Gideon's Angel (8 page)

“And has your creed been persecuted like Mr. Lilburne and his Levellers?” I asked him.

He nodded and took another swig. “Most of the noisier of the creed get shut up in the gaols for a spell; even I was clapped up in Wells for a time... bad grub there, I tell you,” he added, his memory now sparked. His voice grew lower. “All gone to ruin. The Council and Cromwell are now no better than the king ever was. Tyrants in their own right.” His head swung around slowly to take in the occupants of the tap room. “Some of us think it was better in the old days.”

I nodded sympathetically but didn’t show my cards. “I am not from these shores and so know little of such matters.”

“Oh, just as well, sir, just as well. All gone to ruin.”

“They would have their king back?” I asked him. “After all that has gone by?”

Billy Chard’s nubbled chin rested on his chest as he contemplated my question. And I could see his actor’s mask drop for a moment when he finally replied. “Some of us would have our king back, I think. I’m just not saying who.” He smiled again. “Trust is in short supply, Fellow Creature, that’s for damn sure. And I do not know you from all the other fuckers out there.”

I
TOOK MY
supper in my chamber that night and arranged for the landlord to have a stable hand sent around in the morning to take me to some horse trader nearby. It was all just silence and the occasional barking of dogs in the distance. But as I lay there, awaiting sleep, the Beast came upon me just the same. I thrashed about as the terrors ran over me, fists clenching and unclenching. After what seemed an age of agonies, I drifted off. I dreamt about seeing comrades from years gone by. The sort of dream that lingers, where the long dead walk past and even though you know they are dust, somehow it doesn’t seem at all strange. And I conversed with my father too, in his grave these many years. He was telling me that my brother William wanted to see me and that younger brother Roger had left for the plantations in Massachusetts. And then he had just walked away.

I awoke early, dressed, and, guided by the stableman’s boy, arrived at the horse yard. I bought an old bay-coloured mare, rather tired, but still with some life in her. With my satchel strapped to the cruppers, I decided to walk the animal to the town gate, only a short distance down the Exeter road. In the pillory near a church, two poor miscreants lay hunched over in sleep, steam spilling from their mouths and a blanket thrown over their backs by someone who had taken pity. Neither was Billy Chard, but I wagered he’d be there too before long. Around me trudged shopkeepers, peddlers, and apprentices, none of whom appeared to take notice of me or even one another. It was a procession of sad and sorry folk and I was sore surprised to see how far and how hard old Plymouth town had fallen.

My house lay between Plympton and Venton, a few miles distant. The weather held fair the whole of my journey but the sights that met my eyes were bittersweet ones. The lean-to sheds of tapped-out tin mines sat abandoned to fortune: no fires burned, no kilns smoked. And never had I seen so many sturdy beggars in Plympton town. They were a bold lot, following me with wary and covetous eyes. The war had laid the whole place low.

At last, I came upon my house, set up on a little bump of a hill, just off the road. I could see it four-square and large with its brood of outbuildings clustered around it. It was a good-sized place of cob and stone, sixteen windows to the front, and had been a place of much joy before the wars began and ruined my life.

How strange it would be to have to knock upon the door of my own house. I saw movement within, a woman in a bonnet. If she recognises me, how shall I play it? But it was a housemaid or cook that opened the door and not one I knew.

I raised my hat to her. “Goodwife, I seek Mistress Treadwell on business. I understand this is her house, no?”

The woman shook her head. “This is not her house, sir. You are mistaken. If you are selling something she lives down over there,” she told me, waving her hand in the direction of the crofter’s cottage down the hill. It was a cottage that I owned. She must have taken notice of the expression on my face, struck dumb as I was.

“Down the road, sir! Begone. I have no business with strangers.” She was already closing the door with both brawny arms when I finally regained my wits.

“Mistress, who
does
live in this house?”

She was already angry as a wasp and I was lucky to get an answer at all. “This is the house of Captain Israel Fludd. Now off with you!”

I swore a streak of curses as I walked back down the hill, leading my mount. I knew then what had happened. I should have anticipated it long ago before I had blundered into it. And that name again. Fludd. Sweet Christ, my Arabella had lost the house and the land. I knew it. Cromwell needed money and taking it out of the hides of the king’s supporters was a painless way to get it. And then another wave of anger came sweeping over me. Why hadn’t my older brother prevented this? He was the Parliament man in the family. He could have surely stopped the seizure. I stood in front of the weather-bleached door of the little cottage, my fist raised to pound, my breathing fast. What would I say?

One knock.

Arabella opened the door, looked into my face and took a few steps backwards. Before she receded into the shadow of the interior, I had seen the colour drain away from her. I took off my hat and entered. She had backed herself into the table, silent. My eyes quickly adjusted and I took in the room, its inhabitants, the contents. A young girl stood near the fire—she would be twelve, I knew. Next to her a maidservant, a woman I did not recognise. I did recognise the big cupboard, the table, some other sticks of furniture from the main house. And my wife, my poor wife, standing a few feet away and grasping the oak table that held her up. And she looked very worn and very thin of face. I stood there, hat in both hands, labouring to find words but only stuttering foolishness.

“Madame,” I spoke quietly. “My name is Andreas Falkenhayn. I come from France with news of your husband.”

She swallowed a few times but still said nothing. I knew she knew it was me and no other. The maidservant turned, the spoon in her hand dripping porridge onto the floor. And Ann, my little Ann, she turned towards me too. She looked at me blankly, no recognition, no fear, no joy. Nothing. And I could feel the tears welling in my eyes. The serving girl was soon at Arabella’s side, guiding her mistress to a chair near the table.

She was searching for words to respond to the sight of a ghost. But when she spoke, her voice was much stronger than I had expected.

“You say you have news of my husband, sir. I would be glad to hear of it though you see we are in reduced circumstance here.” And she looked straight into my eyes, playing her role. “There is little I can offer in way of refreshment, sir, but would you take a draught... and a chair?”

I nodded. The maidservant went and fetched the pewter and jug and I slowly eased myself onto a chair at the opposite side of the table. Ann walked over to stand next to Arabella, her hand upon her mother’s shoulder. And here, I hesitated again, weighing the words that had to be spoken. In the end, I knew there was only one thing that could be said.

“Madame, I must tell you now, that your husband is dead, fallen in France. In battle.”

It was a monstrous lie to utter with my daughter standing there frozen and wide-eyed. Having seen Arabella now, it was vital for the sake of them all that I
was
dead. For despite the lovely voluminous folds of her thick blue velvet dress, sadly out of place in a farmhand’s hovel, she was clearly and truly, heavy with child.

Chapter Six

S
HE NODDED SLOWLY
, complicit in our little deceit. “It is as I have long feared, then,” she said, never taking her eyes from me.

I swallowed hard. “I bring money with me... for you.” And I dug out one of my purses, gently placing it on the table between us. “It should see you through for more than a few months.”

Still she stared at me. It was a look of sadness but tinged with blame just the same. “I thank you, sir. Would that he had never left this place. We might not have come to where we are now.”

“I am sure he would not have if he had known what would befall his family. And should more money of his come to light I will ensure that it too finds its way to you, madame.”

Arabella was silent.

“Ma’am, should I take the child outside for a spell?” said the maidservant.

Arabella nodded her agreement, grasped Ann’s hand and gave it a little rub. “Off you go child, with Lizzie.”

We were then alone, facing each other across the table. And I truly felt that Richard Treadwell was dead and gone and that I was but the messenger of his passing. “I was told you have a son. Where is he this day?”

“He has gone to live with his uncle. A man who can better provide for his education.”

I nodded.

“He’s strong and already much in resemblance of his father,” said Arabella, softening a bit. “He goes to the grammar school in Plympton. His uncle dotes on him and he is happy there.”

“I am glad to hear of it, madame.” And I truly was. “But did not this uncle seek to help you keep your home?”

She answered me straight away. “It was beyond even his means to stop the order of confiscation and sale. My good brother did what he could and looks after us still. I was the one who did not want to leave this land. I haven’t much but I still hold this house.
This
he shall not have.”

“Arabella...”

She reached across the table to me and I clasped her hand. “Arabella, who did this to you?”

She answered in little more than a whisper. “You mean, sir, my belly? Or the committee that said my husband’s treason was beyond redemption and that his estate was forfeit to the republic?”

I held her hand between both of my own. “Who has violated you? Tell me.”

“It was he who bought your house for a song from Parliament. The same who lives there now.” And I felt her hand slip out of my grasp, her arm pulling back to her lap. “Captain Israel Fludd.”

I could say nothing, but she could see the rage stoking within me.

“Do not seek to cause more trouble for us, I beg of you. Leave well enough alone and all will be well. We shall not want. But you must go. You must go before you’re recognised.” She pushed herself up from the chair and stood facing me. “You must go... Richard.”

I got up.

“You did not ask me, husband, whether it was by my will or against my will?”

“I don’t have to ask such a thing. And don’t tell Ann the truth of me. You’re better off a widow.”

“I know this, husband. And if you still bear us love then you must leave again.”

I left the cottage, my stomach in a rolling sick, and stood next to her. Her arm and shoulder brushed against mine; the closest we were destined to embrace. I looked back up the hill to the house. “I will see justice done, fear not.”

She looked up at me, her mouth falling open in horror. “Justice? For the love of God, do not even think of it! You must not!”

“Very well,” I told her, “you’re right. I’ll make sure you remain safe. Fare thee well.” There seemed but little else to say. “I will send you more coin soon.” And I took off my hat to her with a bow, cast one brief look to my daughter and walked to where my horse stood grazing. I looked back again.

Arabella had crossed her arms, still watching me as I picked my way down the rutted gulley of a path. “Good bye!” she mouthed.

It was time to visit my brother William. Perhaps from him I could find answers for the hurt done here, if not solace. I rode back to Plympton and stopped at the first tavern I spied in St. Maurice. From there, I sent by the taverner’s son a brief scribbled message to Sir William Treadwell, who I hoped was at home at the old house a mile north of town. I asked him to meet me with all haste on important business concerning an old shared acquaintance. I signed it “Andreas Falkenhayn, recently arrived of France”. And then I waited. I waited in the tap room watching the pale sun sink lower as the afternoon wore on.

At last, I saw the taverner’s son return and close behind, there was William. He pulled off his hat and swept back his long grey hair, his eyes searching about the room. I saw the lad point me out, sitting where I was, back to the wall. Still, William had not recognised me. He walked across the room, winding his way around the benches and stools until he stood before me.

“You have business with me, sir?” I looked up and watched as it dawned on him who I was. His mouth fell open and for an instant he was frozen in his place. “Sweet Jesus! My sweet Jesus!”

I pulled him down next to me on the bench. “Hush, brother!” I hissed. “Do not give the game away.”

He exhaled loudly and tossed his hat upon the table. “Have you gone quite mad? Why have you come? No, please... my heart sings to see you alive. I’m sorry.”

“I will tell all, William, but not here.”

We left and crossed the road, cutting through the churchyard and walking past the old barbican to the ruins of the ancient castle of Plympton Erle, following the foot path up the old motte. William had aged since we had last met, years ago. I knew that he had lost his seat in Parliament shortly after I had been exiled. I thought of all the fights we had had over the years, he for the Parliament while I stayed with the king. Now, he too was out of favour in this new world.