Willoughby had the resemblance of him, though not his character.
‘Why do you baulk at such a simple task?’ I asked, not taking the letter. ‘You have carried notes to him many a time before.’ Willoughby’s stubbornness on this matter puzzled me.
‘He has a temper, Madam. I would rather carry this letter into a lion’s den than take this letter to him. He is the Devil, that one!’ Willoughby again thrust the letter, but this time into my hand and then took hold of my fingers with both his hands and folded them round it, so I was in no doubt he would not take it.
‘What wrong did he do you?’
‘My Lord has a temper so vile, I would not trust him to keep it to himself.’
‘Surely his temper is not so bad.’
‘He swore me to the Devil and said if he saw me again he would have my heart!’
‘He did not mean it. Lord Castlemaine is a good man. Did he say more, that you are so discomposed about going to him?’
‘I tell you, he was there when I took a message to Powys House for My Lady, and he raged at me. He promised to have me sent to the gallows, or hung, drawn and quartered. I will not go to him.’
‘Why was he so angry?’
‘He said I should not have gone to the Tower, so I told him I went on your instruction. I owe you such a great debt; it would have been disloyal to you had I not gone. You know I would do anything for you, Madam.’
There was something ingratiating about Thomas of late.
I would gladly accept a little obligation for our kindness, but he gave his thanks or made some such comment about being in my debt near every conversation, and I owned I was tiring of it. He took it too far. At one time I did begin to think he used the words as a shield to hide insincere thoughts, but his work for Lady Powys and myself and for the cause had been earnest and I was happy to have him on our side.
But there was a distance between us now. I knew not why, only that we were not so cosy as we were before. I could not tell if the change was in him or in me. A memory of how he sat apart from the St Omer boys came into my head, and that air of guilt I caught on his face before he hid it from me. It might have been imagined, though my wits and senses had proved true over and again.
‘Then do this for me now,’ I said. ‘But…I cannot fathom why he was angry with you for taking a message to the Tower. There is no reason in that.’
Willoughby looked as a child caught in mischief, peering up at me through his long lashes with exaggerated down-turned mouth
‘I must tell you plain, madam, when I took the message to the Tower, I told them it was from My Lord Castlemaine in order to gain admittance, for they did not believe I came in good spirit.’
‘What! Why did you do a thing of such weak judgement? Have you no wits?’ It was difficult to believe how a person that knew how dangerous a Roman Catholic’s life was in these days might be so completely dull of senses to do a thing so lacking in reason! ‘By doing this you implicated him with the Lords when their lives are already in peril!’
‘It came to me that his nobility would convince them of my innocence. I did not believe any harm would come of it.’
‘It was a foolish and dangerous thing to do,’ I admonished him. Foolish, foolish man! Why should I hold my tongue and not bawl him out for his thoughtlessness? He put Castlemaine in danger of both his freedom and his life, and mine too. ‘Nevertheless, I wish you to take this letter to him.’
‘I will not do it, Madam,’ he said. ‘I will not breath the same air as that man. He has said he would have me hung if he saw me again.’
Nearby, Bennet Dowdal, our tall, thickset coachman, of surprising gentle nature, had come into the yard leading a limping black horse, Thor’s Hammer, and became busy clearing packed mud, stones and dung from his shoe. Prance might have had less than all kind thought when he gifted me the young suckling, for we soon discovered him to have a rather tight-sprung hind leg, that might be released on any that happened to walk behind it. We had allowed Dowdal, receiver of the greatest part of the animal’s force, to rename him. He had since all but trained the leg to behave, though we were warned never to touch him to be sure of our safety.
‘Dowdal, be so kind and come hither.’
Dowdal paused in his task and came over.
‘‘Tis a stone caught in the frog’s cleft,’ he said, misunderstanding why I called him.
‘I am sure ‘tis a simple matter for you, Dowdal,’ I dismissed. ‘You know Castlemaine, do you not? Tell the Captain he is a good man.’
‘Captain, you are a good man,’ he said obediently, but frowned as he did so.
‘No, no, Dowdal. I mean for you to tell Willoughby that Castlemaine is a good man.’
Obviously still puzzled as to the reason why I tasked him so, Dowdal did as I bid him, ‘Yes, yes, he is a fine gentleman. One would search the land and not find better than the likes of him.’
‘Well, you deliver this letter to him then!’ Willoughby’s sulks were an ill-fitting suit on him. Again they made him more a wilful child than a man, a way I now looked at him more often, since the Jesuit trial.
‘I thank you kindly, Dowdal. Please return to un-stoning the frog.’
Dowdal moved away slowly, reluctant to relinquish any opportunity to gather information that he might exchange in the stables in return for a shared cup of whatever it was they drunk there of an evening.
I waited until he had returned to the horse before saying, ‘Captain, let me assure you, I would not send you on an errand to him if I believed he would do you harm. I ask you one time more to take this letter to him.’
‘I beg your humble pardon, Madam, but I will not.’ Willoughby’s persistent refusal to do as I asked irked me, but what was there to do. My only option would be to find another messenger.
‘It would make me happier, Captain, if you did not place me in such an awkward position. Is it your intention to hobble me like that poor horse over yonder?’ I pointed to Thor’s Hammer. ‘I have taken you from a cruel fate, and furnished you with clothes, money and a welcoming roof over your head, and found you employment with others too. In return I merely ask you give of your good services for my husband’s business and my own, for which I pay you well. This task I give you holds no danger, for I am accountable for it. That you refuse me cuts me to the quick.’
‘You have indeed done me more good service than I can repay, Madam Cellier, and I am the first to admit nothing I can ever do will settle the debts of kindnesses shown by you, your husband and Lady Powys. Your rescue of me was the very thing to change my course from rapscallion to honest man. Ask of me anything but that I shall be in sight of Lord Castlemaine again!’
‘Fair enough. You make your position clear.’ As steadfast as a mule, Willoughby held his ground but, as a man, he must be allowed the final say in his own fate.
‘Mean you what you said that, apart from taking a note to Lord Castlemaine, you will do anything to repay me?’ At his nod I continued, ‘Do you have backbone enough to do another task for our cause?’ Again he nodded, more eagerly now he saw I would not force him to Castlemaine. ‘You have proved your allegiance and the task I have now cannot be given to any person not honest. Are you with us the whole way? Are you prepared to do what you will to help the cause? I have conceived a deed you might undertake to right the wrongs of those against us.’
‘Aye, madam, I have sworn to do anything you ask.’
‘Except meet Castlemaine,’ I could not resist the jibe, and was pleased the captain looked sheepish but maintained his humour.’
‘Except meet Castlemaine,’ he agreed, his winsome smile through those dark lashes once again reminiscent of Du Vall, that handsome French highwayman. And his smile cleared the air so that I thought, when he moved his hand to swipe a fly from his face, he would have reached out and touched me, but he did not.
Of late, I had on occasion
found myself trying to hide from Pierre how I was snared by this young man’s attractions though I feared he might have caught a glimpse of it. With good fortune, Willoughby failed to notice the flush that swept over me now as he looked over to Dowdal, and I fanned my face with my hand. Perhaps he looked away because he did notice.
‘I have your word. If you had not given out the pamphlets and broadsides for Father Neville at the coffee houses, that bigot Lord Danby might have secured his release from the Tower and might have won over the Government with his lies. I understand the one titled ‘Reflections’ with Danby’s name on it was very well read. But we cannot take all credit for his downfall. It is all too easy to discredit one that incurs such odium! For your part in this you already have thanks.’
I paused to allow these words to find their target.
‘My thoughts are these. Words of a cause are most likely to be read by those that are predisposed towards that cause, or those who wish to overthrow it,’ I said, thinking aloud. ‘Perhaps we must sow seeds of insight of the Presbyterian treachery in their own garden before they can see the truth of it. But it is not enough to sow the seeds. They must be nurtured until they bear fruit. The belly of our cause is growing, and when it is ripe, justice shall be born unto these three kingdoms.’
I paused again to see how Captain Willoughby reacted. I did not expect him to answer, but he did.
‘‘Tis widely spoken now, Madam, by some you would not sup with, that the plot to kill the king was hatched by Shaftsbury to settle King Charles’ bastard son, the Duke of Monmouth, to the throne, and those that designed it turned the scheme onto the Catholics to throw dust in the eyes of any that might see something so plain. They say that Sir Edmundbury Godfrey suspected something of the double plot when Oates swore his affidavit, and that is why he was killed.’
Willoughby went to scratch his scalp, knocking his wig out of place. It was a habit he had not left behind with the lice in Newgate. Unselfconsciously, for we were known to each other around the house, he shifted it around until it sat straight again. Then he looked again to Dowdal now checking the back left hoof, as if what the coachman was doing held great interest, looked down to the ground and back to me again before speaking.
‘One servant of Oates’, a man named William Osborne, in the employ of a noble man – possibly Danby – plans to speak out about Oates and his sordid affairs, along with two others. I cannot vouch for the truth of it, for I suspect the word of one worm in the stead of another is one you would not wish to believe, but the one to whom I gave my ear also claimed the word is that Oates himself arranged for Sir Godfrey’s life to be forfeit under the instruction of Shaftsbury.’
‘I suspected this mischief begun with that man! He would have it both ways: his man, Monmouth, on the throne and the Catholics discredited all rolled into one round shot! And Danby is such a hard one against Catholics that he would only speak against Oates to suit himself. If the court had not proclaimed that he had ‘dastardly and traitorously concealed the plot’, he would likely be enjoying Oates’ company!’
‘Indeed, people are prone to believe in a Catholic plot against the king, where a Protestant one is questioned,’ Willoughby stated what we all oft stated. ‘Catholics caused the plague and the Great Fire and every other scourge these three kingdoms have seen this past century! We – you and I – are an infliction on these three kingdoms, it would appear.’
The captain again looked to the ground but saw something far from there. I could not deny his words. In this country, our religion would always be blamed for any wrong. All eyes had watched Spain and France and some other countries and seen what happened to any that did not take mass. The persecutions on Protestants in Buckinghamshire when I was a child reflected this same prejudice, when, our family house was ransacked and pillaged by Catholics; and my father and brother paid with their lives for being on the ‘wrong’ side during the war, as those in the prisons were paying now.
‘We must tell the Duke of York! He will know what to do,’ I said.
At that moment, there was a small commotion. The horse Dowdal was tending suddenly kicked out and Dowdal sat on the ground with his hand to his chest. Fool man had forgotten the horse did not allow any man, not even the groom, to touch his flank on that side. The man should pay attention to his own business rather than mine! Following my thought, I took my own attention back to where it should be, to Willoughby. He had also seen Dowdal’s error, and was smiling, but cleared his face when he realised I was not.
‘The Duke would not see me.’ Willoughby’s words surprised me.
‘You have tried?’ I said.
‘Yes, I tried, but someone recognised me as a witness against that priest, Anderson, six months ago.’ Seeing my face he held up his hands as if in defence and added, ‘Believe me, I would not have done it if they did not put me on the rack. You must believe me. I swear ‘tis true!’
‘Father Lionel Anderson? You did not tell me this,’ I said.
Though it might be true, I held little respect for those who informed on others, either for their own gain or for weak ethics, at the cost of another’s life. I had seen traits of those who had spent time inside The Hole, and Willoughby had none of them. He had no scars from hard irons circling his wrists and ankles, nor did he have the gait of one stretched ruthlessly on the rack…And he had kept knowledge of this betrayal from me. Before I could release my anger, I must know more.
Willoughby spoke first. ‘Even with all things I have been condemned for, my behaviour in this was most odious to me and one I did not wish to declare. They forced me to it, else suffer worse.’
‘He was hanged on your word? To be hanged, drawn and quartered is a vile death for any man, even for our enemies.’ The five priests had suffered that same death only four days since, their last words hanging over the silent crowd, their bodies snuffed out and atrociously desecrated as we watched, all fresh images in my head. And this man had caused another priest to die in the same terrible manner.
‘Not only mine, but also of three others.’ I shook my head, but it still felt as if I was pulled in all directions at once.
‘All as damnable as you?’
‘Likely so. Oates was one who spoke and he is an obnoxious man.’
‘Seven priests were condemned that day. Did you speak against them all?’
Willoughby’s silence told me neither one way nor other. If I were he, nor would I admit to such shame. His big-eyed child face suddenly became sinister and evil to me. This man was responsible for the hanging of at least one good person, and shaming of that person’s life where there should have been respect. I could not look upon him any more, my belly churned as though I had eaten poison, and I had to walk away without saying any other thing.
‘Do not judge me, Mrs Cellier!’ Willoughby’s voice chased me to the door. ‘You cannot know how it was if you have not had the same done to you as they did to me! You would do the same if they made you!’
I turned then.
‘You are wrong, Captain. I would not,’ I said, still facing the door, not looking at him. ‘What ever did he do to you? Did he give you mass? Did he take your confession?’ I turned then and saw by the colour of his face I had hit close to the mark. ‘Then you have murdered your own father.’
‘My father disowned me when I was a mere boy,’ he said, intentionally misunderstanding me, perhaps looking for sympathy.
‘Do you also have his death on your conscience?’ I advanced on Willoughby with so much anger in me I believed I could kill him with my bare hands and it would be right that I should do so. My jaw was so hard clamped down I had trouble speaking. ‘Or perhaps you have no conscience.’
‘He claimed I stole his horses. I did not, but he would not listen.’
‘You talk of your birth father who knew you since you were born. He had more reason to believe you than any other, but he did not. Why? Why did he not?’
>
Again, Willoughby did not answer. I imagined the reason to be simple: his father had not believed him because he knew him too well. How had I been seduced by the same viper as Eve! I could no longer listen to his self pity or his excuses. I turned back to the house, stepped through the door and slammed it shut behind me.
14
27th day of August, 1679
Over the next months, though I could not blame the captain for every wrong done against every Catholic, I most certainly tried. I detested the mere sight of him and chased him from our home with the threat that if I saw him again I would return him to the hole from whence I took him. And I would have done so if I could have found him, but he had gone to earth like the wily fox he was. I could not bear the thought of how I had fallen prey to this cur, believed his pretence of caring for the wrongly accused, when he had stood as the accuser.
Aye, if I could have laid every innocent’s death at Willoughby’s door I would have, but not even he could extend his reach to Wales whilst still living in London. The dying words of Father Lewis protesting his innocence reached me at the end of August, three days after his hanging.
What had he to protest against? That he was killed for his faith? Or that, as a vessel of the Lord, he had been too generous to the paupers and the destitute of his county of Monmouthshire, and had feloniously relieved them of their suffering?
What sin did that court find, that they would so rejoice in his dying! A man so good, there would surely be more hardship and death now than had they let him live.
The Popish Midwife Page 14