A Corruptible Crown

by Gillian Bradshaw

  Brother,

  I pray God you are in health, and have food enowe. Our Sisters send their deerest love. We have hadde here an upsett whych has done much to reconsile our Father to you, for Sir D. of the Countie Committee came hither and sayde that because Nick had gone to fight for the King at Maydstone, we might be reckoned as Delinquents; and that if we wished to scape this Fate we must obtaine a Certificate of the Countie Committee, i.e., Sir D. In short, he demanded that we give him £200 or suffer the Threat of Sequestration. Father was in such Furie that he scarce cd Speak, but Kate prevayled upon him to goe to his Studie and let me deal with the matter. ‘Sir,’ says I, ‘tis true my brother Nick fought and dyed at Maydstone, but my brother Jamie is even now fighting ’gainst the Cavaliers at Pomfrett, after serving all Summer before Colchester, besides suffering Wounds at Naseby in the first Warre. ’Twould be a shameful thing indeed, if he shd return from the Warres and find his House Sequestrated for Delinquencie!’

  At this the Rogue was throwne into Confusion, and he asked three Severall times if it were true; and I gave him manie Particulars of your Service, and showed him your last letter, wherein you sayd that yr Rgmt wd goe North. Att length he saw that his Trick would not Serve, and sayd, ‘Well, he hadde not knowne it, and he was glad to learn that the Hudsons had so Loyall a sonne,’ and off he slunk like a whipt Curre.

  When I went to Father and told him of it, he knewe not what to saye, he had never thought yr Service cd be so strong a Shield. I told him that you served now onlie to Shield us, since you longed to leave the Armie but durst not until you obtained a Discharge, since without that they wd pursue you and afflict us. I told him besides you wd most gladly make Peace with him, but that you feared he wd nott Let be, but pick at the Quarrel ever and anon; and I sayde I feared that too. He was much Afflicted, and at length sayde that he hadde never intended to be so Uncharitable, and that for his Part he wished you at home. Then I reminded him of your Wife, whom you had Perforce left unprotected in Lundon, but who preferred working with her owne handes to taking from us aught that hadde not his Blessing. This had shamed him when first I reported it, and at last he yeelded, and agreed that I might goe to Lundon and fetch her hither to stay at least so longe as you are at the Warre. He sayes, tho’, that he hopes when you do obtaine yr Discharge you will come home, and he will strive to let old Quarrells sleep.

  I will soone leave for Lundon to fetche yr Lucie home; and I hope, Brother, soone to see you beside her in your owne place.

  Yr loving Brother,

  Robert

  Jamie looked for a date, but there wasn’t one. He read the letter over again, with steadily increasing unease, searching for some clue as to when it had been written. Post to and from Bourne was frequently delayed. The post route ran along the Great North Road, and the little town lay to the east of that. Letters usually stopped at Stamford, and could languish there for days before a carrier took them on along the country tracks. Clearly, Rob hadn’t heard the news of Rainsborough’s murder, still less received Jamie’s letter giving him the news of his discharge.

  The idea of Lucy safe in Bourne was one he had contemplated many times, with longing, if always with some uneasiness. Now that Rob was offering to make it a reality, he saw it for what it was: bad. He tried to imagine Lucy sitting with his sister Peggy and sister-in-law Kate and doing embroidery. It was just about possible, but he couldn’t imagine her smiling over it. He suddenly saw that when he married her she had acquired a double in his mind called ‘my wife’. ‘My wife’ had the conventional feminine virtues of modesty and obedience; Lucy, on the contrary, was bold and outspoken, and he loved her for it. His father would not: they would quarrel, that was certain. His father would feel that his attempt at reconciliation had been thrown in his face, and would be hurt and outraged. Rob would side with their father. Lucy would – God knew! Walk out of the house, probably, and try to make her way back to London on foot, with who knew what terrible consequences? A wise man would have been determined to keep her and George Hudson as far away from one another as possible, but he, foolish Jamie Hudson, had wailed to his brother about how unsafe she was in London!

  He read Rob’s letter again, looking for some way to fend off the impending disaster. There seemed no way he could reach his brother in time to tell him Whatever you do, don’t fetch her to Bourne! It occurred to him, though, that the letter he’d sent to Lucy might already have saved the situation. If she’d received it, she would tell Rob that Jamie had been discharged and would soon be home.

  Letters, though, often went astray; he couldn’t rely on her having received it. If she hadn’t, would she really go home with Rob? He very much doubted she would want to, but she’d probably feel she had no choice. She might, though, ask for a delay, to set her affairs in London in order. Yes, she might well do that. That would mean he had time to write again, to her and to Rob, repeating that he was on his way home . . .

  Home. He suddenly realized that that meant Lucy, that all the time he’d been planning his journey back, he had not once considered stopping in Bourne – only a few miles from his road. Instead, his entire mind had been fixed on Lucy, as though all the world were waste, and he a ghost, until she was in his arms.

  He could walk to Bourne. It was half as far as London. If he pushed hard he could walk there in four days. He wouldn’t even have to sleep in haystacks: twenty shillings ought to cover three nights’ lodging. How utterly stupid, not to have thought of Bourne! Of course, he’d believed himself still banned from his father’s presence – but he should have thought of stopping in Stamford, and sending a note asking his brother to lend him money and a horse. He supposed it was his cursed pride again. He’d been determined to make his own way, and he’d dreaded letting the people at home see his disfigurement. Well, pride be damned. He would set out for Bourne first thing in the morning, and hope that he arrived there before Lucy did.

  It was still dark when he left Doncaster. He’d said goodbye to his friends the night before, and set his pack by the door of the smithy, ready for the morning. There wasn’t much in it; he was wearing most of the clothes his sisters had sent that summer, in fat layers against the cold of late autumn. The pack contained only the odds and ends: one clean shirt; a pair of stockings in need of darning; a heel of bread and a flask of water; his discharge papers and a bundle of salvaged letters. His boots were sound; Sam had stapled up the split in the left upper and added some hobnails to protect the soles. He had a sword, too, a good plain serviceable hanger that had been sent to the smithy for mending and never reclaimed. Setting out on a long journey alone and unarmed was a bad idea even in peacetime.

  The journey, in the end, was uneventful, and on the evening of the fourth day after leaving Doncaster he arrived in Bourne. The small marketplace was empty. Night was falling, and people were indoors by the fire. Jamie walked along the muddy street, his footsteps quiet on the soft ground, feeling like a ghost. There was the Swan and Bull, the tavern where he and his friends had so often met; there was St Peter’s Pool, and the Wellhead; over there beyond the church was the long receding line of Carr Dyke, where he used to fish, with the fens black and silent beyond it. And here, here beyond the town proper – the manor.

  He stopped in the gateway, swallowing, looking at the dark bulk of the house looming out of the dusk. Candlelight shone from a downstairs window. That was the dining room, so the family must be sitting down to supper. He stood watching for a long time, his feet growing numb with cold. Now that he’d finally reached his goal he wished he were anywhere else. At last, though, he made himself take the remaining steps forward and knock upon the door.

  He recognized the woman who came with a candle to open it: old Molly, the butler’s mother. She, however, recoiled at the sight of him, and slammed the door in his face. ‘Be off with you!’ she ordered from behind it. ‘Trouble us and you’ll get nought but a whipping!’

  He set his good hand against the cold oak panel. ‘Molly?’ he asked hoarsely. ‘Mrs Carlew?
’

  There was a silence, and then her voice said uncertainly, ‘Who’s there?’

  He cleared his throat. ‘Jamie. James Hudson. Is Rob . . .’

  The door flew open again and Molly stared up at him, raising her candlestick. ‘Dear God above!’ she exclaimed. ‘Dear God. Oh, Master James, what have they done to you?’

  She was almost in tears, and he felt a strong desire to turn around and walk off into the night. Instead he stamped the mud from his boots and came in.

  There was a flurry of footsteps, and another familiar face appeared in the hall: Alexander Carlew, Molly’s son, the butler. He stopped at the sight of Jamie, his face hardening – until his mother cried, ‘It’s Master James, Sandy!’ and the hardness was replaced with horror.

  The door was still open. The draught through it was threatening to extinguish the candle, though, and Molly finally closed it; the clunk of the panel in the frame caused Jamie an irrational stab of panic. Then the door to the dining room opened, and his father appeared.

  He’d aged since Jamie saw him last: his hair was mostly grey, his face was deeply lined, and he’d lost weight. Jamie was grimly certain, however, that however much the years had marked his father, they’d marked him more. A pretty young woman appeared at his father’s shoulder, and after a moment he recognized his sister Peggy. Father and sister stared at him for a long moment, and he stared back. He knew that he should greet them and try to smile – but he couldn’t.

  ‘Jamie?’ breathed his father at last.

  ‘Aye,’ he agreed, and took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘I am sorry to . . .’

  ‘Oh, Jamie!’ his sister cried, and she ran forward and flung her arms around him.

  She caught the sore arm, and he flinched and gave an involuntary gasp of pain. Peggy let go and stood back, gazing at him in dismay. His father staggered forward and clutched his arm – the good arm, fortunately. ‘Have you leave to be here?’ he demanded.

  ‘Aye,’ he said, struggling to force words from his tight throat. ‘I was discharged.’

  ‘Discharged?’ asked George Hudson querulously. ‘Rob said it was denied!’

  ‘Last summer it was,’ Jamie said. ‘But the colonel granted it at last.’ His father continued to stare at him, and he added, ‘I’ve the discharge papers in my pack if you doubt my word.’

  George Hudson opened his mouth and then closed it again. Another figure appeared from the dining room, a stout, stooped woman in a plain dark gown. Jamie had no time to work out who she was because Peggy tried to take his bad arm. He flinched back against the door. ‘Please, Pegling! I’ve a cut there.’

  ‘A cut?’ asked Peggy.

  ‘A graze. It’s sore.’

  ‘Oh Jamie!’ cried Peggy, and shook her hands in the air, baffled in the need to touch him.

  He was suddenly mortified to tears: his little sister had run to embrace him despite his disfigurement and filth, and he’d pushed her away. ‘Oh, Peggy!’ he said, and caught one of those hands with his good one. ‘Oh, I am glad to see you again! And grown into such a lovely woman!’

  She burst into tears and threw her arms around him again, this time avoiding the bad arm.

  ‘Rob’s gone to London to fetch home your wife,’ said the woman who’d come in last, and Jamie finally recognized her as Rob’s wife, Kate.

  ‘I know. I’d a letter from him, five days gone,’ he replied, ineffectually patting Peggy on the back.

  ‘You truly are discharged?’ asked his father.

  ‘Aye. I’d meant to follow my colonel’s coffin to London, but I was required as witness in a court martial.’ The pressure on his heart was easing, and the words came a bit more readily.

  ‘Your colonel’s funeral cortege passed through Stamford last week,’ sniffed Peggy, at last breaking away from him. ‘There were a dozen coaches, and more than a hundred horsemen!’

  ‘Colonel Rainsborough was a great man,’ replied Jamie.

  His father stiffened, and they looked at one another. Then George Hudson twitched his shoulders and asked, in a strained voice, ‘Does your horse need stabling?’

  ‘I came on foot,’ Jamie told him, astonished and grateful.

  ‘Clear from Doncaster?’ asked his father, shocked. ‘In five days?’

  ‘Four,’ said Jamie simply. ‘I’ve grown used to hard marches. But I am very weary.’

  ‘You look . . .’ His father thought better of whatever-it-was he’d been about to say, and instead asked, ‘Have you supped?’

  They brought him into the dining room, sat him down at the familiar table and brought him soup and bread and butter – a thick, satisfying soup of bacon and barley, with soft wheat bread and sweet creamy butter, not like the stuff in the camps. He began to eat it slowly, relishing each mouthful.

  ‘Rob told us of your maiming, and that you looked ill and starveling,’ George Hudson said, watching him. ‘But I’d not . . . I’d not . . .’ He stopped abruptly, and pinched the bridge of his nose, then, voice cracking, cried, ‘Dear God, boy, why did you not ask for help? I’d have sent more money, had I known!’

  Jamie set down his spoon. ‘I’ve not come to beg from you, sir.’ Years of resentment bubbled up, and he went on defiantly, ‘I’d not have come here now, but that Rob’s letter led me to think you were willing to forgo your old demand that I submit my judgement to yours and condemn all I’ve fought for!’ As soon as the words were out he regretted them. His father was trying not to quarrel; he ought to do the same.

  George Hudson waved the argument away distractedly. ‘I thought the King would win! I thought you’d be home within a year, with that cursed pride chastened, ready to heed your father and be a good dutiful son! I never thought . . .’ He drew a deep breath, and to Jamie’s shock and dismay there were tears in his eyes. ‘I never thought it would go on so long! I never believed that the very world could contain all the grief and horror wrought by this terrible war!’

  ‘Nor did I,’ Jamie said truthfully. ‘As for chastened, Father, I promise you, I am.’

  His father seized his good arm again, pressing it hard. ‘Oh, my poor boy!’ he exclaimed, and wept.

  Jamie slept that night on clean linen in his own bed. When dawn came he woke briefly, out of habit, then rolled over and went back to sleep. He was still asleep at mid-morning when his father burst into the room waving a piece of paper and shouting, ‘What’s this about an arrest?’

  Jamie sat bolt upright, looked about wildly for his sword – then remembered where he was. He stared at his father stupidly.

  His father stared back, paper frozen mid-flourish, face full of alarm. Jamie looked down to see what he was staring at, and saw only his own torso, the ribs painfully sharp under the pale skin. He’d stripped off his filthy clothing the night before, and the servants had taken it away to be washed.

  ‘What’s that on your arm?’ asked George Hudson.

  Jamie glanced at the bandage: it was sweat-stained and dirty now, spotted with blood where the constant chafing had rubbed against the stitches. ‘I told you I’d been shot,’ he said.

  ‘Great God in Heaven, you did not!’ cried his father, hurrying over to the bed.

  Jamie was sure he’d said something about it, but the evening had lost all coherence for him after his father broke down in tears. ‘It’s but a graze.’

  ‘Let me see!’ snarled George Hudson, tugging at the knots on the bandage. Jamie gasped and jerked away, and his father stepped back, glaring. ‘Tell me the truth, Jamie: have you been discharged or have you fled?’

  ‘I offered you sight of the papers!’ said Jamie indignantly. ‘I am discharged wounded. Does my word weigh nothing with you?’

  ‘Then what’s this Rob says about an arrest?’ his father demanded, picking up the paper, which he’d dropped.

  Jamie grabbed the coverlet and hauled it up over his shoulders. There was no fire in the bedroom, and the November morning was cold. ‘Give me leave a moment,’ he said. ‘Sir. I was asleep. Is Rob back, then?’ A su
dden thrill swept him, and he asked breathlessly, ‘Is Lucy here?’

  ‘Nay!’ said George Hudson impatiently. ‘Rob has sent us a letter from Stamford, saying that your wife had had word, from you, that you’d been arrested because of some quarrel between commanders in your Army. He sent this note in haste, on his way north to rescue you!’

  Jamie blinked several times, trying to work out how Rob could possibly have got the idea he needed to be rescued. ‘Oh,’ he said at last. ‘Aye. I was arrested, but the arrest was unlawful. ’Twas for that I was called as a witness in the court martial.’

  ‘What court martial?’

  ‘I told you I meant to follow Colonel Rainsborough’s coffin, but was delayed by a court martial!’ Jamie protested.

  His father scowled. ‘Perhaps you said something of it, but I could scarce pay any heed, with the surprise of your sudden arrival, in such a pitiful state! And I recall nothing about being shot! Let me see!’ He made another move toward the bandage.

  Jamie fended him off. ‘Father, I beg you! It’s mending, but the knots are stiff and the arm’s sore. Let Molly take the scissors to it. I am very sorry that my brother will have a ride to Doncaster and back for nought, but I am at a loss to explain why he should think I needed rescue! I had writ Lucy – and Rob! – to say that I had my discharge, but that my return must wait upon a court martial to be held for a captain who had unlawfully ordered me arrested . . .’ He trailed off. He couldn’t remember exactly what he’d written, but he was beginning to see the source of the confusion.

  ‘There’s a letter from you to Rob downstairs,’ said George Hudson. ‘It came after he left for London. I didn’t meddle with it.’ He scowled. ‘I’ll have the whole tale from you – but first I’ll fetch Molly to tend that cut. Shot! And not a word of it over supper!’

  He went out. Jamie scrambled out of bed, found his pack, and put on his last clean shirt. He looked around for breeches, but saw none. He climbed back into bed just as his father returned with Molly.