“I believe him to be a wicked man,” said Maggie, “and that is more than I dare say to anyone else. There are some who would call you Papist and have you in the Tower for saying as much. But how does a man sleep in his bed at night when through him wives have lost their husbands, husbands their wives and little children their parents? And all for the sake of religion. They do say that what he wants to be rid of is the Queen and that is one of the main reasons for his actions.”
“But why?” I asked. “I thought she was a kind and gentle lady.”
“Oh, she is, she is. But she is also a Catholic. They’re looking at her household. Mark me, they’ll be having some of her household brought up, but it is the Queen they are after.”
“They could not harm her. The King would not allow that.”
“’Tis the old story. We need a Queen that can get boys. And when you think of the King’s bastards…! Why, I could name ten and I reckon there are more; yet she cannot get one. It is as though God is making a mock of kings, bringing home to them who is above them all. Oh, to see the airs and graces that man Oates gives himself! I have to seal up my lips or I’d not be able to stop the words coming from them.”
“Why does he do it?” Martha asked.
“Why indeed? Look at him. He was nobody but a short while ago, and here he is, strutting round like the king of the realm. ’Tis dangerous. Oh, we live in dangerous days, I tell you. And that poor man…”
“I saw him, Maggie. He thought of nothing but his religion. And now these…”
“They say the King would stop it if he dared. But you see, there is his brother. He is one of them. The King wants to go on his easy way…and how can he with all this going on?”
“What is going to happen to Christobel’s father?”
She was silent for a moment. Then she said: “He is of noble birth. It will be the axe for him.”
“And poor Father Greville?”
“Pray let us not talk of it.”
“Do you think my father can save them? He will try, I believe. He does not like this any more than you do.”
“It will be a miracle if anyone can save them.”
“Poor Christobel! Poor Kirkwell.”
“Why do they do this? Why do they have to let everyone know? If they want to be on the side of the Pope, why not do it behind closed doors? I expect the Duke of York has at least one chapel. Why must they tell everyone?”
“I suppose they would think it was dishonest to pretend.”
“So they let forth a bag of trouble and bring misery to thousands for the sake of being honest,” cried Maggie. “I’d rather see a little dishonesty myself.”
I agreed with her.
Then she changed the subject and wanted to know if I had met Lady Rosslyn, and what she thought of my being at the Dower House.
I could not say, but I imagined she would not be very happy about it.
“Like the poor Queen. There is another. And like the Queen, doubtless Lady Rosslyn must turn a blind eye to her husband’s tricks.”
“It is very sad for them both. I wonder how they can be so cruel…the King and my father.”
“It is the nature of men. I doubt either of them could turn themselves into a faithful husband…no, not for a brood of sons.”
“I should not care to be the wife of such a man.”
“Then you must choose well. The handsome rake with the honeyed tongue is not for you. Your father must find you a good and honest man who knows the true values in life.”
“Are there such?”
“Mayhap a few.”
And so we talked while waiting for news.
It came. Among the last of those to be executed for treason were Father Greville and Sir Harold Carew.
There was very little delay in these matters. The streets were thronged with people come to see the deaths of those men condemned as traitors and discovered through the zealous work of their hero Titus Oates. We sat together, Christobel and I, with Maggie beside us. In our minds we were out there with the crowd. I could picture them so clearly, heads held high, perhaps clasping their crucifixes as they faced death, proud to die for their faith. I could picture the crafty face of Titus Oates, though I had never seen it. Wicked…he must be wicked…laughing to himself as the head of another victim fell.
And poor Father Greville…whose only crime was to be a Catholic priest.
Christobel’s face was distorted by grief. This was her father. He had been remote, more concerned with religion than with his family, but still her father, and innocent of any crime.
How long could this wickedness go on?
I knew that man Oates was evil. Why did so many people applaud him, almost make a god of him, calling him their savior because he had sent innocent men to their death?
So it was over. All our hopes of saving Sir Harold were gone. We sat silently in Maggie’s parlor. Kirkwell was with us, and there was hatred in his eyes.
He said: “Our father was betrayed. And to think I brought that man into the house. I see it clearly now. Isaac Napp. He was a spy for that odious Oates. I wish I’d killed him…before he worked his mischief.”
Poor, poor Kirkwell. I knew what he was suffering. He was blaming himself for having brought the man who betrayed his father to Featherston.
“I should have seen it,” he said. “All that preaching, all that virtue. A spy for Titus Oates. I would have killed him if I’d known.”
“You must not blame yourself,” said Christobel. “How could we have known what that man was? Spies like that are everywhere.”
And so we talked or fell into one of those brooding silences when we were all going over it in our minds.
“I must go back to Featherston with Kirkwell,” said Christobel at last. “Kate, you may come with me.”
So to Featherston Manor we went.
Carrie and her niece May greeted us somberly. It was a house of sorrow.
Carrie insisted that we eat, and we did, although we had little appetite. We sat for a long time in the solarium, and the tragedy seemed closer to us there than it had in London.
I am sure that that night the others were sleepless, as I was.
It was the morning of the day after our return to Featherston. Carrie had tried to tempt us with food, to which we could do little justice. We were in the room which overlooked the courtyard and suddenly we heard the clatter of horses’ hooves and after a few moments James Morton appeared.
He came into the room in which we sat.
“I heard you were back,” he said.
He did not mention Sir Harold, but his looks showed his deep sympathy.
“I suppose you will be getting down to work without delay,” he said to Kirkwell.
“Yes,” replied Kirkwell. “I must do that.”
“I was wondering if you needed any help over that thatching job. The half-finished one, you know, at Downside Cottage.”
Before Kirkwell could answer we heard voices outside, and two men came into the courtyard.
Kirkwell stared at them for a second and then he was on his feet, and to my horror I saw that the two men were Jem Lee, who did odd jobs on the estate, and Isaac Napp.
Kirkwell had risen, his face distorted with rage.
Before anyone could stop him, he was through the door. James went quickly after him and Christobel and I followed, but Kirkwell was there before us.
“You rogue! You spy!” he shouted at Isaac Napp. “How dare you come here?”
He had seized Isaac by the throat and was shaking him.
“You come here…” he was shouting. “You come here, getting our confidence with your talk of holiness, and you have murdered my father—an innocent man who never wronged anyone. I will kill you for that.”
Christobel and I were staring in horror, terrified that Kirkwell would carry out his threat.
It was James Morton who took action.
He sprang forward and caught Kirkwell’s arm. Kirkwell released Isaac Napp, who reeled back, his
hands to his throat.
Kirkwell stammered: “He…he is responsible for my father’s death.”
“It is not for you to take the law into your own hands,” said James quietly.
“He…he is a spy.”
“Be off,” said James to Isaac.
“I did my duty,” said Isaac. “That’s all I did. Traitors to the King…Papists…”
Kirkwell seemed to recover himself. He glanced down at his hands in horror. I think he was contemplating what he might have done if James had not stopped him in time.
It was a tense and dramatic moment as they all stood there, Kirkwell staring contemptuously at Isaac Napp, who returned his gaze truculently.
“Get off my land,” said Kirkwell, “and never let me see you on it again.”
“I’ve no wish to stay,” retorted Isaac.
He turned and, still touching his throat where Kirkwell had grasped it, walked out of the courtyard. Jem Lee hesitated a second or so before following him.
“Thank you, James,” said Kirkwell soberly. “Heaven knows what I might have done to him if you hadn’t been here to stop me.
“He deserves it,” replied James. “But it’s for the law to punish him…not you.”
“I lost my temper. It has been such a shock…my father.”
“I know,” said James. “I should have felt the same.”
We were all terribly shaken by the incident—none more than Kirkwell himself. Naturally of easygoing temperament, it was rare that he lost his temper. But his father’s death had so shaken him, and the sight of the man who had been instrumental in bringing it about on his land had so incensed him that he had completely lost his habitual self-control.
Sobered, we went into the house.
We were all trying to get back to normal. Christobel said that this sort of tragedy was happening all over the country. We had to take very special care of how we acted, and even what we said. People had been merrily rejoicing in the Restoration, and now they were getting a glimpse of the revival of intolerance. People were not to be allowed to worship God in their chosen manner. It was as though a blight had fallen over the country.
In London, we had had a glimpse of the state of affairs there, where the people’s dread of a Catholic England had made them accept such a man as Titus Oates.
I stayed on at Featherston. My father had raised no objection. I missed Luke but Christobel wished to be at her home at such a time and she was eager for me to be with her.
I was becoming more and more fond of Christobel and her brother Kirkwell. I had always liked Christobel but I realized that I had not really known her until I had seen her in her own old home. I believe that when we had been in London she was so conscious of deceiving my mother and Maggie that she had not been quite herself. As for Kirkwell, he was more and more my friend. He seemed to find pleasure in my company, which was strange because I must have seemed quite a child to him. I was only eleven years old and he was about eighteen or nineteen, but I had been so much with older people all my life that I supposed I seemed older.
He talked to me quite frankly. He told me how ashamed he had been of his outburst with Isaac Napp.
“Do you know, Kate,” he said, “I could have killed him. I do not know what got into me. I lost control of myself. I thought of my father…he was so meek and mild. He harmed no one. And to think of that happening to him and that poor old priest with him. And that I had brought that spy on to the scene. I think it was a kind of disgust with myself.”
“It is understandable,” I assured him. “Many people would have felt the same and acted in the same way.”
“I thank God that James was at hand to stop me. I shall be eternally grateful to him.”
“I know.”
“What is so sad is that all the trouble should be in the name of religion. Intolerance. Why do people hate others because they do not share their views? But the source of the present trouble which is sending so many people to the block is the fact that the King cannot get a son, which makes the Catholic Duke of York heir to the throne.”
“It all seems so trivial.”
“Perhaps intolerance is.”
Christobel and I tried to adjust ourselves to the old ways. We did lessons; we read with each other and we rode out often, though I had not ridden Lively Lady since my accident. I used another mare now who was much younger.
One day, when we were riding a little farther afield than usual, we passed a prosperous-looking place between the Rosslyn and Featherston estates.
As we rode past one of the fields we saw two people there. One was a young woman. She was carrying a tray on which was a tankard of ale which she was offering to a man who sat sprawling under a tree.
There was something familiar about him.
We came to an old inn from which hung a newly painted sign. It said “The King’s Head,” and there was a picture of the King, dark-eyed and heavy-featured, with a feathered hat and luxuriant curls.
“I have not been here for years,” said Christobel. “I did not know they had opened again. There must be new people here. It was an old ruin when I was a child. Shall we go in and see what it is like? We could have a tankard of cider mayhap.”
So we tethered our horses and went in. We took our seats and a young girl came up to serve us.
She brought us the tankards of cider and obviously expected to stop and talk to us as there was no one in the inn except ourselves. She tossed back her hair and smoothed her dress, as though to call attention to her charms. She was certainly rather pretty.
“You are new here, are you not?” said Christobel.
“I’ve been here two months,” she told us. “The inn only opened three or four months ago. There’s not much trade. I’m used to a place in town. I reckon I won’t be staying here much longer.”
“Where do you come from?” asked Christobel.
“Taunton. Now there’s a bit of life there.”
“Yes, I suppose so.”
“Mind you, there was all that fuss over at Featherston, wasn’t there?”
I saw Christobel stiffen.
“That was something,” the girl went on. “They took them up to London. I knew that Isaac Napp. He came in here once or twice. He was the one who found out about them.”
This was the last thing we wanted. Our great desire was to put it all behind us, to try to forget.
I looked at Christobel. Her glance said: Let’s finish this drink and get out of here.
The girl was new and did not know who we were.
She went on: “One of those old families. Lots of them here. They have their chapels in their houses, so it’s all set up for them. When Isaac Napp came in here once he talked to me. We were quite friendly, but now, of course…” She laughed significantly.
What did she mean? That he was still here? Much as we disliked this conversation, I felt there was something here we should know.
I said: “He left the neighborhood, I believe, after…I mean, this…er…Isaac Napp.”
“Did he? It’s the first I’ve heard of it. He’s over at Fifty Acres now.”
“Fifty Acres?”
“That farm that’s only about a mile or so from here. He’s working there.”
“I thought you said he had gone away,” I said.
“I said no such thing. He did not go away. He left Featherston. Well, he could hardly stay after getting the old man to the block, could he?”
“I…I thought he had gone a long way away after that.”
“No, no. Only to Fifty Acres. You wouldn’t think he would be…like he is…being so religious and all that.”
“How is he?”
“Well, I could see that when he came in here. It is the way they look. You can see it at once. He talked to me all very sober, but beneath it…well, I’m no country girl. And now he’s at Fifty Acres, and there’s that Mistress Blake, is there not?”
“Is there? And what of Mistress Blake?”
“They came in here once. The f
armer’s wife with one of the farm workers. I could see how it was. You see, Mistress Blake is about twenty years younger than old Blake. It stands to reason she might look around. Well, there we are. He’s now at Fifty Acres, is Isaac Napp. People are afraid of him, really. Nobody would say much whatever he did. They’d be afraid he’d say they were in the Plot.”
We left the inn as soon as we could. I could see that the conversation had upset Christobel.
“Do you think it is really true?” she said. “Has he really gone to work so very close?”
“It is not so very close.”
“It is in the neighborhood. I wish he had gone right away.”
“Had you ever heard of Fifty Acres Farm?”
“No.”
“Well, it is not very near, and people usually know their neighbors in the country. That girl did not know you. If it is not so far in miles, it is rather tucked away.”
“Kate, do not mention before Kirkwell that Isaac Napp is living at Fifty Acres Farm.”
Luke was glad to see us back at the Dower House, and so was Mistress Longton. There was a newcomer at Rosslyn Manor. He was Sebastian Adams. He came from the north, on the border between England and Scotland, and he was a distant relative of my father. James said that he had come down to train to look after the estate, which meant, of course, that Lord Rosslyn had despaired of ever having a legitimate son and in due course the estate would pass to Sebastian Adams’s branch of the family.
“He is a very pleasant young man and eager to learn. I think, when the time comes, Rosslyn Manor will be safe in his hands.”
James brought him to Featherston to have a look at the estate there and to meet Kirkwell. As Christobel and I were there frequently, we soon made his acquaintance.
Luke often accompanied us. After all, Sebastian Adams was a kinsman of his, as he was of mine, and we were all eager to know each other. Kirkwell, James, Luke and Sebastian were all interested in estate management.
Poor Luke was a little wistful. I believed he had secretly hoped there might be a chance of his inheriting Rosslyn Manor before Sebastian came. Since Lord Rosslyn seemed unlikely to have a legitimate son, why should his natural son not inherit, when he was surely more close than a distant cousin?
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