A Far Horizon

by Brenda Rickman Vantrease

  Even the priest looked concerned as he handed the child to Madame Peronne. ‘She may be feverish.’

  ‘According to the nursemaid she was colicky earlier. How was she with you?’ she asked Henrietta.

  ‘Slept in my arms like an angel.’

  ‘I will bathe her limbs in cool water, while keeping her body covered. A few drops of elderflower or yarrow tea on her lips might help bring her fever down if she has one. It can do no harm. Ne vous inquiétez pas, Votre Majesté.’

  But it was hard not to worry. She remembered another baby girl who had failed to thrive all those years ago, even as she tried not to think that this baptism might have happened just in time.

  After the nurse had carried the child away, Father Andrew stood by the door, sans vestments, sans official demeanor, just an ordinary workman in plain working clothes.

  Not sure of the protocol but suddenly remembering that this was no house priest, she said, ‘Father, I have no money to offer, but please know that this day you have rendered a great service to the Queen of England, who will always be a loyal daughter of the Holy Roman Catholic Church.’

  ‘It was my honor, Your Grace. Lord Jermyn made a generous contribution to my ministry.’

  God bless Henry Jermyn, she thought.

  When the blessed one returned she was removing the basin, the silver bowls, the white lace cloth that covered her dear child’s head, lest the accoutrements be noticed and commented on by the servants. ‘No need to apologize for your absence, my lord, I know in these difficult times your involvement in a clandestine Catholic rite could be dangerous.’

  She looked up from her chore to tell him how much she appreciated his service. But his aspect stopped her. His face was as white as a snow hare. He just stood there, looking at her.

  ‘What is it, Henry? Why so pale? The priest. He was discovered.’

  ‘No. The priest was not discovered, Your Grace. But I have just received a message from the Northern Front, and I am afraid the news is … devastating.’

  Her heart squeezed. ‘Not Charles. Not my sons.’

  ‘No. Not as bad as that. Calm yourself. But the North has been lost. When daylight broke this morning, four thousand of the Prince’s finest soldiers lay dead on a muddy field in York, at a place called Marston Moor. It was the worst battle of the war so far. Witnesses said the fighting was hell and that General Cromwell, aided by a few of Lord Leven’s Covenanter Scots, ruled that hell.’

  Her first thought was to thank God that Charles was headed west with his battalion. But Henrietta knew the strategic importance of such a loss. With Montrose’s loss, loyal Scots Catholics would never find their way to joining the fight. Ports closed. Resources denied.

  ‘The King’s nephew and the Earl of Newcastle?’ she asked.

  ‘Newcastle has fled the country in shame. Rupert escaped through a cornfield. But you know that little white poodle he carried with him like a talisman. He was a casualty.’

  ‘Mon dieu. C’est triste. Prince Rupert loved that dog like a child, carried him into battle for years on the Continent. He thought as long as Boye was with him, he could not lose.’

  ‘That’s what the Protestants thought too. Some of the print rags called him a devil’s familiar. The superstitious fools will be as emboldened by the dog’s loss as much as by the Royalist dead.’

  ‘Rupert’s sorrow will be boundless, and his grief will distract him. What of Essex?’ she asked, hoping for some good news at least. ‘Please say he lies dead somewhere in that muddy field.’

  ‘Further bad news, Your Majesty. Essex was not there. He is on his way to lay siege to every Royalist stronghold between Devon and Land’s End. Soon. I think we are still ahead of him, but only just. You must get to Pendennis Castle in Falmouth. It is well fortified and will be one of the last to fall. With the loss of the North, the northeastern ports will be closed. Falmouth Harbor will be our only escape route to the Continent.’

  ‘But Charles is on his way. He will stop him.’

  ‘With Rupert’s losses, it will be hard to stop him. The King will be outnumbered. How soon can you be ready to depart?’

  ‘Depart? Before Charles gets here? It is not yet safe to take the baby. I think she might even have a fever. And I am still not strong.’

  ‘Then you will have to leave her here.’

  ‘Leave her! I will not. How can you even suggest—?’

  ‘It is for her own safety as well as yours. If Essex’s men come here and find you gone, they will not search for the child. If they capture her with you, what will that mean for you and her? Here she is safe, and Lady Dalkeith has already proven her loyalty, as has your doctor. He will stay here as he is needed to tend to the child’s physical needs. Madame Peronne will go with you to tend to yours. When the war is over, and you return, your daughter will be here waiting for you.’

  ‘But what if …?’ She could not allow herself to even think it, let alone say it. She did not have to.

  ‘Then, Lady Dalkeith will bring her to you in France.’

  ‘You have it all figured out, don’t you?’ She couldn’t help the bitterness in her voice, even though she knew it was misdirected. What could he know, what could any man know of how hard it would be to abandon the flesh of your flesh, the heart of your heart.

  ‘It is my job to figure it out. I have thought of nothing else since I received this message an hour ago.’

  ‘I know,’ she said, not looking at him. ‘I will give you my answer in the morning. I cannot even think on it now. I must rest.’

  ‘In the morning then. No later. I beg you.’

  ‘Tell Anne Villiers I wish to see her. And tell her to bring her Protestant Bible.’

  The next morning, having procured Lady Dalkeith’s oath of loyalty to the young Princess and to the Queen, as well as her promise to act as godmother at the formal christening, Henrietta left Bedford House for Pendennis Castle. For all the latter’s formidable fortifications, she did not tarry. The sooner she made it to Paris, the sooner she could persuade her brother that he must send money and troops to Charles’s aid.

  On 14 July 1644, a wool merchant with his ‘wife and two of her sisters’ sailed out of Falmouth Harbor on an unremarkable Dutch merchant vessel loaded with wool sacks. The four were the only passengers. The crossing was uneventful.

  When they disembarked in Calais, Henrietta squealed with delight. ‘Regarde, Henry. La crête de Bourbon. C’est le chariot royal.’

  ‘And look who is driving, Your Majesty.’ Henrietta clapped her hands and laughed as Jeffrey Hudson, on the coachman’s seat, blew his horn.

  Young Henry Percy, in full footman’s livery, leaped down and with a sweeping bow, said, ‘Welcome to your home away from home, Your Majesty.’

  ‘As we are all to be in exile together,’ she said, ‘let us make the most of it, mes amis. We shall find it more hospitable than Den Haag, I am certain.’

  But though her words were hopeful, she remembered all she had left behind and wondered how she could bear it.

  BLOODY PERSECUTION

  God requireth not an uniformity of Religion to be enacted and enforced in any civill state; which enforced uniformly (sooner or later) is the greatest occasion of civill warre, ravishing of conscience, persecution of Christ Jesus in his servants and of the hypocrise and destruction of millions of souls.

  Roger Williams in The Bloudy Tenent of Persecution for Cause Of Conscience

  ‘You are late today. I was just about to close the line and clean up,’ Caroline said to two Scottish soldiers who lined up with their bowls at the guildhall kitchen. ‘The stew is thin. With so many of your ranks away in the fields, I never know how much to cook. I wish you had come sooner,’ she said, fishing with her ladle for the last bits of meat and vegetables. ‘Why are you so late? Are you just back from the battle in the North?’

  ‘We have been assigned to latrine duty on the London perimeter until His Lordship tells us different.’

  That accounted for the
smell. ‘McDuff too? Is he coming?’

  Of all the Scots who came through the food line, the cocky young McDuff with his infectious good humor was her favorite. She handed his usual companions steaming bowls of stew. Their shared glances showed some discomfort, as though it was a hard question. Finally, one of them said, ‘McDuff be not here, mistress.’

  ‘Well I can see that,’ she said, handing each a chunk of bread. It was plain that they didn’t know how to answer her. ‘He wasn’t killed in the battle?’

  ‘No. Not killed in the battle,’ the younger one said, shooting a glance at his companion.

  ‘Thou best ask Lord Leven where young McDuff is,’ the older one interjected roughly. Taking their bowls and bread, they went past the few stragglers who lingered and sat alone at the back of the hall.

  ‘There is pudding,’ she called.

  They did not even look up. Just in case, she set out two plates of flat honey cake. McDuff was probably being disciplined for some prank or other. Maybe they were too, since they had been given such hard duty. She hoped he was not ill, she thought, as she dipped her ladle into the dregs one more time. Less than a cupful left, but with bread for dipping, that would do for her supper. She was almost too tired to eat anyway. Ever since the first returns from Marston Moor, a sadness had hovered over the usually boisterous lot, infecting her spirits as well. Though there had been casualties, at least they had won the battle. She would have thought they would be strutting and celebrating.

  By the time she had eaten and cleaned the last pot, the sun was almost setting. Not dark yet. Still time to make the short walk to the print shop. Since the picnic she had seen Ben only once, and that briefly. Ben. Surprising, she thought, how quickly she had adapted to his new name, but not surprising really, when she considered how the war had changed everything. Her life with William, even her life in the London of her youth, seemed like a fading dream. She no longer looked up expecting to see William. Not here. Not in this place. But Ben was in this world. Outwardly the boy she remembered had changed, wounded inside and outside, but she could tell his heart was still the same. She could be at the print shop by deep dusk if she left now. Maybe Ben would walk her home. Time was when she would not have been afraid to walk home alone. But in this London, nobody waved and called out her name, just hurried by, grim faces turned toward home, as if the shadows hid demons.

  She arrived to find the door to the print shop open. She watched him from the street, intent on his work, the muscle in his one arm bulging as he pulled the lever forward then back, before lifting the frame and removing the printed sheet, surveying it carefully through squinted eyes. Then, sighing with satisfaction, he hung it on a line to dry. From the sheets hanging around the room it looked as though he had been at it for a while. When her shadow crossed the threshold, he looked up to see her and smiled broadly.

  ‘Caroline. Just in time. The last copy of the last page of our big print.’ He pointed at the neat stacks of folio pages, four images to a sheet, each sheet waiting in its stack to be folded and assembled.

  ‘How many pamphlets will this make?’

  ‘Four hundred,’ he said proudly, and then laughed. ‘Now all we need do is fold and assemble each one, sew them into folios and send them out to the vendors.’

  ‘That’s all? Did you do all this by yourself?’

  ‘Milord helped when he was not hanging around outside the Commons listening for news. And Patience too, when she could get away from Mr Milton. Though she has not had much time lately either, working later and later. Milton is taking on more boarding students. He has leased a bigger house in the Barbican. Patience had to pack up the kitchen and help him pack up his study. Every slate, book and pencil just so.’ He picked up a rag and began to clean the type.

  ‘Here, let me at least do that,’ she said.

  ‘No, I’m used to it. You might get ink on your clothes. But you can help me fold. No, on second thought,’ he said, looking out the window at the afterglow, ‘we’d best call it a day’s work. It’ll be dark soon. Little John and Ralphie will be wanting something to eat. I think I’ve got some dried beef, if they haven’t eaten it all,’ he said, as if to himself.

  ‘Dried beef?’

  ‘Yes. Not too bad. You just cut any kind of meat into strips, trim the fat, salt it and dry it over slow coals. It will last for weeks without spoiling. The boys like it, especially when I rub it with crushed herbs and spices before I put it in the embers. Stay and eat with us. You might like it.’

  ‘How did you know how to make it?’ she asked in wonderment.

  ‘Roger taught us.’

  ‘Roger?’

  ‘Roger Williams. The man from the colonies who wrote that pamphlet about the Indians.’

  Caroline had seen it in the stack of pamphlets accumulating at the guildhall. She’d not had time to read it, but she had scanned it, thinking she could not imagine living among savages.

  ‘The Narragansett natives taught him the recipe. He brought some with him on his voyage over.’ Ben made one last hard rub on the type plate and then threw the ink rag onto a pile. ‘Our big project is his newest pamphlet,’ he said, pointing to the papers lining the room.

  ‘Did you print the Indian book?’

  ‘No. But we’re printing this one. It’s sure to raise Parliament’s ire. He wanted an unlicensed printer.’

  ‘Isn’t that dangerous?’

  ‘Not for him. He’s already got his charter for a free province signed and he’s headed home. Took ship in April. Probably already there by now, or close to it.’

  ‘Leaving you and Lord Whittier to take the blame.’

  ‘Don’t look so alarmed. We haven’t put our imprint on it. No crossed swords. And we are not the only unlicensed printers. Just the best. Milord is careful. He doesn’t want his press and type confiscated.’

  Ben went over to one of the stacks of already dried sheets, and pulling one off the top, handed it to her. ‘This will be the cover and first three pages.’

  Caroline laid it on the table and sat down to read it. ‘Good job with the cover page. I remember James said that you designed it. ‘The Bloody Tenent of Persecution for Cause of Conscience, Discussed, in a Conference Between Peace and Truth.’

  ‘Go ahead. Read the introduction.’

  She scanned it quickly. It briefly outlined the contents in twelve coherent points.

  ‘I don’t think either the Presbyterians or the Anglicans will approve of this,’ she said. ‘No wonder he couldn’t find a licensed printer. This is radical even for these times.’ She read aloud, her alarm growing, ‘All civil states with their officers of justice in their respective constitutions and administrations are proved essentially civil, and therefore not judges, governors or defenders of the spiritual or Christian stand and worship … Ben, what if the magistrate showed up right now to inspect your business? You’d be arrested and sent to the Tower.’

  ‘That is a concern, I will admit. That is why we need to get them folded and tied and out to our network of distributors as soon as possible. It’s been a slog. If you’ve some time Sunday afternoon, we could use help with the sewing. Patience is coming to help. The boys can do the folding.’

  ‘And what of James?’

  ‘He’ll be crating them up and delivering them to his distributors. Roger only asked for fifty. He said if we bore the expense, we could print as many as we wanted and distribute the rest all over England, saying that was the audience he wanted to reach anyway. He did ask that we keep the profit margin as low as we could, so it would be more widely read. I know what you are thinking. But don’t worry, Caroline. If I should be caught, the printer who owns the press is the only one liable. I am just a poor apprentice. They would have no legal grounds to hold me.’

  ‘He’s right about that, Caroline,’ a voice behind her said. She looked up to see James Whittier standing in the open door. He closed it behind him. ‘Don’t worry. I will see that Ben and the boys are protected. If I am caught I will confess that th
e fault is mine and mine alone. But we are not really taking that much risk. By the time Parliament raises an objection and tries to ferret out the printers of unlicensed works – of which we are just one of many – there will be no evidence whatsoever. If they come here, all they will find is a bundle of broadsheets and type being set for another.’

  He went over to the drying line. ‘Is this the last page?’

  ‘You are looking at the last sheet of the last page.’

  Caroline noticed the pride in his voice.

  ‘Good work, Ben,’ Whittier said with a broad grin of approval. ‘Sorry I wasn’t here to help, but I was eavesdropping on the Committee of Three Kingdoms. Got the complete reports of the Battle of Marston Moor for this week’s news book.’

  ‘Preliminary reports give it to Parliament forces,’ Ben said. ‘What will our headline be?’

  ‘Haven’t decided yet.’ He reached in his tunic pocket and pulled out a sheaf of papers, pitched them to Ben. ‘You decide.’

  Ben scanned the hastily written scrawl, his eyes widening. ‘Royalists lost four thousand men and Parliament only three hundred? Did you leave out a zero?’

  ‘That is the correct number.’ His face looked grim. ‘Muddy field just outside York. A couple of hours in the early morning rain. Forty-three hundred souls slashing and screaming and praying in the mud and blood and guts amid the sound of big guns and the choking smoke, until many ceased to hear anything at all. Mostly young men, some old. The Earl of Newcastle fled to the Continent in disgrace. Rupert of the Rhine escaped through a cornfield.’

  A familiar dread gripped Caroline. If William was ambushed, at least he was spared that kind of carnage.

  ‘The headline will be: Royalists Lose Control of the North. Turning Tide?’ Ben said.

  ‘Sounds about right,’ James said soberly, then tried to regain his usual demeanor. ‘Our boy here has a real knack for cutting to the pulsing heart of the matter.’

  She appreciated his praise for Ben, but the assumed familiarity, the possessive ‘our’ linking them all together was irritating, and yet, if she really admitted it, in an odd way comforting too.