The Crimson Ribbon (20 page)

Chapter 35

The next morning I set out early, leaving Lizzie in bed. She is weak and frail and refuses to eat, saying she must remain pure to receive God’s message. Nothing I say or do will tempt her. I tend her poor cut wrist, using a little salve to help the healing, and wrapping it with linen so the wound will not open again. I leave her with a chaste kiss on the forehead and a promise that I will do what I can to help her.

Outside the air is chill and the sharpness of the wind on the Thames takes my breath. At Blackfriars Steps I take a wherry upstream. So early in the day it is empty and the boatman whistles an old tune from the days of Queen Bess. It is one I know well: it takes me back to Ely, and the song of the men bringing in the sedge harvest, drifting across the flatlands. My memories carry me out onto the water, back to the Cromwell house, back to Master Oliver.

As we make our way, I watch the river waking up. People board the ferries that cross from bank to bank, patterning the waters in their wake. Barges sail alongside, making the most of the winter winds, taking goods from the docks in the east to the merchants and towns inland, to Abingdon and Oxford.

Here and there, on the north bank, smartly decked boats with liveried boatmen wait to take rich owners from their riverside homes. Behind me, the bridge looms in the mist. Charlotte, ever the lover of macabre gossip, has told me stories of boatmen killed in the currents as they try to shoot the tide between the great stone pillars. It looks ghostly enough now, wrapped in morning mist, like a winding sheet. I’m glad I do not need to travel that way.

The banks are silted, sludgy, like week-old pottage. The sky is flat and grey and the water is full of dead things. Bloated rats and carcasses of mangy dogs bob past, and I pray I will see nothing worse. The river might be the city’s lifeblood, but it can also be its graveyard.

Soon we come to a gathering of buildings on the north bank, topped by a hundred red-brick chimneys belching smoke into the clouds. I have arrived at Whitehall.

I have always imagined this palace of kings to be the most splendid of all, but it is almost as ramshackle as the Minories. As I make my way through a maze of alleyways, the place seems a chaos of buildings much like anywhere else in London. The people here go about their business with intent. I pass kitchen-boys, ostlers, gardeners and countless soldiers, but no one stops or questions me. I have to ask for Master Oliver’s quarters several times before I find a boy willing to show me the way for a few pennies.

The boy takes me away from the riverbank and we walk through dark-shadowed lanes and along cold stone corridors until I begin to think he is taking me out of the palace altogether, as some sort of trick. But then he shows me into a small room where a clerk broods behind a great wooden desk.

Black-clad men sit lined up on a bench, like crows on the branch of a tree, eyeing me as I approach and ask to see General Cromwell. I’m told to state my name and my business and the clerk makes much work of writing down my answers. He cannot say whether the general will see me and I must wait my turn with the rest.

I perch at the end of the bench. The men stare; one makes sucking noises and blows me foul kisses. But my wait is not a long one and they all gape when my name is called before theirs. A soldier takes me through more doors and corridors and into a large, plush room with high windows. He tells me to sit before the fire.

I have never been in so grand a room before. The ceiling is the height of three men, with swirling plasterwork painted in red and gold. The walls are panelled in richly carved oak. Tapestries of glittering yarn hold images of long-forgotten kings and queens. I long to run my fingers over the shimmering threads. Nothing so fine ever passed through Master Poole’s front parlour.

The fireplace is the largest I have ever seen. The mantel is covered with carvings of roses and vines. I notice a witch’s mark, scratched into the blackened wood near the floor, a talisman from the old days. There is a good blaze and I choose a chair, then sit and rub my hands together to banish the chill. The horsehair cushion creaks and rustles as I move. I cannot get comfortable. I do not belong in such a place. But there is no time to dwell on this. A door opens at the far end of the room and there is Master Oliver. He comes towards me, smiling, and enfolds my cold hands in his.

‘Ruth, it is good to see you again,’ he says.

I’m pleased to see that he wears the plain buff coat common among the army men and looks just as he did in Abingdon. There is no change in his bearing, no gold upon his jacket or jewels upon his fingers. His face, always craggy, is perhaps more deeply lined and his nose is reddened, as though it has been bitten by a Fenland gale, or warmed by too much wine, but I’m satisfied that he is not changed in essentials.

I drop into a deep curtsy. ‘Sir, thank you for seeing me.’

‘Please, sit. Will you breakfast with me?’ He beckons a boy and orders bread and cheese.

As we wait, I sit down again on the chair and he stands, rocking on his heels and warming himself before the flames. ‘What do you think of the place?’ he asks. ‘Quite splendid, is it not?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Quite unlike what we are used to.’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you ever think of our time in Ely? Of the old house and the times we had before all of this?’

‘Of course.’

‘There were some good times, long ago. Perhaps you were too young to remember.’

The boy enters with a tray of food. He places it on a small table at the fireside.

‘I prefer to eat by the hearth,’ Master Oliver says. ‘Somehow I cannot seem to get warm in this place. The wind whistles in the chimneys so.’

He dismisses the boy and cuts chunks of bread and cheese, filling one pewter plate and passing it to me before filling his own. I have not yet eaten but my stomach is clenched with nerves and the food sits untouched on my lap.

‘Are you well?’ he asks, taking the seat opposite mine.

‘Well enough.’

‘Good. And Mistress Poole?’

‘She is . . . she is recently bereaved. Her father . . .’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. I will pray for him. Is that what brings you back to London?’

‘Yes.’

‘And your house in Abingdon?’

‘Abingdon is finished for us.’

‘I see. Is that why you have come?’

I take a deep breath. ‘Sir, you have been very kind to me in the past.’

He flaps his hand as though dismissing the idea.

‘And you said to Mistress Poole that if we ever needed help we were to come to you.’

‘Indeed.’

‘I come to you now, sir, to ask for that help. For you were always a kind master to me and I believe you are a good and godly man.’

He puts his plate aside. ‘What kind of trouble are you in?’

‘None, sir. I come to petition you, as your humble servant, on behalf of Mistress Poole. She has received messages from God. I’m come to you in her stead, to beg that you listen to them.’ I’m trembling as I speak.

‘Calm yourself,’ he says. ‘Take a drink. No one will harm you here.’

He studies me as I take a sip from my mug.

‘Mistress Poole believes that she is chosen, sir. It is her purpose to speak out. If you listen to her messages, then she may be able to help you, in matters relating to the King.’

‘I see. And what form do these messages take?’

‘She has visions and dreams of what is to come.’

‘I will not lie to you, Ruth. I have heard her name mentioned in certain circles. My good friend and ally General Ireton collects her pamphlets, I believe. He takes a keen interest in such things, keeps a watchful eye on our radical friends. She claims to be a prophet, does she not? She draws attention to herself, I think.’

‘She has been blessed with this gift for some time. You will find none other so earnest.’

‘Tell me, what is the content of these visions?’

I bow my head, recalling the words now learned by rote. ‘God has warned her that the fate of the country is tied to the fate of the King. He has asked her to speak out.’

‘In support of the King?’

‘To ask for his life, sir. And to warn you of what evil will come to pass if that life is taken. She is to warn you of a terrible fate if God is so displeased, for no good can come of it.’

He stands and moves closer to the fire, hands behind his back. ‘I’m going to ask you a question, and be careful what you say, for you know I will not suffer pretenders. Is she truthful?’

The image of Lizzie, naked before the Pendarveses’ hearth, eyes glazed with lust, flickers in my mind. I swallow the lump that rises in my throat. ‘In this matter, I believe she is.’

He gazes into the flames. ‘They say such things in the streets, you know. The agitators still press their arguments. But all must submit to the God-given power of the army. God has brought us here.’ He turns to me. ‘Tell me, why should I listen to yet another prophet of doom, when I could pick from a hundred more out there on the streets? Why should I question my actions when I am convinced of Divine Providence?’

‘Because, sir, you are a man, like any other. And, in the matter of the King, you must have your doubts, just like the rest of us.’

He seems shocked at my boldness. Then he sits, wringing his hands. I notice that his fingers are gnarled and scarred with old wounds.

‘You have known me a long time,’ he says. ‘You knew me when I was but a simple farmer and you have seen me raised, by God’s grace, to this seat of power in which I now find myself. I never asked for aught of this. You know that, don’t you?’

‘Sir, I know you only as a servant knows her master.’

‘And yet you see into the very heart of me. You are right that I doubt. These last months I have spent many a night on my knees, praying that God grant me the wisdom and strength to do what must be done. I fear for the future, Ruth. I fear what must be done to secure peace in this country, what must be done in the name of God. All I can ask now is that He grants me the courage to see this thing through to the end. I am His servant, nothing more.’

He is silent then. After a few long minutes, he sits back and takes a swig from his cup. ‘I will see your friend,’ he says. ‘I will send for her when the time is right and we will see what is to be done.’

‘Oh, thank you, sir. Thank you.’

He puts up a hand to silence me. ‘Do not thank me. I take my guidance from God in this, as in everything.’

‘You will find us at Mistress Poole’s house at West St Paul’s,’ I say. ‘If you send word, we will be honoured to come whenever suits.’

He nods. ‘Indeed, but now you must go. There is much to be done.’

‘Of course.’ I stand and wrap my cloak around me. ‘Sir, I am grateful—’

‘There is no need for that between old friends.’ Again he takes my hands in his and holds me still for a second. I see sadness in his eyes and I know he is thinking of my mother. ‘I am pleased to see you so grown-up,’ he says.

My heart warms. It comforts me to know that Master Oliver, a man with such a great burden to bear, still has a care for me. Perhaps there is one person I can rely on after all.

A boy is waiting outside to take me back down the winding corridors and stinking passageways of the palace to the river steps. This time I’m glad to board a boat and set out on the gliding grey waters of the Thames, for it will take me east, home to Lizzie, with good news at last.

Chapter 36

My joy is presumptuous. We hear nothing from Master Oliver for weeks. Christmas comes and goes and January begins in the same way as December ends – with bated breath, the whole world waiting to learn the fate of the King. The trial is set, the commissioners who will sit in judgment are gathered, and the King is brought to Westminster. I begin to think that my visit to Whitehall was in vain.

But a letter comes at last, delivered by hand, stamped with Master Oliver’s seal. Lizzie, flushed with excitement, reads it aloud to me.

My dear Madam,

Would you be so good as to attend upon myself and my fellow Commissioners, tomorrow at Westminster Hall. This summons is issued in the understanding that you have received providential visions in matters relating to the trial of Charles Stuart. You have some support among the members of the Army Council, and we would hear what guidance you have for us in this most serious of undertakings.

Oliver Cromwell

Lizzie has what she wants. She will take part in the trial of the King. She hugs me. ‘They believe me, Ruth, they believe me!’

‘Master Oliver is a good and true man. I knew he would help us.’

‘Oh, Ruth, I am to be Parliament’s prophet. The whole world will see. Can there be better vindication than this? Just think, if I can help prevent such an awful fate, the whole country will be indebted to me. This cannot fail.’

‘If it is God’s will . . .’

‘Oh, Ruth! It is to you that I owe this. After everything, you have stood by me. You truly are my blessing, my own angel.’

Joseph was right. It seems I do have the ear of the most powerful man in the country. I am pleased by this, and glad that Lizzie has what she wants, but somehow I cannot share in her celebration. The anxiety that makes my stomach churn and my heart beat that little bit faster stays with me all that day and into the next.

And so it is as God’s messenger that Lizzie attends Westminster the next day. Of course, I go with her. We will never be parted. And, indeed, she squeezes my hand as if she will never let go.

Westminster is the centre of the world now and it seems that half the world is here. The public galleries in the Great Hall are full to bursting with people hoping for a glimpse of the King. They will be disappointed, for today’s court is a private one, held in the Painted Chamber and the King will not attend. Lizzie is not to have the audience she longs for.

After a long wait, we are shown into a grand room with a high, carved ceiling and whitewashed walls, hung with tapestries. At one end of the room, a great flock of judges makes up the Commission, every head crowned with a tall black hat. Word is that it has taken bribery and threats to persuade these men to sit in judgment upon their king. I am not surprised – I would not wish such responsibility on the worst of them. I find Master Oliver’s face among them and try to catch his eye. I wish I could thank him for keeping his word to me, but he is deep in conversation with the man next to him. I draw courage from the fact that he is here, and try to still my nerves.

In front of the Commission, two men sit behind a desk. One wears a thick red robe and leather hat with a band of iron. This must be Bradshaw, president of the High Court, whose name is on the lips of every gossipmonger in the town. The other, then, is Cooke, the solicitor, who is already made famous in the public galleries for his addresses to the King these last two days.

‘Mistress Poole, please step forward.’ Cooke sweeps his hand in a half-bow.

As Lizzie obeys she lets go of my hand and I have to stop myself bleating and reaching out to her, like a frightened child. She stands before the table. She looks so pale, with round spots of high colour where the blush rises. The thick layers of clothing that I have insisted upon have gone some way to padding out her thin body, but nothing can disguise the spindly bones of her hands or the slice of her cheekbones where once her face was plump. Standing opposite Bradshaw, who is seated like a lord on a red velvet chair, she looks as if she is the one on trial.

In that moment I care nothing for our quarrels; the pain she has caused me falls away. I feel nothing but love for her. My own cheeks burn and my skin prickles with nerves. I look to Master Oliver for reassurance, but he is staring intently at Lizzie.

Cooke addresses the room. ‘This woman claims to be the recipient of diverse visions and messages regarding the outcome of this trial. She wishes to recount these visions before the Commission as the Word of God, which is within her.’

I notice several of the judges frown. Bradshaw shows no reaction but inclines his head in assent.

Cooke turns to Lizzie. ‘Mistress Poole, you may begin.’

Lizzie lifts her head. I can see the blood coursing in the vein at her neck, and I know that her heart is pounding along with my own, but when she speaks, her voice does not betray it.

‘Good sirs, I am here to deliver a message from God Almighty,’ she says. ‘I am a humble woman, weak in body and in mind. But it is that very weakness that keeps me near to Him. I do not come to tell you what is right or wrong, for nothing can determine that save your own consciences, but ask only that you listen to His humble servant, that I might be a vessel for His Word. Sirs, although you may find Charles Stuart guilty of tyranny and treason against his people, you must let him live.’

I’m impressed by the strength and surety in her voice.

‘God would have me warn you that the death of the King would bring a great downfall for those who would wield the power in this country. A time of great suffering and retribution will follow, a time of boundless sin and devilry, unlike any we have seen before.’

A man in the stalls behind me mutters, ‘Superstition and nonsense. What has this to do with the law?’

‘I put it to you,’ Lizzie goes on, ‘that the King has care of his people, as a husband has care of his wife. We have bowed down to him and trusted him as our lord and protector, as a wife will obey her husband. It is true that Charles Stuart has broken these bonds of duty, and has betrayed his people, who entrusted him with their safekeeping. Indeed, any man might betray his wife in sin. But I never did hear that a wife might rise up against a betraying husband and cut off his head.’

A ripple of amusement runs through the men on the bench. There is spluttering and sniggering in the stalls behind me.

‘A godly wife would do best to pray that her husband may see the error in his ways and forsake his sin. In that same way, I say that we subjects have no right to break away from our half of the contract, and take this betrayer’s life, any more than a wife has that right over her betraying husband. We must rely on God and pray that He will deliver us safely and without more bloodshed.’

She pauses, swaying gently. I pray she will withstand, for if she faints now, it will be the end of her chance to be heard.

‘Mistress Poole,’ Cooke says. ‘You spoke of a vision of what will happen, should the King be put to death for his crimes.’

‘Yes.’

‘Pray tell us about that.’

‘The message I bring is this. The King is treasonous in his actions against his subjects, but that does not give you the right to take his life and set another in his place. You make yourselves the same as him by such an act. You will replace one kind of tyrant with another. And then there will be nothing but discontent and suffering among the people.’

The great black body of the Commission stirs as the men turn to one another, shifting in their seats. Someone cries out, ‘This is nothing more than sedition!’ He is hushed by those around him.

‘Mistress Poole,’ Bradshaw says. ‘We do not meet here to listen to rantings of a radical bent, but to determine the matter in hand, your communion with Our Lord. I ask that you leave your political leanings outside this room, and if you have nothing more to say, kindly leave us, that we may move on.’

‘I am His humble servant,’ Lizzie says, raising her voice, ‘and I come to you as only that, and nothing more. I speak for no one but God. I implore you to look deep into your hearts and know the truth. If you kill the King, you will be nothing more than traitors yourselves. And all traitors will meet the same fate in the end. All traitors will have a place in Hell . . .’ Her voice wavers. I will her to hold back her tears. These men will not suffer a weeping woman.

‘Mistress Poole,’ Bradshaw fails to hide the irritation in his voice, ‘it seems your message is founded in nothing more than the malicious accusations to be heard on every street corner from here to Smithfield. This court does not have the liberty to indulge false prophets. Are your words truly the result of a divine intervention or are these opinions merely your own?’

Lizzie does not hesitate. ‘Both, sir. They are both!’

The commissioners erupt into a sea of catcalls and eye-rolling. But Bradshaw looks grim. He shakes his head. ‘Take her away,’ he says. ‘I will hear no more of this.’

Two guards step forward and take Lizzie by each arm, as though she is a prisoner. She shrugs them off. Still she is defiant. ‘You will suffer for this, sirs! You will all burn for this!’

As I follow Lizzie to the door, I look for Master Oliver. Surely he will defend us now. But I cannot find his face among those on the bench.