‘Oh, Old Noll spouts forth ceaselessly about how he offers liberty to tender consciences,’ said Tom, somewhat too loudly for my liking; spies and informers were said to be everywhere in Cromwell’s England, and I looked about nervously. ‘He’ll favour such strange breeds as your Baptist and your Quaker. He lets the Jews back into England, and he’s even kind to the papists lest his ally Cardinal Mazarin takes offence. But our dear Protector’s tolerance has its limit. And I am that limit, Matthew Quinton.’
I cast about among my recollections of the strange multiplicity of sects that had bloomed in England. ‘You are, then, a Unitarian?’ Tom shook his head. ‘A Muggletonian?’ Another shake. ‘A Seeker?’
‘None of those.’
A thought came to me: a thought that was almost inconceivable to my young self. ‘But — but surely you cannot be an atheist?’
I whispered the word. In those days, all of seventy long years ago, it was accepted that men might disagree about the best path to God, but incomprehensible that any might reject the very notion of there being anything at the end of all the paths. How different to the present time, where atheism is as fashionable as gin.
Tom looked at me in genuine surprise. ‘You know of such things, Matthew Quinton? Now you surprise me. No, I hate an atheist as fervently as you do, my friend — or as our dear Protector does.’
I was mystified. Surely I had exhausted the names of all the peculiar sects that festered upon the edges of our Christian firmament —
But there was another name, one that I heard uttered in the court at Bruges with a mixture of hilarity, incredulity and fear. Some said that it was all but a myth, a nightmare created to frighten the credulous, the perfect excuse for Cromwell’s government to pursue those who dissented from it —
‘I have heard a name,’ I said slowly. ‘It is that of a Ranter.’
Tom smiled. ‘And what have you heard of the Ranters, Matthew Quinton?’
I spoke slowly, barely believing the words that now came from my mouth. ‘That they are — that is to say, they believe in — or do not believe — Great Lord, Tom, it is said that they are antinomian! Surely you cannot be one such?’
‘Believe not all that fevered pamphleteers tell you, my young friend.’ Tom Clarabut put levity aside: now he was all seriousness. ‘Antinomian. Think upon its meaning, Matthew. Grace and salvation can only be found within — thus they do not come from adherence to all the moral laws that fearful priests and sovereigns have erected over the centuries to keep man in thrall —’
‘They say you fornicate with animals,’ I said, abruptly.
Tom leaned forward. ‘Believe me, Matthew Quinton,’ he whispered darkly, ‘there is no more fervent passion than that between a man and a badger.’
He stared at me, hard and impassively, until my face must have been sufficiently shocked and reddened. Then he burst into laughter, reached across and slapped me upon the shoulder. ‘Oh, my friend, you should see your face! You really must become less credulous, Matthew Quinton.’ He wiped a tear of jocularity from his eye, and was serious again. ‘Aye, we are accused of deflowering child and beast alike, of endless orgies, of God knows what — all to frighten children and other innocents. Every age needs its bogeyman, its puck, its scapegoat. None now fear witches, so they settle upon us.’ He drank. ‘But ‘tis true, if I meet a personable virgin of our persuasion, why should we not at once strip and rut? What is it that stops all mankind doing what its natural passions make it wish to do? Only the laws that have been erected which say fornication is wrong, promote instead that perverse prison called “marriage”, and make a man feel guilt for every pleasure he enjoys!’ Clarabut was animated now, almost angry. ‘Whence came sin, Matthew Quinton?’
‘From — from the serpent, in Eden —’
‘And why did the authors of Genesis place the serpent in the garden? To afright man into believing that the state of perfect grace and perfect pleasure which Adam and Eve had enjoyed were shameful! All your kings and popes, your priests and Protectors – all of them have used this dread notion of “sin” as a means of bending mankind to their will. Aye, they call us Ranters and pen gross distortions about us, but all because they fear us, Matthew Quinton. And you know why they fear us? Because deep down, they know that we have seen through the vast edifice of lies that they have built over centuries. God’s within each of us, my friend. We should seek Him within, while without – well, without we should take pleasure, free from obedience to false churches and governments, free from fear of sin, free from the threat of damnation!’
I was shocked beyond measure by this revelation and this strange theology, so contrary to all I had ever learned of faith. Even my cynical uncle Tristram had never dared travel more than a few yards down this particular road.
‘You sin?’ I gasped. ‘You sin with whom you please, when you please?’
Clarabut raised his tankard to his lips and drank deeply. ‘How can I,’ he said, ‘when sin does not exist? Thus no act of mine can ever be sin, my friend.’ He shook his head. ‘But that is not a doctrine that finds ready acceptance among the so-godly ranks of the New Model. They attempted to whip me into recantation once too often, so I ran.’
I would have heard more of Tom Clarabut’s tale and of the beliefs of the Ranters; indeed, to a youth with my then minimal knowledge of the flesh, comprising nought but a few unsatisfactory fumbles with village girls at Ravensden or Flemish maidservants at Bruges, his vision of unrestrained naked lust was more than a little enticing. But in that moment the door of the alehouse opened and admitted a half-dozen stout lads, evidently of the village and fresh from working in the fields, their shirts and brows stained with sweat. They glared at us suspiciously, but I sensed at once that their fear of us was rather greater than my apprehension of them. Strangers here, in this remote fastness: were we not most likely to be a pair of the Protector’s spies? Thus they settled themselves around a table as far from us as it was possible to be in that mean alehouse, and spoke in low, strained tones of the weather and other such matters.
After a few minutes the door opened again and admitted a stern, black-clad fellow with a sharp face, wearing a broad leathern hat; the very image of a hell-fire preacher or one of his godly acolytes. Tom Clarabut tensed at once. The newcomer stared hard at him, then at me, and I thought he was about to approach us –
Instead he made his way to the blind cripple, murmured some words to him and received an unheard reply. Then he turned, and thankfully his gaze was now upon the tapster, who was standing uncertainly in the corner of the room.
‘Reprobates!’ cried the preacher in a rasping voice. ‘Delinquents, that drink away hours that should be spent in prayer and contemplation of the mercies of the Lord!’ The lads from the fields looked shame-faced. Tom merely looked amused; if ever there was proof of Ranter doctrine, it was surely this vicious-tongued runagately prattler, spoiling the harmless pleasure of honest men who had toiled for hours in the fields. ‘All such foul harbours of sin as this should be cleansed, as Jesus did to the moneylenders in the temple!’ the fellow cried. ‘You blaspheme against your God, you reject His works – truly, you will not come to your deliverance! To your deliverance, I say!’
The password – and yet surely this raving fanatic could not be an agent of my brother or my uncle? But he seemed to be looking directly at me –
I half-rose. Tom leaned forward and grabbed my arm urgently –
The preacher smiled. ‘But some are more delinquent than others,’ he said. ‘And truly, they have found their deliverance.’
The door of the alehouse was pushed open with force, slamming back hard against the wattle. A half-dozen breastplated and helmeted troopers strode in: at their head, a young officer with sword drawn. He looked to the preacher, who pointed directly toward me.
Tom rose and drew his knife. ‘Fly, Matthew Quinton,’ he hissed. ‘Through the hatch, yonder. Pray the back is unguarded.’ Then he shouted to the village lads – ‘A pressing party for the ar
my, boys! Defend yourselves!’
The officer hesitated. Still he looked directly at me. ‘No,’ he shouted, ‘you damned fool!’
‘Run, friend!’ cried Tom. He advanced upon the captain, covering me. The village lads took Tom’s word and upturned their table, seeking to pummel their way past the troops and out through the door.
I hesitated no longer. I pushed past the tapster, overturned a hogshead after me, saw the back door open ahead, and ran out into the darkness. An Ironside would have done for me, but fortunately, no guard was posted there. Behind me, I heard the clash of blade upon blade, the shouts of fighting men and the crashing of furniture. I burst through a hedge, into a field, and ran.
Chapter Five
I was aware of shouts behind me. I ran as if both Old Noll and Old Nick were in pursuit of me, stumbling over hummocks, grazing my flesh on bushes. I breathed hard, gulping for air as I ran. My heart beat faster and faster, pounding in my ears. I fought my way through hedge after hedge, tearing my arms on the lacerating branches. And with every step, I expected to hear the distant puff of a musket’s firing pan, then the impact of the ball ripping my flesh.
Finally, when I could hear no sound behind me, I stopped and drew breath. Now, at last, the ale and bread in my belly reacted against the speed of my flight, and I spewed hard onto the Kentish earth. As I straightened up again, I looked about me. Still no sight nor sound of pursuit. But that was hardly a surprise, I reflected as my fear began to subside; I was lightly clothed, young and healthy, and ought easily to outrun any Ironside carrying heavy weapons, clad in half-armour and cavalry boots. I chided myself for my fear of the musketball. I had run so far and so fast that even in broad daylight, a musketeer could never have hit me. I offered up a prayer of thanks for my liberty, but it was tinged with disquiet. I had fled. Was that not dishonour – to run from the enemy? And yet surely it could only be my duty to retreat before overwhelming odds, to preserve my life and sword for the king, and above all to defend the letter that I carried.
Then I thought upon my betrayal, for betrayal it surely was. The preacher had known the password; unless, that is, it had been uttered entirely by coincidence, as part of his peroration upon the abomination of alehouses, but that seemed too unlikely for words. He had waited for me to identify myself, then given the signal to the troops waiting outside. The only blessing in the matter was that their captain had been so incompetent as not to surround the building entirely. But that had been no use to my poor forlorn friend Tom Clarabut, a man I had known for barely four hours, whose principles were utter anathema to me, and who yet had sacrificed himself that I might escape. I prayed aloud, if softly, that the Anglican God of Matthew Quinton might deal kindly with a gallant misguided Ranter who believed not in that which men call ‘sin’.
I looked about me. The moon was concealed behind clouds, but my eyes were now sufficiently accustomed to the dark for me to make out the land for some distance around me. Not that there was much to contemplate, for of landmarks there were none. I could see the spectral outline of trees here and there, but there were no buildings, no church towers, no hills: only a flat, black wilderness. To my discomfort, I had no idea at all of which direction might be which. I tried to recall my movements, and the map that Charles had shown me at Nieuwpoort. I had entered St Mary Hoo from the north-east, and left from the back of the alehouse, but I had no idea of the way I had run, and thus no idea whether I should continue in the same direction. I knew only that I could not have run west, for that would have taken me back across the lane or into the path of the troops. If I had gone north I would ultimately come to the coast, and would surely be able to find Henfield’s boat in the morning; and if I had to return to my brother with the letter to Tristram undelivered, well, so be it. If my way was east, I would come to the River Medway, and turning left would get me to the coast again. If it was south, I would eventually reach the road from Dover to London, and might be able to make my way to the city to deliver the letter to Tris myself. Thus I would continue straight ahead –
I heard the distant bark of a dog.
I chided myself. A dog signified nothing –
The bark of a second dog, and a third. Then I saw the lights, pinpricks behind me, moving gently from side to side. Lanterns.
Again I began to run, faster and faster until my chest screamed at me to stop, yet still I kept running. On, into a copse of trees, falling twice upon branches, winding myself, falling heavily upon my left wrist and fearing I had broken it – Out into another field, through its crop of God knew what plant, flattening a path as I ran. I could no longer hear the dogs. Now the firm soil gave way to salt marsh and the hard tufts protruding from it. I felt mud under my feet, and caught glimpses of a great black ribbon in the distance. The sea, then, or the Medway. But which? I could see no opposite shore, but I knew from the map that the Medway was wide at this point, and on this clouded night it would be impossible to tell the one from the other. So, Matthew Quinton, which way? I gambled that it was Medway and turned left, skirting the edge of the marsh. Was the tide coming in or out, and would I be trapped, perhaps even drowned, by its treacherous flood? I had no way of telling, for then I knew as much of the tides as I did of the court of China. But at least I could hear no dogs.
A great shape rose up before me, vast black ribs outlined against the clouds. I looked up at it in horror, a chill upon my neck. At first I took it to be the carcass of some giant of old, but swiftly put such childish fancies behind me. It was a ship, I realised. The broken hull of some ancient ship, beached here and rotting away into the mud. I walked up to the side of the hull and ran my hand along its timbers, crusted with weed and all the detritus of the waters. There was a hole in the planking, and I was just able to fit my frame through it. Inside, I could see the remnants of two, perhaps three, decks above my head. Much of the timber had collapsed into the hull, but still some beams and planks held in place, forming a rough shelter.
I was tired, it was long past midnight, and I was satisfied that I had shaken off the pursuit. There seemed no point in pressing on before dawn, when hopefully I could get a better understanding of where I was; at the very least, if I was upon Medway I would be able to see the opposite bank. Thus I settled myself against a beam and endeavoured to sleep, but it was elusive. I kept seeing the open, cheerful face of Tom Clarabut, and imagined with dread the fate that might have befallen him. I shifted position, and as I did so, I noticed some characters, carved into the outer planking. I rubbed away the dirt and weed, straining my eyes until finally I could make out the lettering.
AD 1588
Vivat E R
Vivat M R
Const Esp
Anglia vincit omnia
The chill of the grave coursed through me. I shivered long and hard. What devilish trick had brought me, of all men, to this place, of all places? It could not be. I was asleep, and dreaming. I was dead; had been killed in the alehouse, or during my flight. But I rubbed my eyes, and my sight and the pain in my wrist told me that I was both alive and awake. And as fear and confusion alike subsided, they gave way to relief. I even smiled, and then offered up prayers to God. For if my faith in Him had been shaken by Tom Clarabut’s plausible heresies, it had been reinforced tenfold by the fact that He had brought me here, to the one place in the vicinity where I was certain to be safe. Thus I echoed the triumphant paean that someone – an educated someone, that much was certain – had carved into this piece of wood almost exactly seventy years before.
1588, the year in which Spain’s Invincible Armada had set course against England. But God blew, and they were scattered. So Vivat E R indeed: God save Queen Elizabeth! And Vivat M R of the Const Esp: Matthew Quinton, eighth Earl of Ravensden, my grandfather, captain of Her Majesty’s ship the Constant Esperance in that glorious expedition, when England did indeed conquer all.
‘God bless you, grandfather,’ I said aloud, recalling the bluff, laughing old man who had balanced me upon his knee when I was very young.
<
br /> As I drifted off into sleep at last, the second Matthew Quinton to sleep aboard the Constant Esperance, I thought I heard a voice, borne upon the waters or the breeze: ‘Trust me, boy’.
* * *
I was woken by a prod in the ribs.
I half-expected to open my eyes and see my grandfather standing over me, or else a laughing Tom Clarabut. Instead, I looked down the barrel of a pistol, then along the arm to the visored face of an Ironside officer; a grizzled oldster with several days’ growth of beard upon his ugly pockmarked face. From behind him came the sound of barking.
‘Should have kept running, lad,’ he said gruffly. ‘The dogs always find their quarry sooner or later.’
At gunpoint, I was led out, blinking, into the bright morning sunlight. A party of dismounted dragoons stood upon the foreshore, looking upon me in utter contempt. And well they might; I had never felt so wretched. Was I not the most consummate of failures?
As my hands were being tied, another officer rode up, a much younger man who was evidently in a state of some agitation. I recognised him: he had been the officer who attempted to arrest me at the alehouse of St Mary Hoo.
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