The Lady's Slipper (15 page)

Isaac took off his coat and they lay them out flat on the ground. Jack and another man helped them lift Felicia’s body onto the coats. Then the four men lifted the sleeves, making a sling, and carried her sombrely down the hill. The band of Quakers followed, bare-headed for once, and walking slowly, as a mark of respect, followed by the rest of the spectators trying to get a look at the body. Everyone crowded round the carriage as Felicia was laid inside on the back seat. Dorothy looked to Richard. She spoke matter-of-factly.

‘There is nothing more to be done. Isaac will accompany us home, where we will make all the necessary arrangements.’

Richard winced. She did not need him, he was being dismissed.

She turned to the little group of Friends. ‘Best for you all to go to your homes now. We will honour Felicia’s life at the evening meeting.’ Climbing stiffly onto the front seat with Isaac, she signalled the driver to set the horses going.

Richard turned away and heard the clopping of the horses’ hooves as the carriage moved off. He walked back up the street and sat down on a piece of the tumbledown wall to gather his thoughts. His boot traced a pattern over the damp cobbles. He had almost lost control of his temper and got into a brawl. He thought of Dorothy’s notion of the ‘watchman’. He was supposed to be alert at all times, looking out for moments like these, when evil could creep in unbidden. Richard knew his watchman had been asleep and he felt ashamed. He had let Dorothy down at a time when she needed his support. He raised his head and looked down the street. From his vantage point he could see the people begin to disperse, now there was nothing more to see.

‘Friends!’ Jack’s voice rose, strident above the chatter of the crowd. Never one to miss an opportunity, there he was, standing on a mounting block, his face shining with zeal. His wife Hannah was on the lower step, looking up to him with her brown eyes wide. Some people turned back to stare at them. Richard was uneasy; surely he wasn’t going to witness to God now?

He heard Jack launch into speech. ‘I spit in the face of death! Why? Because there is no death in God’s kingdom.’

‘Then why was that woman stiff as a besom?’ called the lad from the crowd, sniggering to his companions.

‘Whilst she was alive, Christ lived in her, and now he lives in each of us, if we hearken to our inner voice.’ Richard saw Hannah climb another step up on the mounting block. She was warming to his theme and wanted to have her say.

‘Cast away the lessons of priests and parsons,’ she said. ‘There is no church and no God, but He who lives in each of you at this very moment!’

‘Heresy. The woman is speaking heresy. She said there was no God.’ A man pushed towards the mounting block and aimed a gobbet of spit at Hannah’s face. Richard sprang to his feet and started to run down the street. The mood of the gathered people had shifted without warning; a tide was on the turn. Now it was sullen, the dissent spreading like a bruise.

Richard saw that Jack was still talking, oblivious to the change in the crowd. He saw one of the men pick up a spade from a shop doorway.

‘Jack!’ he called out. But Jack did not hear him.

‘I strip myself of all outside trappings, of all that perishes, of goods, profession, clothes. Yea, even the church itself, for there is no God except Him that lives in me.’ Jack paused, for dramatic effect. ‘Henceforth I shall go in the streets unclothed, as a sign that I give up all material goods.’ Richard was nearly at the bottom of the hill. He saw Jack strip away his woollen waistcoat as the crowd watched, half horrified, half fascinated.

‘God does not live in your steeple-houses,’ Hannah cried, ‘but in the human heart!’

‘Let this be a sign.’ Jack threw off his shirt and bared his torso. His thin chest was white against the red sandstone of the prison walls.

‘Get him!’

The hoarse cry from the back was answered by the crowd surging forward like a pack of terriers, their hands grabbing for him, eyes wild, mouths wide open in snarls of abuse.

Richard saw Jack’s look of astonishment before the crowd swept forward and Jack disappeared under a mass of shouting men. Richard tried to push his way through the crowd, but their blood was up and they had their quarry in their sights. With dread Richard saw that one man was armed with a spade, another with a broken bottle. On the other side of the street he caught sight of Hannah. She scrabbled to pull the people away but she was thrown to one side.

‘Stop,’ she sobbed. ‘In pity’s name, stop!’

A man grabbed her by the hair and punched her in the mouth. She staggered before she slumped to the ground. ‘That’ll stop your mewling, you little heathen.’ Richard tried to break out of the crush of bodies to get to Hannah but he was being carried along.

Richard could not see Jack or hear his voice. He had no idea where he was but kept trying to push his way into the centre of the crowd. His sword hand felt empty and useless. With teeth gritted in frustration he forced his way to the centre, where he could see glimpses of Jack’s white chest. Already it was cut and bruised and oozing blood. Richard muscled through and tried to shield him with his back. A glancing blow from the spade caught Richard between the shoulder blades and he keeled over in pain.

In the confusion he had not heard the sound of running boots, but then an explosion and the smell of shot made the crowd panic and start to fall away. The constable and his men surrounded them. Smoke hung in wisps where the gun had been fired. Richard continued to shield Jack with his shoulders. Those in the act of beating them turned their heads to see what was happening.

‘Stand up,’ the voice commanded. Richard stood up and faced the approaching men. Jack lay at his feet, bubbles of blood forming round his mouth. From the corner of his eye Richard watched the people on the outskirts of the crowd scuttle away like insects, back to their holes.

‘Stay where you are.’

The rest of the crowd stopped in their tracks and stood still. Jack was moaning and could not stand. His face was unrecognizable, his shoulders and chest a mass of cuts and bruises, one arm lying at an odd angle as if somehow disconnected from his body.

‘Was this man causing a disturbance?’ The constable pointed to Jack.

‘No,’ Richard said. ‘He was preaching, and they set upon him.’

‘You,’ said the constable, turning his ferret-like face to a man in the crowd, ‘what do you say?’

The man spat onto the ground. ‘Aye. He’s only himself to blame. Blasphemous bugger. Started strippin’ off his shirt, tellin’ us that he’s got Christ inside of him.’

‘Deserved all he got,’ the coal-haired man said.

‘Aye.’ Richard heard murmurs of righteous assent ripple through the crowd.

‘Does that make it right that he should be flayed within an inch of his life and his wife punched to the ground?’ Richard raised his voice.

‘You keep quiet,’ the constable said. He pointed to Jack. ‘Put the irons on him and fetch his wife alongside, there will be no more rabble-rousing this day. We’ll detain them at his majesty’s pleasure.’

‘But someone should attend to his wounds.’

‘Do you wish to join them, sir?’ There was laughter from the crowd. A pause. Richard flushed.

‘Yes. If that is the only way that someone will attend them, then yes, arrest me. I will go with them gladly.’

‘He’s moon mad,’ said a woman near the front, wagging her finger next to her temple.

‘Step away, sir,’ the constable said. ‘The prison is not an apothecary’s house, nor an inn for your pleasure.’

Richard stayed where he was, bending over Jack, who was writhing on the ground, and talked gently to him. ‘Jack. ’Tis I, Richard. I’m here.’ He was at a loss what to do; Jack was badly beaten, his wounds needed washing and dressing. His hair was dark and matted with blood. Jack tried to speak but blood was filling his mouth and no words would come.

‘Chain him.’

Richard was forced to watch the constable’s men put irons on Jack’s wrists. Two of the men took hold of Richard by the arms and roughly dragged him to one side, holding him firm. He heard Jack groan as the limp arm was wrenched up and roughly bound to the other by iron chains. It hung uselessly, like a leather washcloth. Hannah was dragged alongside him, half conscious, one side of her face a mess of blood, her blouse stained with streaks of it, but she was too groggy to protest.

‘Let me go with them, I can vouch for them, and they are personal friends of Lady Swainson,’ Richard said, standing in their path.

‘That cuts not a shilling’s difference with me. Now get out of the way. Or I’ll order the men to shoot.’

The men raised their muskets. Richard spoke quickly to Jack. ‘We will not rest till thou art released,’ he said.

‘Like Felicia,’ laughed Hannah bitterly through broken teeth, ‘to be buried.’

‘Dearest Friend, it will not come to that.’

They hoisted Jack roughly onto a cart and the constable shackled Hannah to the bars of the tailgate, and they were goaded back towards the castle. Richard felt faint and sick. He followed as the horrible procession filed up the hill towards the gaol, the crowd’s taunts in his ears. Good God in His mercy. What would he tell Dorothy?

‘Let me look at you.’ Emilia stood on the stone steps, and grasped Stephen by both arms, smiling down at him.

‘My dear Mother, you haven’t changed at all. You look in fine health.’ Stephen pulled away and bent to kiss her on the back of the hand.

‘And you, my son, how are you? I take it you are well?’

He smiled back at her, with an expression of delight. ‘I am glad to be here. The Westmorland air is so much purer. London is full of foul odours and lung-retching smoke. No wonder people are stricken–the pestilence is carried in the air, I am sure of it.’

Emilia frowned, patting him on the arm.

‘And people will burn that stenching sea-coal,’ he went on. ‘It makes me cough. I was glad to see your stack of timber by the stables.’

‘Come on into the house. Your father has redecorated all the chambers with green leather and gilt, a pot-headed idea he had from the houses in Antwerp. Come and see how brazen it looks.’

‘Where is Father?’

‘He is out at a meeting with the stewards. He is hardly ever at home, and when he is, he goes to his chambers and puddles his senses with wine. He seems even worse these days. He’s taken up with some new salve he is making. Spends hours locked in his chambers. Some days he seems hardly sensible.’ She shook her head.

‘The stewards seem to want to do nothing else but fester in meetings all day long. It sounds like a pretty dull life to me. Father should get more of a grip on them.’

‘Have a care, Stephen. Show a little respect to your father.’

‘Let us go in then, I will greet him later–’ he winked at his mother from under lopsided blond hair–‘before he partakes of the wine. Have Patterson tell him I am here, and will be sleeping in the red chamber.’

‘Yes, Stephen. It is so good to have you home. You have thickened out, and I can see you would have a fine beard coming, were it not for the barber.’

‘Oh, Mother, do not be impertinent–you make me sound like a child.’ He rubbed his chin, feeling the fine blond stubble. Then he grinned at her. ‘Come along, you had better show me these famous wall-hangings.’

They went inside arm in arm.

Geoffrey was in a good mood. He could scarcely believe it, but the itching had abated, thanks to the new infusion, and it was good to see his son. Stephen looked older and seemed more confident than when he had last seen him. He showed him the new drawing room, where he made much of their new gilded leather panels, the latest elegant design from the Low Countries. When they got to his chambers, Geoffrey was delighted to find that Stephen sat politely and seemed to listen well as he recounted the day’s events. London must have done him some good. He was glad, for it would not do for him to emulate Emilia’s coarse habits and way of speaking. Geoffrey explained how he had agreed to move the boundary hedges and had been reassured of a bigger income for the New Year, but that the decision was not popular.

‘Will the changes provoke strife then, sir?’

‘Some of the tenants will no doubt stir up a dust storm, as they will be losing a proportion of their land to the new divisions. But then they are always griping about something–at least now they will have something of consequence to complain about.’

‘Mother tells me there’s been a deal of trouble of late with our tenants.’

Geoffrey outlined the incident in the church and Felicia’s subsequent arrest. ‘I have heard today that she died in gaol, of a fever. It sparked off another disturbance–a lynching in Lancaster Town, with two more arrested. And what is even more disquieting is that, according to the servants, Richard Wheeler was there.’

‘His name sounds familiar–who is he?’

‘You are too young to remember him. You were four years old when he left Westmorland. He is a man who was once a good friend of the family but has turned traitor. He is not worth my breath. But he was one of Cromwell’s men and is hatching another rebellion against the Crown, of that I am certain.’

Geoffrey told Stephen about the Westmorland Committee, and of Lord Esham’s suggestion that someone should infiltrate the meetings at Lingfell Hall.

When he told Stephen they had been unable to find anyone suitable, Stephen stood up. ‘But, sir, did you not think of me?’ His face was eager, like a pup on the scent of a fox. ‘I am the ideal man for the task,’ he said, caught up in the romance of the idea. ‘I am loyal and discreet, and even if it does sound boastful, I am quite an actor.’

‘No,’ Geoffrey said, taken aback. ‘Quite unthinkable. Not until whores drink holy water.’

‘But, sir, why not? Am I not to be trusted?’

Geoffrey shook his head in annoyance. His son was more naive than he thought. ‘Of course I trust you, it is that nest of adders at the Hall I do not trust. I have seen what Richard Wheeler and his Puritan friends are capable of. It is too great a risk to put my own son there.’

‘But I thought the Quakers were peaceable–fools perhaps, heretics even, but not dangerous, surely?’

‘Do not underestimate them.’ Geoffrey shook his head. ‘This is a serious matter. You do not know what you are dealing with. Wheeler’s regiment seized Cartington Castle, his men tortured and raped on his orders, he is a cold and heartless man. And as for Lady Swainson, she used to be for the king before the war. Then she turned traitor. She has been often to court, yet now she sups with farm labourers and scullions. Why would she be harbouring these crop-eared Roundheads, and why has there been rioting and scuffles on the street involving her friends?’ He shook his head again. ‘No, they are amassing, and we do not know what they intend to do. Wheeler has Lady Swainson in his thrall and who knows what might happen? I say again, you are too young, and the risks too great.’