close by.

“You are a man of means I find,” remarked the traveller. He received only a humorous snort by way of reply as if the Captain was amused by the notion.

They skirted a huge growth of holly and there was a dwelling. A cabin really, all on a single floor, but strongly constructed of wood and stone and with a fine shingle roof. That spoke of at least a modest degree of wealth, as did the unusually large windows glazed with finely formed panes.

“Enter pilgrim I beg you.”

Once through the door, the traveller thought himself in a cupboard for a moment, but it turned out to be a cloakroom. The Captain shed his cloak and bid his companion do likewise. Then they progressed through to a modest but well arranged and spotlessly clean living room. A pleasing fire crackled in a surprisingly large Inglenook fireplace. The furniture was unelaborate but well made and comfortable looking.

“Sit sir, sit,” said the Captain pulling up a chair nearer the fire.

He then disappeared through another door and returned with a huge pewter jug and two tankards. A poker was thrust deep into the fire and the two men stared at it for a while without speaking. The traveller felt a wave of tiredness wash over him and he shook himself awake.

“Might I know my Samaritan’s name sir?” he enquired and his companion started as if from a dream.

“Hah! Where are my manners! Forgive me sirrah. I am Mead, Richard Mead. And you?”

“Michael.”

“Michael?”

“Just Michael.”

“As you wish Michael. But hold, you will not tell me you are the Archangel himself come to punish me?”

Michael laughed at Richard’s feigned horror and shook his head.

“Not I sir. Why then, are you in need of punishment?”

The humour disappeared from Mead’s face and he prodded the fire.

“All men are in need of punishment,” he said quietly then revived again. “I will light a candle, the evening draws near and the rain will soon be upon us.”

“Candles indeed. Am I to believe you are a wealthy man Richard Mead?”

“Comfortable would be more apposite my friend. Enough to keep body and soul, such as it is, together God willing or forgiving. My needs are modest, you will find no treasure buried under this floor.”

Michael found Richard’s use of words curious in a land where religion was of paramount importance. He thought it best to remain on slightly steadier ground.

“Yet those folk we met outside are in your employment are they not? Forgive me. I am prying; it is a grievous failing in my nature.”

“Pah! Pry on sirrah! It is good to talk about things other than raiding foxes and apple blight. As to employees, well, Peter and his family are my partners and tenants, never my servants. They run the farm for me, this being my land and my father’s before me. Many years have the Mead family dwelt on this good turf and it is comforting to have someone tending me in my dotage.”

“You do not seem to be on such a course to me Richard Mead. The running of a farm is not too contusive to your spirit I find?”

Mead shrugged and lit a taper to ignite his pipe.

“I never was able to turn my sword into a ploughshare. Ah, see, the rain comes.” He stood and tapped at the windowpane which was being peppered by heavy droplets then returned to his chair. He poured ale into the tankards then reached for the poker to mull the brews, and then he stopped in mid motion.

“Forgive my ignorance guest, I never thought to ask. Is it permitted for you to partake of ale?”

“You are a considerate host Richard Mead. Yes, it is permitted in moderation and it would be gratefully received at this pass.”

“Good. Here then and take your fill. Good wife Martha, spouse of the worthy Peter, will bring us supper directly. No swine flesh though eh Michael? That much I do know.”

“You are a man of knowledge Master Mead. No, we Jews are forbidden to eat the flesh of pigs.”

“No,” mused Mead distractedly, “Not Jews nor …”

“Nor sir?”

“Nor Muslims, Mohammedans as some call them, Moors others still.” Mead stared sightlessly into the fire.

A question formed in Michael’s mind but he let it dissolve and he too went back to contemplating the crackling sparks and glowing embers.

The rain became a torrent: grey as lead and noisy as musket balls on plate armour. The wind howled in accompaniment. Mead rose from the table where upon the remains of supper lay and, belatedly followed by Michael, secured shutters over the window glass. They re-entered and shook themselves like a pair of sodden hounds. Mead prodded the fire into a more vigorous blaze and added another log. Michael, now more alert after his foray into the elements, sipped his ale and perused his surroundings in more detail. A fowling piece hung nearby and above the fire was one of the new flintlock muskets he’d heard of but never seen. A brace of good quality pistols flanked it. No less than three shelves lined each alcove either side of the fire. Each was fully stocked with books, an unusual number of books indeed. Michael found the weapons and literature to be seemingly ill-matched companions.

Their repast had been simple but well prepared and in ample quantity. It was also served on pewter platters, more evidence of discreet, but clear wealth. Richard Mead was obviously a man of contradictions and Michael’s curiosity was beginning to irritate him like a flea bite he couldn’t quite reach to scratch.

“Do you wish to retire Michael?”