The Child From the Sea

by Elizabeth Goudge

  William went with him; not that he could see any reason for concern but two men were better in the streets than one. They pushed their way through the crowd outside William’s door and made their way to the church. It was pitch dark inside but again there was a flicker of light in the east window, and there was no lightning tonight. Robert gave an exclamation of disappointment and they went out again.

  “I know in which street he lives,” said William.

  “You know? How?” Robert asked sharply.

  “I told you before I would give much to know about the old man. A couple of days ago I asked one of the girls at the Garden, the one Lucy used to buy posies from, if she knew where he lived. She said Fish Street, near the Tower. She knew because she had seen him there one day. But she did not know which house.”

  “We will go to Fish Street,” said Robert.

  William groaned inwardly at the contrariness of fate. The other night, with the ale in him, he had been spoiling for a row of some sort and Robert had thwarted it, but tonight when he was dead sober and wanted to keep his eye on the mob outside the Palace in case they did something to the children, Robert was all agog for trouble. Nevertheless he knew he could do nothing to protect the children and he might be able to do a good deal to protect Robert. So he shrugged, loosened his knife in its sheath at his belt and followed Robert down to the river.

  It was still early, the hour of the first pale stars, and the watermen were busy; they were busy until after dark these days for with the streets so disturbed the river was the safest and quickest thoroughfare. They had not to wait long for a boat and were soon out on the water. They looked back and saw Whitehall blazing with light. No sleep there tonight, thought Robert. He could not know that inside the Palace the Catholic servants of the Queen were making their last confessions, expecting that at any moment the mob would storm the Palace. What he did know was that for the King, whatever he decided, this would be the most appalling night of his life.

  They passed down the river and under London Bridge almost in silence, and it was a strange experience; the tumultuous city was so close to them yet out on the water with the calm pale sky arched overhead they seemed so far removed from it. It was, Robert thought, as though they had already died and were being carried by the great river to an unknown infinity of peace. Then the Tower came in sight and he remembered that, when he had come to it with Lucy, John Hampden and John Pym had just been released from it. There were different men in there tonight, with a new Lieutenant to guard them. That fact alone showed where now the power lay. A few lights lit the Tower walls. Was one of them his? A shock of awareness shattered Robert’s peacefulness. For the man in there death was no remote fantasy. It was staring him in the face.

  When they came to the Tower steps the twilight had almost faded. There was a glow of fire in the sky and smoke from it almost obscured the faint stars. They landed and fought their way through the mob of apprentices coming in the opposite direction. Intent on getting through they forgot the fire until they became entangled in a different crowd and found themselves being carried towards it. This mob was more dangerous than the other, which had merely been going to shout about its grievances outside the Tower. This one, as far as Robert and William could gather from the shouts about them, was on its way to hound down Papists, the old Armada hatred once more boiling in its blood. They shouted that it was a Catholic house burning, full of Spanish troops who had come up the Thames last night and been landed in the darkness when the rain came down. Robert and William could only link arms and be carried forward, for the impetus of the crowd was so great that there was no escape.

  They came out of the bottleneck of the street into a wider space where four ways met at the pillory. One way was Fish Street, blocked half-way down by fire and smoke, another way led down to the nearest water conduit and along this was flung a chain of men and women passing the buckets. They were poor people and for them at the moment nothing mattered except the fact that their own homes were now in danger. It was a quarter of old timbered houses and the fire had already engulfed two of them. But even with the buckets, and the help of a little fire engine shaped like a milk churn with a seesaw laid across it, things were going so badly that with iron hooks and chains men were starting to pull down the two houses on either side of the blaze, to stop the spread of the flames, and the terrified inhabi­tants were running out of them like rabbits from the last of the standing corn, clutching their children and their few pathetic possessions.

  As there were none to be seen the crowd seemed for the moment to have forgotten about the Spanish soldiers, and flung themselves joyously into the work of demolition. But the madness was still in them and they paid no attention to the shouted instructions of the watch. The thing was to destroy, no matter how, without system or common sense. A few had axes and were hacking at ground level at a house to the left of the blaze when a voice shouted, “There is a man up there!” Heads were craned back and an old man was seen to be peering out of an upper window, his face paper-white above the folds of his dark cloak. He did not cry for help but stood there fixed in a strange dignity of fear. “Come down, old gaffer!” a man cried out, but he did not move. “Get him out!” shouted others. And then something about him, his cloak or his dignity, struck a sensitive chord and someone yelled, “Papist! Spaniards!” And hell broke loose.

  The old man moved back and disappeared from sight and the attack on the house was renewed. Jammed in the crowd, swaying helplessly to its movement, Robert and William thought themselves trapped until they saw another man fighting his way through it almost with ease. It was Old Sage, and until now they had not known there was such enormous strength in his broad shoulders and huge brown fists. He seemed at this moment to be compounded of strength, every kind of strength. Even alone he might have reached the house but Robert and William were soon with him. They did not know how they had got there, unless his extraordinary power had simply dragged them in his wake. They used their pricking daggers to get through the mob to the door and then leapt for the rickety stairs. The house seemed now no more than a house of cards that must at any moment crash about them, with the roaring inferno of fire only a short distance away beyond a frail barrier of charred wood. For a moment panic clutched at Robert’s throat, but William and Old Sage ahead of him were the one fighting mad and the other as calm as when he sat in his box pew, and their fearlessness brought back his natural courage. Even when a stair gave way beneath his feet he managed to scramble up and save himself.

  They reached a landing and found the old man standing upright and trembling, very afraid but determined not to show it more than he must. He had a pointed white beard, a parchment skin drawn tight over delicate bones and fine restless dark eyes. Afraid though he was he had a look of distinction about him, even arrogance, but in his age and weakness he was no longer able to help himself. He seemed to know Old Sage and his eyes clung to him. The whole house was shaking and staggering now and the noise was terrifying. Old Sage opened a door revealing a bedchamber, with a window looking out on a tangled garden. They pulled the sheets from the bed, knotted them together and fastened one end of the improvised rope to the central post of the window; which to William’s eye did not look strong enough to support much weight. The rope did not reach the garden but it reached far enough to allow an easy drop. They worked quickly, doing exactly what Old Sage wanted though he could give no orders.

  Robert went first, picked himself up and was ready to help the old man, William came next and Old Sage last. It was when he was still holding to the rope that the post above gave way, and Robert and William, confused by the noise as the house started to fall, were not skilful enough to catch him. When they helped him up it was found that he had injured an ankle and could hardly stand on it. In pain though he was he smiled with wry amusement, and then with wide calm gestures continued to direct them. There was an old arbour at the bottom of the small garden, rising out of a jungle of docks and nett
les, and to this William and Robert helped him. Inside he was well hidden and out of reach of the fire. Behind the arbour a door opened into a narrow lane and to this he gestured. They must take the old man through it. Robert wanted to stay with Old Sage but he would not have it. Both must go.

  Outside in the lane they discovered the necessity, for the old man was hardly able to walk and at first could not think what he must do. They would have to half carry him between them, and it needed all Robert’s gentle skill to find out where they had better take him. Had he friends? No. They had fled and he had been left alone there. It was a mistake, he was sure. They had not meant to leave him alone. His cultured old voice had a foreign inflection. “You are French, sir?” Robert asked. The old man shook his head and fear showed again in his eyes. Robert asked no more questions. “I have a friend at the Spanish Embassy,” he said. “You will be safe there and that is where we are taking you.”

  They found their way through lanes that were now deserted and came to the Tower landing-stage. There were a few watermen still about and they hailed one and rowed up river. Robert and William spoke a little to the waterman but the old man sat in exhausted silence, and let the quietness of the night restore him a little to himself. When they landed at the steps nearest to the embassy his courage and poise returned. He found that he could walk now and needed only the help of their arms in climbing the steps, and in his slow progress to the embassy. There was still a small crowd in the street outside but if he felt any fear he gave no sign of it. They went down a side street and round to a back entrance, where Robert summoned his friend, a young Catholic Englishman who was a secretary there, and handed the old man over to his care. But he would not allow himself to be hurried in until he had expressed his gratitude, and his courtesy and dignity had a touch of greatness as he bade them farewell. Looking back as the secretary closed the door Robert and William saw the lamplight gleaming on his white head, and the folds of his cloak falling from shoulders held now straight and proudly.

  “Who can he be?” wondered William.

  “No matter who he is, now he is safe,” retorted Robert. “Now back to Old Sage. I would offer up all the Spanish hidalgos in the world for the safety of Old Sage.”

  They had lost all count of time, and almost all sense of fatigue, for the need for superhuman effort had pulled them half out of their bodies; they dragged these encumbrances, aching with weariness, in their wake much as a horse drags a ramshackle plough. When they went down to the river they found no boatmen, and had to walk all the way back to the garden where they had left Old Sage, through a city that grew increasingly quiet as the sky lightened at the approach of dawn, in these May days so early and so fresh. At the last their footsteps seemed to echo in a city of the dead, but in all the hidden gardens, and in all the odd green corners, the birds began to sing. When they entered the wild garden the golden-tongued thrushes welcomed them with praise and they saw the place awash with wild flowers. Between the flowers and the peaceful expanse of shining sky the ruin of blackened houses seemed of no account. They went quickly to the arbour but Old Sage was not there.

  William stared stupidly at the empty seat. He was becoming conscious now of burning eyes and a nagging pain at the back of his head. “Where has he gone?” he mumbled, but Robert was already running back into the lane and he stumbled in his wake. Robert did not stop running until they had reached the open space where the four streets met. It was deserted except for one prowling cat and a man in the pillory. Even in his horror and confusion Robert saw the dark figure fastened in the dark wood as though it were the hub of a wheel, with the four streets radiating from it as though to the four points of the world’s compass, anchored in it as were the birdsong and the growing light. The centre was still but the wheel seemed turning upon it, and it shone as he had seen a millwheel shine when the sun was caught in its myriad drops of water. The Guardians not only circled the world; they were the still heart of many small wheels.

  Old Sage smiled at them as well as he could as they stood on the steps looking up at him, and it was as though they looked at the face of some mediaeval saint or bishop carved on a pillar, for his head and hands, appearing through the holes in the wood, seemed made of the same dark substance that imprisoned them; as though being without rebellion his acceptance had united him most peacefully with what he suffered. It was strange how vividly, for a moment, the carved saint and his peace were apparent, and then the two younger men saw only an old one who had been pelted with filth and stones, his face cut and bruised and grey with pain and exhaustion under the filth. With fury and curses William wrenched at the wood but Robert, as quiet in rage as William was the opposite, said, “Cannot you see it is padlocked? They bribed or threatened the watch. Find him.”

  “Where?” demanded William.

  “I cannot tell you,” said Robert. “Knock on doors. Ask anyone, I must stay here.”

  William shrugged despairingly but loped off down the street along which they had come. He thought he saw a tavern there and when in despair he always automatically made for a drink. Robert did what he could for Old Sage, wiping the sweat and filth from his face and telling him of the old man’s safety. Then he sat silently on the steps beside him, for speech seemed to be no longer required. Nor was he any longer capable of it. When he had seen the arbour empty he had thought Old Sage had been murdered in revenge for his rescue of the old man, and had run from the arbour in a mere senseless wish to turn the clock back and find the mob again before they could do what they had already done. But they had not killed him. Had he won their respect to such a degree that though they could punish him they could not kill him? The question was part of the mystery of Old Sage, and that was part of the mystery of all things that yielded up nothing whatever to worrying and probing, but perhaps something, or a shadow of something, to reverence.

  It was easy to feel reverence sitting in silence with the old man while the day brightened over London. Sounds from the waking city were heard only distantly and could not invade the circle of stillness that was about Old Sage in his pillory. It was imposed by his suffering yet only Robert’s mind recognized that. His spirit was so at peace that he might have been sitting with Old Sage in the glow-worm light of the box pew. That light and the rising sun became one, a sea of light on which in his fatigue he seemed floating away, as on the river last night.

  There was a clattering of feet on the cobbles. William, fragrant of a morning draught of ale, was back with the landlord and his wife and a sleepy befuddled gentleman with a bunch of keys. His instinct that a man in distress should make for ale must have coincided with angelic guidance, for the befuddled man was the watch, who had been finishing up the night asleep by the tavern fire. A few sharp questions from Robert did not elicit how it was that his keys had been taken from him and returned again, apparently without his knowledge, but for a silver piece he was willing now to free Old Sage. He sloped off when the padlock was unlocked. He was new to the job, the landlord’s garrulous wife told them. He did not know the folk hereabouts. The old watch, now, would not have allowed all the devils in hell to put Old Sage in the pillory, not if it had been the Pope himself he had saved from the burning. Yes, she knew where the old man lived and she would have a care of him till he could walk again. She said that even before Robert slipped two silver pieces into her hanging purse, and he believed she would, for her face was kindly.

  The landlord, having helped William free Old Sage from the pillory, followed the watch, for he too was sleepy and fuddled, and Robert and William carried Old Sage between them, following the still chattering goodwife down Fish Street. He was not a light weight, as the other old man had been, but quite soon she turned to the left through an archway into a square plot of cloistered garden, one of those odd places that Robert loved so much. In the centre was a well with an old rosemary tree growing beside it. From the well and the tree radiated beds full of the herbs that Old Sage sold in Covent Garden. One side of the s
mall square was formed by the stone wall of a warehouse but on the other sides ancient tumble-down cottages leaned about the garden, but no sounds of life came from them. “It’s mostly old poor folk live here,” said the goodwife. “They can be noisy enough in the evening but they are sleepy in the mornings.”

  She led the way through a doorway and up a flight of rickety stairs and pushed open the door of a room small as a monastery cell. It was scrupulously clean, with a rough hard bed, a cupboard in the wall and on a chest the few necessities that a man must have if he is to live. They put Old Sage upon his bed and the goodwife examined his ankle and pronounced it no more than a bad sprain. He would be about again soon, she said, and Nan, the girl who sold posies in the Garden, should look after his stall with hers while he was away. She would see to it all and the gentlemen need not worry. Her conversation poured over them in a cataract and Old Sage’s eyes twinkled with amusement as he glanced up at Robert and William. But he was growing intensely weary. Struggling up to a sitting position he laid his swollen right hand on the shoulder of first one man and then the other, gratitude and affection lighting his face. Then his hand made a slight but princely gesture. It was as though, having received the accolade from a dying king, they were now dismissed from the presence; yet with humility, for if there was no servility in Old Sage there was no arrogance either.

  “And he is not dying, thank God,” said Robert as they sat on the steps at the Tower landing place, waiting for a boat. “When I saw him reading those chapters in St. John I thought it was for himself he read them. It was for another.”

  William knew of whom he spoke, for sitting so close to the Tower it was impossible not to think of the prisoner there. William, cold and depressed, the cheerfulness engendered by the draught of ale now totally evaporated, did not wish to pursue the subject of the other and returned to Old Sage.