Forged in the Fire (22 page)

Will. I saw that the movement of people along the road had begun again, and hope sprang up in me that he had perhaps stopped somewhere nearer the city wall when it grew dark, and would soon be here. I shook out my crumpled skirts, took a comb from the pocket under my gown, tidied my hair, and fastened my cap in place. I'd been wearing the same linen since first-day, and had not washed since then, except to splash my face with cold water before we left Bow Lane. No matter. He would be dirty too.

Jane Catlin saw me and said there was milk at the farmhouse; that I should come. I followed her, and waited my turn for a bowl of new milk, creamy and warm from the cow. It was like being at home in Long Aston. And I thought: if my mother could see me now…

There was bread too, and I took a piece and went to stand once more by the roadside, looking for Will.

Three hours I reckon I waited, maybe four. I grew weary, and sat down on a tussock, but would not leave the road. My hope, which had been so strong at dawn, slowly shrivelled and died. If he had left through Aldersgate yesterday he should have been here by now. The fear that he had come to some harm grew in me.

“He may have lost the way, nothing more,” Jane had said. But he'd been given directions, the way was straight enough, and the green flag still flew. Jane was kind, but I longed for Rachel, or Nat – and most of all for Will. Once or twice I saw someone who looked kindly, and ran and asked after Will, or after the booksellers at Faith's. No one had news of them, but I heard that the fire had broken all bounds, that Cheapside and the Guildhall were aflame, the wall breached at Ludgate, the city doomed, and folk fleeing through all the northern gates.

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.

W
hen 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 been 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?”