Sarum

by Edward Rutherfurd

  Though he had no courtly ways himself, Shockley had been well enough schooled to take pleasure in the elegant and literary company he found there. He also came to understand young Forest better.

  For there had been times, in the last month, when he had wondered if, despite his charm, Giles Forest was perfectly sound in the head.

  It was not what he said, but the truly extraordinary manner he sometimes had of speaking.

  “In my concern for the poor, Master Shockley,” he had announced, “I would neither be mistaken of purpose, neither misconstrued of munificence; I mean to work for the poor – for I am not mean; but in order that the poor may work – for I am not foolish.”

  Hearing this elaborate word play Shockley had sometimes had to beg Giles to speak more plainly. Yet now, at Wilton he observed that many of the younger men who had been to Oxford had this same affectation. Almost every subject they discussed, however trivial, was treated as though it were an elaborate dispute in some court of law, with the pro and con of a sweetmeat, the weather, a fine horse discussed with equal gravity; yet at the same time, the most intricate and serious matter of politics was reduced to exactly the same intricate word games.

  This Elizabethan fashion amongst the young exquisites of the universities and court had reached its height with the publication of a book by the writer Lyly the year before.

  “’Tis called Euphues, Master Shockley,” a fantastically dressed youth assured him. “’Tis our bible,” he added with a laugh.

  Though he could only watch these artificial manners with wonder, Shockly found the young men pleasant. They wrote sonnets after the manner of Petrarch; they practised archery – not very seriously but, they explained to him, because it developed the body: “Beauty of body, beauty of mind,” they claimed. Once he had got used to them, he thought better of young Forest.

  The play was a short historical piece, and mediocre. But Shockley did not mind.

  For it was just afterwards that he came face to face with Pembroke himself.

  He was middle-aged and looked a little tired; but he was still a handsome man with a fine, sensitive face.

  Shockley bowed respectfully. The second earl might not be as great a national figure as his father, but he was still a formidable figure. As Lord Lieutenant of the county he was the queen’s own representative. He was in charge of the military, he headed all the local Justices; his vast estates stretched over such a wide area he had even a few years before had his own survey made, like William I and his great Domesday Book, to discover just what he had.

  And so Edward blushed with pleasure when the great man smiled warmly at him and said:

  “Master Shockley, I have heard of you: the one man in Salisbury who is ready to defend it when war comes.”

  One of the guests had told Edward that the earl was a student of heraldry. But when, thinking to please him, Edward mentioned that he admired the fine new coat of arms of his friends the Forests, he was puzzled when Pembroke burst out into laughter. He did not discover why.

  But the day had been a delightful interlude.

  Or was that all it was?

  It seemed to Edward Shockley, as he and Giles Forest rode back to Salisbury together that the young man was going more slowly than necessary. He appeared reluctant to let Shockley go. Dusk was falling.

  And suddenly it occurred to him that there was another possible reason for young Forest’s invitation to him that day: it kept him away from his own house.

  He looked at the young man thoughtfully. Could he really be intriguing with his father in such a way – while Thomas Forest spent time with his wife? With a Forest, he decided, anything was possible. Bidding Giles an abrupt farewell, be cantered away towards the town, before the surprised young man could stop him.

  It was dark when he reached the street. He paused at the corner. The street was empty. And then, as he walked, the door of his house opened, and a single figure – he was sure it was the same he had seen before – slipped out of the shadows and entered.

  He dismounted and stole forward. The house seemed quiet. Softly he moved through the little archway beside it that led to a courtyard behind. There was a back staircase. He mounted carefully and a few moments later he was on the upper floor of his house. Whatever his wife and Forest were doing, he would soon know.

  There was a light in the bed chamber. He moved to the door.

  But to his surprise it was empty. He thought now that he would hear muffled voices in the hall below, and was about to descend the stairs when he noticed that in the chamber his wife’s chest was open. Curious, he crept across the room and looked in it.

  It was half empty. The bags of money she kept there had all gone. But as he gazed down in surprise, something else caught his eye. It was a letter, left carelessly in the empty space where the money had been.

  At first he could not believe it; yet as he looked at the small scrap of paper there could be no possible doubt.

  He did not know what it was that he thought it might be; but certainly not this.

  At first, as he gazed at it he felt horror. Then, naturally, rage. For a moment he felt fear as well. What if some other hand than his had found the letter?

  Rest assured, your gifts are well received. And when she, the heretic, who now sits on the throne is removed, and the true faith restored, the good faith, lady, of you and your brother shall have its reward, just as now you are storing up treasures in heaven.

  As to the royal Jezebel, we may hope ere long to hear good news concerning her.

  Now he understood. Treason. The Jesuits have got at her, he thought. At his wife and his brother.

  He felt himself grow cold. His wife had betrayed him. Worse even than that, she was clearly aiding with money the Catholic supporters of Spain – the very people who would wreck everything he believed in.

  He thought of her quiet, submissive ways, of the years they had spent, he supposed, contentedly together. He remembered his own, long, deception of her. Now it was she who had lied.

  He had almost forgotten the visitor. Quietly now, still holding the letter, he moved back to the head of the stairs.

  They were standing by the door now: a tall, elderly man, of similar build but otherwise not in the least like Forest. He was wrapping himself round in a long cloak. He saw his wife kiss his ring.

  A moment later he saw the door open and made out, quite distinctly, the face of John Moody, who evidently had come to collect the priest.

  He stepped back into the bedchamber.

  And now Edward Shockley had to make the most important decision of his life.

  For several long seconds he stood there. There was so much to consider.

  However minor his wife’s part in this matter, it was treason. He knew very well where his own loyalties lay – with Queen Elizabeth. That being so, what could he do except tell Walsingham’s men about them? His wife might go to prison; John would be put to the rack – they would want to know his accomplices.

  Moreover, if he did not inform on them then he was an accomplice, and liable to terrible punishments himself.

  How long, he wondered, had she lied to him?

  It was as he thought of their years of marriage that he took his decision. It was brave. He did not know if it was right.

  Very carefully, he replaced the letter exactly where he had found it. Then he stole out of the house.

  He would keep an eye on his wife to make sure that she neither did, nor came to, any further harm.

  The times were dangerous, for people of conscience.

  What he did discover, a few days later, was Forest’s real game.

  It was so simple, he was amazed he had not seen it before.

  It was all a question of politics, and, of course, the Forests’ social ambition.

  The mark that a man had entered the gentry was that he became a Justice of the Peace. Whether he had any desire to either help the community, or sit in judgement on his fellow man had nothing to do with it, at least in Forest�
�s case and many like him. This he had already achieved. But the next, and grander step, was to sit as a Member of Parliament. There were two ways to do so. The first was to be chosen as one of the two knights of the shire. But this was still out of reach of the Forests. Under the general guidance of Pembroke, this honour passed, usually, in rotation amongst the greatest county families; Penruddock, Thynne of Longleat, Hungerford, Mompesson, Danvers, and a dozen more. But after this, there were still the two citizens returned by Salisbury, and the two burgesses from fifteen boroughs. Indeed, so rich was the county of Wiltshire in parliamentary seats, having thirty-four in all, that already ambitious men from far afield came there to find seats, and since the townspeople were often unwilling to pay the heavy expenses of their own burgesses attending Parliament, they were often glad to have a rich gentleman who could pay for himself. Many of the boroughs were also under the control of the local magnate. The few electors of Wilton almost always did as Pembroke told them; in the north the Seymour family controlled the towns of Marlborough and Great Bedwyn; the Bishop of Winchester controlled several boroughs. Why, there was even the deserted hillfort of Old Sarum, which had been bought by a gentleman named Baynton, but which still, though long since empty, had a handful of electors in the village below who duly sent their two burgesses to Parliament.

  Forest was looking for a borough for his son.

  So far he had failed to find one. Pembroke had politely refused him: he had good men of his own; so had a dozen others.

  It was November when Forest broached the subject to him.

  “My son wishes to stand for Salisbury,” he told Edward. “I hope you will support him: your word carries weight.”

  Of course! This was the reason for the bribe, for the introduction to Wilton, and, no doubt, for Giles’s unexpected interest in the poor. In all the boroughs in Wiltshire, the citizens of Salisbury were the most independent: even Pembroke himself, ten years before, had only been able to foist a candidate upon them once.

  “Truly I must be his last port,” he considered. And, the thought could not help occurring to him, Forest would be prepared to pay handsomely for the service.

  He waited a day. The struggle with his conscience was short.

  “I’ve no objection to your son,” he told his one-time partner. “But the burgesses will choose their own members. Giles will have to speak to them himself.”

  Forest’s face was a mask.

  “Will you vote for him?”

  “No.”

  It was so easy to say. It was only the truth.

  He never heard a word about his share in Wilson’s profitable voyages again.

  In the year of Our Lord 1585, the city of Salisbury was required by Her Majesty’s Privy Council to make contributions towards the expenses of the anticipated invasion by King Philip II of Spain.

  We understand it be your honour’s pleasure and commandment, that there should forthwith be provided, in readiness for the service of Her Majesty, a last of powder and five hundredweight of matches, to be kept here as a store.

  Whereupon we have had consideration, and so find that the charge of this provision will require a great sum of money to be presently levied and disbursed . . . our humble suit is . . . it would please you to respect the poor estate of this City, subject to many charges to maintain a great number of very poor people . . . and to mitigate as much as may be thought convenient. . . .

  It took Queen Elizabeth’s Privy Council three applications before the burghers of Salisbury finally, and most unwillingly, raised a loan to pay for the modest precautions against the invading force that was to become known as the Spanish Armada.

  In 1586 John Moody and his family left Sarum. The sour mood of the time had made them feel unwelcome. Edward Shockley did not try to stop them. They did not have to go very far. Fifteen miles to the west, in the villages around Shaftesbury, they found a region where, under the aegis of the great Catholic family of Arundel, a community of recusant Catholics survived. Here they found friends, and a chance to worship as they wished, although in secret. As far as Edward Shockley knew, no more Jesuits had come to his house in Salisbury.

  Events then moved swiftly. In 1587, after she had become involved in a plot of high treason against Elizabeth, that was probably set up as a trap by the subtle Walsingham, Mary Queen of Scots was executed. Her son James in Scotland protested: but not very loud, for he never liked her, and it was clear that he himself, as long as he remained on good terms with the English, was the most likely person to succeed the childless Elizabeth when she died.

  Not so Philip of Spain. That most Catholic of monarchs could no longer hold back after such an outrage. In 1587, a chain of beacons were lit on hills all over the south of England to announce that the great fleet of galleons called the Spanish Armada had been seen off Plymouth.

  It was a stupendous force. The mighty galleons that rolled down the Channel very nearly succeeded in their conquest.

  “The fact is,” one of the seafaring Wilson boys confided to Edward Shockley afterwards, “even Drake couldn’t have stopped them. All we did was follow them.”

  But thanks to a series of fortunate winds, and one brief, but successful engagement, Philip’s huge fleet was blown first up the Channel, then northwards to the rocky coasts of Scotland where many were wrecked.

  “We were saved by luck,” Shockley declared, “not by preparation.”

  But, fantastic luck though the wreck of the Armada was, England was saved, and the island returned once more to years of peace; even Edward Shockley, as he entered his old age and the last decade of the reign of Elizabeth, was, in his modest way, optimistic for the future.

  In particular, he loved to go to Wilton House, to which, about once a year, he was invited to see the players. Many troops of actors passed through the great mansion in those sunlit years. Once at least, they included an actor named William Shakespeare.

  THE UNREST

  1642: AUGUST

  The funeral guests were leaving. Inside, the family waited tensely as, one by one, the visitors filed past the big oak staircase, out of the panelled hall and through the low doorway of the big farmhouse into the afternoon sunlight outside.

  As soon as they had gone, the family conference must begin – the conference that might break the Shockleys for ever.

  If only it were not necessary. If only the coming civil war, which had all Sarum in an uproar, need not intrude into the sanctuary of the family home, which should always be inviolate. For months they had all known that it could come to this. Now, with their father gone . . .

  Sir Henry Forest went first. Before leaving the hall he turned, his cautious black eyes taking in all the remaining family, and bowed stiffly. Sir Henry Forest, Baronet, their senior neighbour – their friend, if he was any man’s friend. Which side would he take in the coming conflict? Who knew? When he had gone, others followed suit: friends, neighbours, old Thomas Moody with his son Charles, from Shaftesbury; after them, tradesmen like the Mason family and others of Salisbury; lastly the farmworkers led by Jacob Godfrey. For three generations now, since Piers Godfrey the carpenter had worked for the Shockleys in Salisbury, the Godrey family had remained close to the Shockleys. Many had tears in their eyes: for all felt a real regret and affection for the memory of the widower William Shockley whose sudden death had taken Sarum by surprise.

  Now the family was alone, but the hall was quiet – each of them knowing that, once this last silence was broken, they might never be at one again. The four Shockleys stood, as motionless as the banisters on the broad oak stairs that gleamed darkly behind them, waiting. From outside, where the footsteps had departed, they could hear the distant, sullen tolling of the church bell. Four of them: three brothers and their sister.

  Margaret Shockley: twenty years old, magnificent, with her proud, strong body, her golden hair and blue eyes that could flash with such splendid anger that people in Sarum used laughingly to say: “She’s the best looking of all the boys.” Tall Margaret waite
d silently.

  One thought filled her mind: the baby.

  He was hers to take care of – hers and no one else’s – and they were not going to stop her, any of them. The baby, resting in an upper room. He needed her.

  He was still so small and defenceless. He had been hers ever since her poor step-mother, during that terrible, endless labour two years before had turned to her and whispered: “If the child lives, Margaret, he’ll be yours.” Her three brothers had all been there too, she reminded herself, just three days ago when William Shockley mustered his breath to say:

  “Margaret: whatever your brothers do, you must live here and look after Samuel.” Then he had paused before adding: “And my water meadows.”

  Little Samuel – that tiny, fair-haired bundle of joy. Jacob Godfrey’s wife had had him to nurse at her breast – and how Margaret would have loved to be able to do that too. But it was she who had done everything else, rocked the baby in her arms, taken him with her into her bed and, week after week, lain happily, feeling his tiny warmth beside her.

  Her father’s water meadows – those wonderful man-made irrigation systems running down beside the River Avon below the farm that he had bought when he was young. He had built them before she was born and they had made his farm the finest in the area; she would look after those too.

  She looked at her brothers. Edmund, at thirty the eldest, the head of the family now: always serious, dutiful, sober, his brown hair cut straight just above the shoulder; he had their mother’s hazel eyes, their father’s broad, rather heavy-set figure. Obadiah, the Presbyterian minister, hater of priests and bishops; though he was only twenty-seven, the black hair that was plastered close around his pale oval face before curling up at the shoulders was already greying at the temples. His eyes were slate-blue, striking, even from a distance, such as when he was in the pulpit. Obadiah, with his arrogant, lisping speech; as a child he had been vain; he was full of spiritual indignation now he was a man: a born Puritan preacher, she thought. People did not love Obadiah. He knew it, and could not forgive them.