Women of Courage

by Tim Vicary

  “Shall you go to fight, then, if there be a rising?”

  “What else should I do? You heard what Israel said. It is our duty to uproot the abominations of the Papists, and restore our land to the godly worship of our Lord.”

  His words, recalling the heat and fervour of the meeting, seemed out here to be almost a sacrilege, profaning the holy calm of the night.

  “But Tom, that would mean war — war against the King himself!”

  “A Papist King! An idolater who would sell our souls to the devil! I’d rather deal with him as my grandfather dealt with his father, King Charles! We still have my grandfather’s old pike at home. ‘Twill serve the Lord again, if our deliverer comes from abroad. Then we shall have a Commonwealth of Saints, and no more Papist kings and their foreign whores.”

  ‘Foreign whores.’ Ann fell silent for a while, letting the fierce words settle into the silence around them, with the creak of the saddles and the steady rhythm of their horses’ hooves. Tom was her promised husband now. At least she need not doubt of what he would say of her if he knew what she had done - what she dreamt of doing even now. It was odd how, after his initial grave, embarrassed joy, their betrothal had made him more of a stranger to her than he had ever been before. He shared none of her thoughts; even his great bony body, straddling the patient packhorse, seemed charged with an urgent, unfamiliar menace she had not felt before.

  He glanced sideways at her, his moonlit face pale under the dark hat, and she felt an obscure dread that he might want to stop, to take her hand in the night and say something to try to cross this dark gulf between them. She could not bear it - unseen in the darkness she nudged her heels into her pony so that it stepped smartly forward. Tom, unskilled with horses, clumsily kicked his own to follow.

  They were coming down off the end of the ridge now, and they could see the moonlight glinting off the sea in a gap in the hills ahead of them. As Tom came up beside her she searched for something to say, to ease the tension between them that she feared. In the shadows at the bottom of the hill a horse neighed suddenly.

  “But Tom, this deliverer, this Duke of Monmouth that folk speak of - he is old King Charles’s son, isn’t he, from one of his mistresses? I’ve heard he himself has two mistresses and lives apart from his wife in Holland. And he’s a drinker and gambler and swordsman, who has run men through in duels, merely for his sport. He is no Cromwell, Tom, to lead the armies of the righteous against the Court.”

  “Ann, you’ve heard lies - ‘tis false!” said Tom fiercely. “It may be true that he has been forced to mix with the Court a little, and see some of the vices of the ungodly - but for all that he is a true Protestant, and a good hearty man like any of us, folk say. Why, my father saw him in Colyton five years ago, when he stayed with Sir Richard Young, and Monmouth spoke to him just as plain as I do to you now, never mind him being a duke and all. And when he rode through the streets of Taunton, I heard the folks all cheered him like he was the King himself, or Noll Cromwell come again ... “

  “The King, then, rather than Cromwell. Wasn’t that the time he touched a woman for the King’s Evil, and she was cured?”

  “No; I don’t know ... maybe. That’s just superstition. ‘Tain’t important.” Tom sounded troubled, irritated, as he often did now when she argued with him. “The point is ... “

  “No, Tom that is the point! Monmouth was playing the part of King, not Protector, when he came to Taunton. He was trying it out, seeing if folk would believe in it. And they did! He has the touch - he cured the woman of the Evil! I’ve heard your mother speak of it. So if he comes again, it’ll be as King, not a Protestant duke or a Lord Fairfax. Is that what you’d fight for - a new King to replace the old?”

  “There’ve been enough kings ... “ As Tom hesitated he was interrupted by a shout, like an order or a challenge, from the bottom of the valley ahead of them. The shout was followed by others, and the neigh of a startled horse. Ann recognised her father’s voice, and Simon’s raised loud in anger; and others, sharp and cold in reply.

  “Tom, what is it?”

  “Footpads - or the militia.” Tom was trying to kick his horse into a trot. “Stay behind, Ann, there could be danger.” But it was hard for her to stay behind him, for he sat his mount badly, and bounced heavily up and down so that the horse threatened to stop to avoid the discomfort. The disturbance was at the foot of the slope, where a gate led into the dark tunnel of a sunken lane. As they came nearer, she could see her father, brother and Tom’s mother, surrounded by a group of four men on horseback. A feather in one of their hats shone pale in the moonlight, and she thought she saw a pistol glint in the hand of another.

  Tom’s horse suddenly decided that it would be better to bolt than stop, and reached the foot of the hill at a fast canter, heading straight for the centre of the group of dark figures. There was a curse as they saw it, and a cry of alarm. Then she saw a sudden searing jab of white flame and heard the earsplitting crack! of a pistol shot. Tom’s horse swerved wildly, and cannoned in amongst the other horses. Ann saw one - Simon’s - rear, and then slip and fall sideways onto its back, its legs waving in the air, with Simon under it. Martha Goodchild screamed, and the other horses leapt away in all directions, snorting and shuddering.

  Ann heard her father call out: “Simon!” and she tried to urge her pony forward, but it turned, plunging and snorting, in a circle as she fought to control it from galloping away up the hill. Then as she brought it round again a voice called out, clear and hard.

  “Put that gun away, you fool! You’ll kill someone, if you haven’t already!”

  Surely it was Robert’s voice? Still fighting the shuddering pony, she stared to her left to see if he was there. But she could see only a chaos of dark hurrying figures, criss-crossed by shadows and grey moonlight.

  “Serve the fanatic traitors right!” said a deeper voice, and then there was a dreadful groan as Simon’s terrified mount rolled off him and staggered jerkily to its feet. She leapt out of her saddle and hurried towards him, nearly being knocked over by Simon’s panic-stricken horse on her way.

  “Simon, are you all right?” At first his face was hidden from her, and his body lay like a heap of dark rags on the grass, oddly small and twisted, so that she could not find his head. She touched him, and found herself holding his hair. Then he groaned, and turned his face upwards, ghastly pale, like a crumpled mushroom in the moonlight.

  “My leg! It fell on my leg!”

  There was shouting all around her but she ignored it. She reached her hand down and felt his leg. It was oddly hot and soft around the knee. The knee? But surely the knee should be further down? Yes, here it was - her stomach turned over with a horrible, helpless sickness as she realised that her brother’s leg was bent in two places now, and the first knee she had felt was his broken thigh-bone pressing through the skin.

  “You Papist bastards!” she heard John Clapp’s voice roar, as he rode past her. “I’ll kill the lot of ‘ee!” Then there was a further maelstrom of cries and curses. Ann heard the crack of a whip, a yell, the heavy thud of someone falling, and the rasp of swords being drawn. She looked up, and saw a fallen figure stumbling to his feet beside his horse, while John Clapp lashed with his whip against a third rider who was defending himself with his drawn sword. As she watched, another man urged his horse up behind John Clapp, a clubbed pistol rose and fell, and the big mercer slumped forward over his horse’s neck.

  But the fight was not over. Another dark dismounted figure - Tom - had pushed his way between the horses, and tried to grab one of the riders and pull him from his mount. He missed, and caught hold of the bridle instead; and as the horse turned, full into the moonlight, she saw that the horseman was Robert. His sword flashed in the cold moonlight above Tom’s head.

  “Back off, fellow! Let go, or I’ll run you through!”

  “Papist devils!” Tom tried to dodge around the front of Robert’s horse, but the animal reared, menacing him with its hooves. Then the se
cond rider was beside him, sword drawn too, and in a moment the fallen rider was back on his horse which his friend had held for him, and Tom was confronted by a ring of four armed horsemen. While her father struggled with John Clapp’s horse, Ann saw the remounted rider reach into his friend’s belt for another pistol. She stood up, shouting a warning.

  “Look out, Tom! He’s going to shoot!”

  The man turned sharply, and for a moment the pistol was pointed at her instead. She saw the little black hole of the muzzle very clearly under the grey glint of the barrel. The bullet would hit her under the left breast. Then the muzzle lifted, and the horseman laughed.

  “Why, ‘tis only a girl!”

  “Aye! Will ‘ee shoot girls now, as well as attacking unarmed men? We’ve no money on us, so you’d better shoot us and have done, or else leave us be. Murderin’ footpads!” Tom’s voice was furious, his speech punctuated by gasps as he tried to gain his breath.

  “Quiet, lad, they’re too many for us!” said Adam, urging his horse forward to shield the boy from the pistol. He pointed his finger firmly at Robert’s father, his voice sharp and bitter. “But I know you, Reginald Pole, and your son there! I shall have payment for this in the courts, be you never such a great magistrate!”

  Robert’s father answered in a sneering, contemptuous drawl. “I have a warrant to stop and question any party of suspicious travellers, especially those riding after dark, who might carry arms or be mutinous dissenters. And your man there attacked us first, and hit William here with a whip!”

  “I did not neither! He tried to murder me first!” For a moment Tom looked as though he would attack them again. Adam grabbed his collar to hold him back.

  “Hold your tongue, churl!” Two swords menaced Tom again, and Sir Reginald relaxed. “That’s not what I saw anyway, and I believe I have three honest witnesses here to say the same. To say nothing of the mark of the whip.” He leant down from the saddle, his careless, mocking tone suddenly become hard and menacing. “We are here to uphold the King’s peace and keep the country safe from you dangerous presbyterians and fanatics. ‘Tis clear against the law, as you well know, to ... “

  “The King’s peace?” Martha Goodchild’s cry of rage was so wild that Sir Reginald’s words died in his throat. “The King’s peace! Is that what you call it, you hound of Satan, when this young boy here lies killed at your feet, for no more than riding home on a public bridleway? Shame on you, sirs! The day will come when the Lord will treat you as you now dare to treat us!”

  “Killed?” Adam’s voice was pale with horror. “Simon, killed?” He leapt out of the saddle, leaving his horse free to do as it wished.

  “Be quiet, woman! Surely the boy was not killed by a fall from his horse?” But there was a note of concern in Sir Reginald’s voice, and the four horsemen looked at each other uneasily. “Robert, have a look at the man. You, sir!” He pointed at Tom. “Stand still there, or the woman’s words will indeed come true for you!”

  Robert dismounted, while the three others watched Tom carefully. Ann had turned back to Simon with a small cry of fear when she had heard Martha Goodchild’s words, and by the time her father and Robert reached him she had already found they were not true. Simon had fainted, probably with the pain, but she could hear his shallow breathing as she bent low near his face.

  “No, father, he’s not dead. See for yourself,” she said, and Adam too bent down, holding his son and listening gratefully to the uneven, laboured breath.

  “Let me look,” said Robert calmly, and at first Adam did not notice who he was, and was taken in by the quiet, intent manner. Simon winced as Robert found the broken bone, and Adam turned and shoved Robert’s hands roughly away.

  “Keep your hands off my son, you devil! Haven’t you done enough harm already?”

  Robert Pole sucked the air in between his teeth, but said nothing.

  “Well, Rob? Is it true?” his father called from his horse.

  “No. But he has a nasty break in his leg. The horse must have fallen on top of him.”

  One of the other riders spoke. “That was none of our doing. ‘Twas this great clown here, riding his horse full tilt into the midst of us! Steady now, young John Baptist, or I’ll make the sign of the true cross in ‘ee with this!” Tom stopped impotently, the cold blade an inch from his throat.

  “Richard, that’s enough!” Robert’s father turned to Martha Goodchild. “Did you hear that, woman? We have killed no-one. Any injuries you have have been caused by your own foolishness in resisting lawful questioning by a Justice of the Peace.”

  “The Lord be thanked!” said Martha, though she hardly sounded grateful. “And what about poor John Clapp?”

  “The other man? A tap on the skull will do him no more harm than he deserves. And you can thank the Lord, too, that this time I am prepared to let your injuries be punishment enough, and not fine you as well for illegal assembly and assault. Perhaps next time you thank the Lord, you will do so in a proper church appointed for the purpose!”

  He was interrupted by a groan from Simon. Adam had tried gently to straighten the leg, without success. Ann moved forward to help him, and Robert knelt quietly looking at the wound.

  “Yes, it’s bad. You’d better get him to a … surgeon.” Robert’s words dried up as he suddenly saw who Ann was.

  For a long moment, Ann watched as the shock of recognition froze into a cold, grey mask of indifference. She watched for some light of pleasure in his eyes, but as the moonlight caught them they seemed as full of love and care as pebbles from the beach. She felt cold, as though the lonely wind could blow straight through her. Only long afterwards did she wonder how her face had looked to him.

  Robert rose to his feet, still looking straight at her. His voice was flat, hard. “And perhaps ‘twould be better to leave your women within doors, when next you go about your godless midnight plotting.”

  He glanced briefly at Adam, then mounted his horse. And suddenly they were gone, four horses bounding away up the slope, their tails swishing behind them.

  Ann did not move. She did not know how long she stood there, but she watched the horses ride all the way up the hill and disappear over the ridge. She saw Tom run over to John Clapp, who was just beginning to sit up and rub his head in confusion. The big man stumbled to his feet unsteadily, rubbing a huge lump he could feel just above his neck. Ann saw Adam bend down again over Simon. She heard their words, faintly, from a long way off.

  “How is it, my boy? Are you awake again now?”

  “Yes. ‘Tis better now they’ve gone. But it ... hurts bad, father!” He tried to move, and fell back groaning with the pain.

  “Lie still. We’ll get ‘ee home. John, are you all right?”

  “I’ll live.”

  John Clapp staggered cautiously towards them. “How’s the boy?”

  Adam told him. “But I don’t see how we’re to get him home. He can’t walk or ride.”

  “Get a cart,” suggested Martha. “Tom, you run on home and call Jacob Sanders. He ... “

  “Not a cart, no.” Adam interrupted her, his voice decisive. “He’d never stand the jolting, Martha. Tom, help me break some of they saplings down from the hedge. If you can strap two or three of they together he can lie on it for a litter. Ann, stay with Simon. Ann?”

  Ann moved, slowly, and then knelt down. “Yes, father.” She put her hand on Simon’s forehead and shivered as she felt the sweat.

  Adam and Tom broke saplings for a litter while Martha and John Clapp rounded up the frightened horses. Then they lifted Simon carefully onto the litter, and the two men carried it along the lane, the women and horses following behind.

  They began the journey in silence, and then sang psalms for a while to cheer themselves. After which Tom spoke longingly of the rising that would sweep the ungodly from the earth, while Adam listened grimly, and Ann thought alternately of the bone sticking out of her brother’s leg, and of Robert’s face in the moonlight, stony as a statue on a tomb.
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  7

  THEY REACHED Colyton in the middle of the night. The tramp of their tired feet and their horses’ hooves echoed loudly in the dark, empty streets. Adam and John put Simon down carefully on the cobbles, and hammered urgently on the door of a house near the church. For a long time no-one answered, and then at last a tall, haggard, melancholy man came to the door in a long white nightgown and night-cap, like the ghost of an old heron, and held up a candle to look at them.

  The surgeon, Nicolas Thompson, was a slow-moving man much given to tobacco and lugubrious humour, but he stirred a little when he saw why they had come. He led them in, saw Simon Carter laid on the great oak table in his kitchen, and called his wife to wake and bring him warm water and candles. The wife, a short, wrinkled bustling little body, the antithesis of her husband, hurried downstairs, and Ann helped her heat the water. Then she watched, fascinated, as Surgeon Thompson’s long knobbly fingers cut away the trousers from around the leg. He gently washed and probed the wound until she could see the bone move inside the great bruised and discoloured mass of flesh. Martha Goodchild had to go outside for a moment to be sick, but Ann stayed, holding her brother’s hand and wiping the sweat from his forehead. For a few moments he gripped her hand so tightly that she almost cried out herself, but then he relaxed, breathing deeply, and she turned to see what the surgeon had done.

  To her surprise she saw a slight smile of satisfaction in the stubble of Nicolas Thompson’s long face. She looked at Simon’s leg, and saw with relief that the thigh was no longer bent, but straight under the swelling.

  “That’s a mite better, young Simon. We’ll strap ‘ee up like Peg-leg Peter now, and get ‘ee home to bed. Then if you do what I say for a month or so, you’ll have a leg just as tough and ugly as ‘twas before.”

  The surgeon and Tom carefully cut a couple of splints from a stock he kept for such emergencies, and strapped them firmly to the leg, after which they wrapped a cold, moistened cloth around it to reduce the swelling. Nicolas Thompson had his own litter, too, more comfortable than the rough bed of saplings the patient had arrived on. Simon winced as he was lifted on to it, and made a brave attempt to smile, which only served to emphasise how pale his face was.