Sarum

by Edward Rutherfurd

  “You must keep quiet,” she whispered, and hustled him through the doorway of the little courtyard and up the stairs.

  Nellie Godfrey had never been in trouble with the authorities. This was partly owing to a certain tolerance among the town authorities and the bishop’s bailiff, partly to her own friendly relations with some of the leading merchants, and not least because she was discreet. The inn-keepers of the larger inns were glad to have her available for their more prosperous clients and she was careful never to offend the more straight-laced part of the city population by flaunting herself in public. Once or twice there had been murmurings, but each time powerful men in the town had either quashed them or warned Nellie to go away for a while.

  The big Fleming knew nothing about this; nor did he care. He had just saved his wife and family; the arrangement with Forest and Shockley had given him a new lease of life. He was not drunk with wine, but he was maudlin with happiness and once upstairs in Nellie’s two chambers he would not be quiet. Moving heavily about on the creaking floors he continued humming to himself; then he began to sing, and though Nellie took his arm and tried to kiss him in order to quieten him down, it had no effect.

  Quickly she began to unlace the heavy front of her dress, peeling it down over her wonderful breasts.

  “Come,” she begged.

  It seemed to work. His broad face lit up into a happy smile; stepping across the room he took her breasts in his big warm hands, lifting them slowly with an almost childish wonder.

  She might have guessed, but she had not realised the big Fleming was so strong; only now did she discover that she was completely in his power.

  He meant no harm. He was only happy. But as he sat his huge frame on the bed, she was astonished that he could lift her on to his lap like a child. Holding her still with one arm, he undressed her, gently but firmly, inspecting every inch of her pale skin with the same placid concentration she had seen earlier, when he had inspected the Wiltshire cheeses at the inn. He was humming to himself as he did so: strangely, she felt like a child again and the big man’s power was curiously comforting. For no particular reason, she laughed.

  “At least he’s quiet,” she thought as this methodical performance went on.

  But when he had finally completed his work and she was entirely naked, he calmly picked her up and placed her on the heavy oak bed – “Just like a piece of meat he’s going to baste,” she smiled to herself – as he peeled off his heavy stockings and tunic. Then placidly picking her up again, he began to make love to her.

  At first he was gentle, still humming to himself as though in a dream and she found his slow caresses – his huge hands surprisingly sensitive – were not unpleasant. His breath smelt a little of wine, more of cheese; she was used to that. But soon the Fleming began to pant. His tongue and hands seemed to want to explore and possess every part of her: they roved, felt, squeezed. “He’s kneading me like a lump of dough,” she remarked to herself, and wondered how to respond. The big merchant did not require any response. His face was growing red, his eyes bulging: their stare of lust seemed hardly to see her at all.

  And now, as his excitement mounted, he grew wilder. He picked her up, whirled her round the room, his voice rising to a shout of joy and lust. She was helpless to do anything about it. She tried to put her hand up to his mouth to restrain him, but it was the last gesture she could make before he crashed with her on to the bed and thrust hungrily into her.

  For a moment her eyes opened wide. He was huge; she could only hold on to him as best she might while he thrust wildly, again and again until she wondered if even the stout oak frame would give way. She thought the climax must soon come; but she was mistaken.

  It lasted over an hour. Sometimes he carried her in triumph round the room; then he would hurl himself with her upon the bed. Several times they fell together on the floor with a crash that shook the whole house. Her attempts to quieten him broke like futile waves upon the shore. He broke into song; he roared his triumph; he handled her as easily as if she had been a child’s doll, while every board in the room seemed to creak in protest as he cavorted about. He fairly bellowed in the exultation of his power, his happiness, and his relief from his debts.

  “He’s not a man, he’s a bull,” she thought. It was half exciting, half comic. After a time, realising that the huge Fleming was, and would remain, completely out of control, she could do nothing but give in, and, as he crashed with her once more upon the bed, come again and again.

  It was dawn when the big merchant rolled contentedly out of her lodgings.

  And it was soon after dawn, when Nellie was still asleep, that the group of her neighbours, commandeered by Abigail Mason and led, shame-facedly and unwillingly by Peter, met to discuss what must be done.

  At eight o’clock that morning, Peter Mason and his wife made their way to the house of the alderman of the ward and there Peter reluctantly demanded that the shameless harlot whose night revels had shaken the whole tenement and alarmed its neighbours, should be brought before the bishop’s bailiff and the justices.

  “You know what this will mean?” the alderman said. Peter looked at the ground.

  “Yes,” Abigail replied fearlessly. “She’ll be whipped.”

  It had taken her three years to persuade her husband to do his duty; she could have taken the matter into her own hands, but there would have been less satisfaction in that. She wanted Peter to act as a God-fearing man should, not for herself to have to do it for him. And at last, the day before, he had promised after destroying the idolatrous window, to take action at last. If he had had any second thoughts, the incredible racket that the Fleming had made, that had echoed all over the tenement and out into the street had surely sealed the matter.

  “It’s God’s law that the harlot be punished,” she reminded him. “And it’s your duty to your wife to have the painted woman put out of our house.” Peter nodded sadly. He supposed that it was.

  By noon, the alderman was speaking to the bailiff.

  It was at noon also that Piers Godfrey came to the house of his friend Edward Shockley to ask: “Can you save Nellie?”

  Edward Shockley had known Piers all his life; the carpenter had often done small jobs in the Shockley house and made the family a fine oak table.

  “I’ll do what I can,” he promised. But he was not optimistic.

  The penalties for most kinds of misbehaviour were severe. The justices of the peace, that body of local gentlemen who were now taking over more and more of the routine local law and administration that had been done by sheriff and shire knight in the past, had the right to return vagrants to their parishes, put disturbers of the peace in the stocks, even to stop the common people playing unauthorised games. Vagrants, the parents of bastard children and harlots were all liable to a fiercer punishment: they were tied to a post in the market place and publicly whipped until they bled. If Abigail persisted in her complaint the authorities would have no choice but to carry out this sentence.

  As he walked quickly to the Masons’ house in Culver Street, Edward wondered what kind of reception he would get. What would it be like to cross swords with the redoubtable woman he admired?

  She ushered him in politely. He noticed that Peter was standing by the door, looking awkward, wishing no doubt that none of this business was happening.

  He stated his case briefly: Nellie was not a bad girl; the family was poor; in his foolish enthusiasm he even promised to be responsible for her future good behaviour. He could see out of the corner of his eye that Peter Mason was looking hopeful, and emboldened by this, he begged Abigail to withdraw her complaint.

  She stared at him as though he were a child.

  “Dost thou not know, Edward Shockley, that it is the sin that we punish, not the sinner?”

  Yes, he knew it, but in his mind’s eye, he could not help seeing poor Nellie’s magnificent back bared and cut to ribbons at the cruel whipping post.

  He met her calm, dispassionate eyes and fl
ushed.

  “Perhaps she will reform,” he suggested; but under her steady gaze, the suggestion seemed absurd. He searched in his mind for something else.

  He remembered the story of the fallen woman in the New Testament. “Which of us shall cast the first stone?” he was about to say; but as he considered Abigail’s own perfect morality, that, too, seemed a hopeless argument.

  “Let the Justices decide the punishment,” she said quietly; and then more gently and even with a smile she added: “Thou art a merciful man Edward Shockley. After her punishment, then will be the time for thou and I to show mercy to the sinner.”

  How certain she was. He could not be so stern himself; but he was not so pure as Abigail. He left her sadly, knowing the young woman must suffer. Nellie Godfrey had other plans. Surreptitiously, Peter Mason had warned her. A little before noon she had made her way to her brother’s house, where he found her when he returned from Edward Shockley. She was carrying a single bag over her shoulder which contained most of her moveable possessions.

  “I’m leaving,” she told him flatly.

  He began to protest, but she cut him short. “My life’s over here, brother. They’re going to whip me in the market place.”

  He nodded dismally.

  “But if you run . . .”

  “I’ll be a vagrant. I’ll take my chances.”

  “Where will you go?” he asked unhappily.

  “West.” The big port of Bristol was a place where she could take lodgings without too many questions being asked. She could earn a living there.

  He sighed. He supposed she would be a harlot there too; the port could be a violent place. He did not like to think about her likely final fate.

  Silently he went to the little chest where he kept his valuables. From it he carefully counted out fifteen pounds: it was almost all he had. He handed it to her.

  But Nellie only smiled, kissed him, and put the coins back in the box.

  “I have money,” she said, and turned to the door.

  “Will I see you again?” Piers asked.

  She turned; her brilliant blue eyes took in her gentle brother with complete, resigned understanding, just as they had already taken in the world.

  “Shouldn’t think so,” she said, and was gone.

  It was just as she was walking briskly towards Fisherton Bridge that Edward Shockley came up with her.

  “I couldn’t stop them,” he told her.

  “Don’t worry. I’m going.”

  The sun was warm. As Nellie walked along the road towards Wilton, she was not uneasy in her mind. She guessed that the bailiff, once her absence was discovered, would make no great effort to go after her. Indeed, she even felt a sense of relief that, because of the sudden crisis, she was being forced to take her life in a different direction.

  “Whatever happens,” she vowed, “this time I won’t go under.”

  Less than a mile out from Fisherton Bridge, as she passed the village of Bemerton, she saw a carter who offered to take her to Barford, the other side of Wilton.

  Just as she was climbing into his cart she was surprised to see Edward Shockley on an old chestnut horse come riding up. Before she could even say anything, the young man had dropped a small pouch into her hand, muttered, “God be with you,” and, blushing scarlet, wheeled the old horse round and cantered slowly away. The bag contained ten pounds.

  Nellie Godfrey stayed that night at the old western hill town of Shaftesbury, eighteen miles away, and the following morning continued, northwards this time, upon her way.

  On July 6, 1553, Edward VI of England, the pious Protestant boy king, breathed his last.

  The news had been expected for a month, but now, all England waited with trepidation to see who would succeed.

  The answer, when it came, proved to be one of the oddest episodes in English history.

  For in July in the year of Our Lord 1553, the throne of England was given to Lady Jane Grey.

  It was an extraordinary situation. The two daughters of Henry VIII had been passed over; their brother Edward, perhaps to secure the crown for a known Protestant, had left it in his will to a cousin in the female royal line whose claim to the throne was, at best, distant. This was the so-called ‘devise’ of King Edward.

  In fact it was a plot, and it had little to do with either Edward or Lady Jane Grey. Cranmer and the Protestant party wanted to keep out Edward’s Catholic sister Mary, daughter of Henry VIII’s Spanish queen. But the prime mover was a far more cynical figure: for the Duke of Northumberland, Protector of the Realm while King Edward was a boy, had no wish to give up his power. Young Lady Jane, still only a girl, would be his puppet; and he made sure of it by hastily marrying her to his son. He was supported by an unlikely and even craftier figure: King Henry of France. Henry had no interest in either Protestantism, Northumberland or Lady Jane Grey; but his own son was married to the young Mary Queen of Scots, another cousin of the English Tudor house, and the more Edward’s surviving sisters could be weakened, the better the chances that one day the Queen of Scots might inherit the English throne as well and make his family monarchs of France, Scotland and England.

  The attempt to make Lady Jane queen was a gamble, but for a short time the gamblers seemed in control.

  On July 15, at the Tower of London, the Privy Council sent a stirring message to the burgesses of Salisbury. They must know, it said, if Catholic Mary succeeded,

  whereof was like to have followed the bondage of this realm, the old servitude of the antichrist of Rome, the subversion of the new teaching of God’s word . . .

  The Privy Council’s message was signed by Cranmer, other bishops and magnates – including Lord Pembroke of Wilton.

  For one other detail of the conspiracy emerged that day. Not only had the Protector’s son married Queen Jane, but Pembroke had just married his own son to Lady Jane’s sister Catherine. There could be no doubt of the new Earl’s ambition.

  The gamble to crown Lady Jane failed miserably. Mary Tudor was not the daughter of Henry VIII and a Spanish princess for nothing. She rallied a huge party to her. She promised religious toleration. She seemed – it was a trick she had from her father – to be almost jovial. And above all, whatever Cranmer’s annulment of her mother’s marriage might make her in the eyes of her enemies, she was, and all England knew it, the true heir to the crown.

  She advanced on London. The mood of the people swung towards her. The Privy Council sent the Duke of Northumberland out to confront her – and as soon as he was gone, changed sides behind his back.

  None more quickly than Lord Pembroke of Wilton who now swore loudly that he would defend her to the death with his sword.

  So ended the reign of the uncrowned Queen Jane. The unhappy girl was put in prison, Northumberland executed, and Pembroke’s son wisely never consummated his marriage to her sister.

  Edward Shockley stood before his wife. He was about to submit.

  It had taken three months and he could not help admiring her for it. They had been painful months for him, for it was not easy to endure her mistrust.

  After the scene in April, there were three days during which she was very quiet, but during which he could see that she had been weeping frequently. He avoided her partly out of shame at what he had done, partly because he was angry with her for making him feel guilty.

  He wondered once or twice if she might return to her father’s house; but she had not, and he was thankful for that at least.

  The question had remained – what was to happen? She made no further attempt to teach the child any popish doctrines: he felt sure he could trust her not to disobey him.

  But she was hurt and that could not be undone.

  Nor, it seemed, could he win over the child. Little Celia now looked at him with fear. It was only natural. She did not understand exactly how, but she could see that her father had hurt her mother; and she also had the clear impression, though nothing was ever explained, that her father had committed some terrible crime. If
he went towards her now, her pale eyes, just like her mother’s, opened wide and she shrank from him. When she did so, he cursed under his breath, and that made her more frightened still.

  For a month Katherine had been distant at nights until, in a fit of rage one evening he demanded his conjugal rights. She submitted: it was her duty. But her look of meek suffering, almost martyrdom, irritated him so much that he gave it up with an oath.

  And every few days, she would meekly beg him:

  “Soften your heart, Edward. As a child at least, you must have been a Catholic once. Are you sure, now you are a man, it is not pride in your own mind that makes you turn from the authority of the Catholic Church?”

  Authority. He understood what she wanted very well: it was the ancient demand of the Roman Church: admit that you are nothing, submit.

  He would not.

  Besides, after lying to her for those years, it was a relief to tell her the truth at last.

  After six weeks had passed however, a slight change occurred. She went about her daily business quietly. She even welcomed him to her bed. She tried in all things to please him. And only once a week, on a Sunday, did she gently and lovingly sit beside him and beg him to reconsider.

  “Not to please me,” she explained seriously, “but to save your soul.”

  Inwardly he groaned.

  How kind she was. How wronged. But whether she was weeping or, as now, coaxing, it was hard, week after week, to endure her sad mistrust.

  And now he was about to give way.

  It was Thomas Forest who persuaded him.

  They had discussed the whole question the day before.

  The new queen had only been on the throne a week and she had promised religious toleration. He had wanted to believe it, but the landowner assured him:

  “Queen Mary will make England Catholic – by force if necessary.”

  Already there were hints for the observant in Sarum, of what might be to come.