The Lady's Slipper (39 page)

The fog lifted but the sea had become as calm as water in a well; the sails would not fill and the ship bobbed in one place–a cork in a teacup, surrounded by her own detritus. The surface of the water was littered with discarded sacks and floating bottles, excrement and oily slicks of the caulk and tar used for repairs. They had been at sea two weeks. The horizon seemed a long way off–an expanse of dead flat, grey water, topped by a paler grey sky, separated by a vague muddy line.

Over the following days Geoffrey’s mind sometimes swam back towards them, and he would look at them with recognition, only to sink again and fall into a deep oblivion. Richard hardly spoke. He spent the nights pacing in Geoffrey’s chamber, would not come to bed. Anger was etched on his face but it was turned in on himself, so he closed himself to her. When she touched him, he shook her off with an excuse and walked away. Did he blame her, she wondered? Did he wish he had stood away instead of reaching for a sword?

Geoffrey’s madness she still did not fully understand. The man she had once invited into her summerhouse for chocolate was nowhere to be seen. She wondered, tussled it in her mind, finally accepting that she could find no answers. She wished he would die. Meanwhile she went on washing out his bandages, folding and refolding them; she set to, she scrubbed the bloodstained cot, brought in fresh rainwater from the barrels. She wielded a broom to the water on the floor and remembered old Margaret. Alice kept herself cloaked, and her head low whenever she ventured on deck, but she knew the men watched her as if she were a bad omen, blaming her for the lack of wind.

In a few days Geoffrey seemed to shrink, his cheeks sagged, his face was pale and veined as marble and clammy with sweat. He did not open his eyes. He would not get up again, that was clear. She gradually began to see him as the Geoffrey she used to know. Filled with sudden compassion, she knelt by his side and felt his forehead. She dabbed at his face with her sleeve, knowing that, unless some miracle should happen, he was going to die. And yet she was still alive; out of all this, she had been spared, and there was even now a chance for her and Richard. They, at least, had time–something that was slipping away from Geoffrey. Give me strength to make it right, she thought.

One morning she saw Richard take hold of Geoffrey’s hand between his palms and rub it, as if to kindle it to life. ‘What happened to us, Geoffrey?’ Richard said. ‘What happened to the two boys who used to fish together?’

All the fight had gone from Geoffrey. He was too weak to move. ‘War.’

The single syllable was barely audible. It sat between them with all the pain of the past knotted into its three letters. Alice looked on helplessly. She did not know what to do, was powerless to understand what was happening between these two men. She bit her lip. She was excluded. It was men’s history. Richard had said they were friends but it was more than that; she would never be able to understand fathers and forefathers carving out territories for their sons in blood.

‘It’s over. The war, I mean.’ Richard closed Geoffrey’s fingers in his own. ‘But thou must still fight, Geoffrey. Fight for thy life now.’ The vehemence of his words was startling in the quiet cabin. ‘I did not want to harm thee. I cut thee down because I feared to lose Alice. On account of love.’

Geoffrey roused himself and opened his eyes. ‘Love,’ he said. He tried to laugh. His voice took on new strength. ‘My son,’ he said between faltering breaths, ‘he shuns me and talks only of you.’

‘No, that’s surely not true.’

‘It is. You’ve turned him to your damned Quaker ways.’

‘No,’ said Richard. ‘Stephen will always be his father’s son. Boys are wayward. As we were, Geoffrey, when we were young.’

‘I am dying. I will never see my son again now.’

Richard shook his head. ‘No, old man, New England awaits thee.’

He got to his feet and turned to Alice. His eyes were full of self-reproach. He took a long shudder of a breath to get a hold of himself. ‘I swear, I did not know Stephen was his son. Not until the night of the firing of the barns. I thought I could put the bloodshed behind me. I thought to dodge its grip by joining the Quakers. But I am somehow come full circle.’

He returned to kneel by Geoffrey’s side, his jaw determined.

‘Geoffrey,’ he said, and he took hold of the side of the cot with white-knuckled fingers, ‘forgive me. I am a fool. Hold fast to life, friend, for we will soon be in New England, and thy plot in Virginia awaits thee, where the air is warm and the land fertile and the fruits drop sweet from the trees, and thou canst rest, and build a fine future for Stephen and thyself.’

Geoffrey nodded, his eyes closed, his breath ragged.

The wind picked up, the cabin toppled from fore to aft and water dripped through the ceiling from the deck above onto Geoffrey’s bed. Over the following week, the surgeon came and went, as did the Master. ‘By rights,’ he had said to Richard, ‘I should have you taken off and imprisoned for duelling. But the laws of England have no hold on us here–at sea we are betwixt lands, and we sailors see fit to make our own rules. And I’m prepared to turn my eye from this sorry matter so long as my men are paid.’ So the bustle of the ship went on above without them. They were silent, except for their prayers, caught in the thin thread of Geoffrey’s life. She marvelled that he could cling on for so long. Alice stopped reaching out for Richard, stopped expecting his touch in return. She watched the man she loved pass the days like a man of wood, blundering from one task to the next, seeing nothing, his gaze fixed on the rise and fall of Geoffrey’s chest. It was as if he was willing Geoffrey to stay alive, not for Geoffrey’s sake but for his own.

‘Let him die,’ Alice prayed at night in her empty bed, ‘oh merciful God, let him die, and Richard come back to me.’ Then she hated herself, and was more tender with Geoffrey than ever.

In the third week, she entered the cabin to see Richard had procured a flagon of rum. She spoke to him gently.

‘Is it for him? Or for thee?’

He swallowed hard. ‘I thought he was fighting, but he grows weaker. I cannot let him die.’

‘’Tis not in your hands.’

He took a drink from the bottle. ‘I should have made amends years ago. When Geoffrey and I first spoke harshly to one another. When I decided to support parliament against the king. You know, he thought it a dishonour, he could not comprehend my reasoning, that the common man should be able to govern his own affairs. And I could no more understand him, cleaving to the old order.’

‘We all hold to something,’ she said, ‘some vision, some story of a glorious future. You were both young and full of ideals.’ She tried to touch him on the shoulder but he flinched away.

‘What use are ideals to any of us now? We are just three more souls in a floating cask, caught in different ways between one world and another.’

Alice took the bottle from his hand. Then she poured water from the lidded jug into a cup and passed it down to him. ‘How can we know what lies ahead?’ She wiped a drop of water from the lip of the jug. ‘We can only deal with what is here before us. And we must let the past lie. Take this cup now, drink, and make sure he sups too, and suffers little.’

‘I will not let him die,’ he said.

‘The world has never bent to my will, and it will never bend to thine. Come away now, let him alone a while.’ She held out the cup again.

Richard drank, and said haltingly, ‘I do not deserve what I have. I cannot touch thee with blood on my hands.’

‘The blood was shed on my account. Do not torture thyself with harsh judgements. Even mortal sins can be forgiven. Jesus forgave the Iscariot, for without him the world would not have been changed.’ She reached out and placed her hand on his arm. ‘In pity’s name, Richard, we are far from home, and do not know what may yet befall us. We have only each other. Thou hast been so cold. As if thou wouldst begrudge me my life. But I miss thee, my love, I am an empty husk without thee. You promised me life, but a life like this is no life at all.’

He took tight hold of her. ‘I had lost sight of thee.’ He touched her cheek with a faltering hand and said, ‘Thou art my strength. I need thee to stand beside me, I am a fallen man without thee.’

He took her to their own cabin and his lovemaking was hot and urgent, and when it was finished he slept, peaceful at last, his head a dead weight on her shoulder.

The next day she awoke stiff, and when she went up onto the quarterdeck she could hear sounds from Geoffrey’s chamber. She pushed open his door and saw that he was sitting, his eyes very bright, a hot flush over his face. His bandage was frayed and bloody, and it was clear he had been scratching for his skin was full of weals. Alice rushed over to him to calm him.

‘’Tis I, Alice. Lie still whilst I fetch a cloth.’

‘What time is it?’ He looked around wildly, tried to get up but then sank back, too weak to hold himself up. He fingered the bandage as if puzzled it should be there.

‘What time is it?’ he repeated, distressed.

‘’Tis early yet,’ she replied, wringing out the muslin into the bowl. She pushed him gently back down and wiped carefully over the scratches with the cloth. He watched her for a moment like a child, but his skin was aflame with fever, the cloth grew warm in no time, and he could not lie still. He rocked from side to side, talking all the while, most of it nonsense, words Alice could not make out. It was clear he remembered nothing of earlier events. At one point he turned to Alice and asked her lucidly:

‘Will I die, Mother?’

Alice did not know how to reply, but he became distraught then, shouting out, ‘I’m not ready to die. Not yet, the old woman will pull me down, don’t let me go yet, I’m not ready.’

Richard, having sensed Alice had risen, arrived at the door, tousle-headed, his eyes still heavy with sleep. Geoffrey stopped his noise and stared as if trying to place him.

‘I know you.’

‘Yes.’ Richard went to him and leaned over, the better to hear. ‘It is Richard.’

‘Richard.’ He lay more quietly, his eyes wandering, accepting. ‘Where is my mother?’

‘She died a long while back. Lie quiet now and rest.’

Geoffrey slumped back, his mouth contorted in pain. When the spasm was over he said, ‘Richard, fetch the parson. I have need of him.’

‘’Tis all right. Rest now.’ Richard brushed the moment aside.

‘My mother is calling me,’ said Geoffrey. ‘I can hear her voice, she has a sweet voice, like the sound of the sea. Please, before it is too late, fetch the parson.’

Richard hesitated. Quakers did not hold with parsons or inter-cession with God. Alice watched him wrestle with himself, and nearly wept with relief when he finally nodded to her and she hurried above deck to find the cleric. At first the men were rowdy when she emerged from below, but when she asked in distress for the parson they fell silent and respectful. The parson hurried down the stairs, his black robe swinging above bare feet, a warped Bible in his arms.

When they entered the cabin Geoffrey’s breath was rattling in his chest. He was blue now around the lips, his cheeks grey with stubble, purplish stains under his eyes.

‘He asked for thee,’ said Richard to the parson. ‘I think he wanted to make his peace with God.’

‘Aye. It looks like it is time.’ He leaned over close to Geoffrey’s face. ‘The Lord bless and protect you. You wish to repent, and turn to God?’

There was no answer, the breath began to falter and rasp in his throat. Richard and the parson exchanged glances. Suddenly, Geoffrey’s eyes fluttered and looked up.

A word half formed on his lips. Richard spoke the name for him. ‘Yes. I’ll get word to him, tell him you love him.’

A silence descended in the chamber, a silence bigger than the slapping of the waves and the sound of the spume from the bow. The parson put his hand on Geoffrey’s forehead. ‘I anoint you thus, so may our heavenly Father show you an inward anointing of the Holy Spirit of his great mercy. May he forgive you your sins and release you from suffering. May he deliver you from all evil, preserve you in righteousness and bring you to everlasting life, through Jesus Christ our Lord.’

‘Amen.’ Richard’s was the only voice.

It was over. Thanks be to God. At last it was over.