Puritan

by David Hingley

  Elizabeth shook her head. ‘Too enthusiastic, at times.’

  ‘He is the best physician in the whole of New England,’ said Clemency, straightening her green bodice. ‘Whatever he does with those minerals he takes from the ground, they have a marvellous effect on the sick. They cannot be expected to cure everyone, but by God’s truth they are better than anything else we have. I hand them out in Meltwater, as many other women do in their own towns.’

  Intrigued, Mercia leant forwards. ‘Tell me more.’

  Clemency smiled. ‘For a stranger, you are a curious woman. I like that.’

  ‘Please, if I am to call you Clemency, you must call me Mercia.’

  ‘That is an unusual name.’ She pursed her lips. ‘The ancient kingdom?’

  ‘Yes.’ Mercia tilted her head, surprised at Clemency’s knowledge. ‘The realm of the Anglo-Saxons. My father was so enthralled by them he named his own daughter after one of their places. But I think he found the name a beautiful one too.’

  ‘Indeed it is. It is a mystery of a name with a story to tell, a whole people behind it. Unlike some of our English names here, which merely hide a person’s true nature behind a trait wished on them by their parents.’

  ‘Clemency,’ admonished Elizabeth.

  ‘You do not suffer it.’ Clemency leant back in her chair, her arms draped down the sides. ‘John and Elizabeth, both strong names. Come to Meltwater, Mercia. We have some choice names there. Like mine, indeed. Clearly my parents wished me to have a clement character. But you will find there is more to me than that.’

  ‘Yet all names are merely translations,’ persisted Elizabeth. ‘My own is from the Hebrew tongue, for instance. It means God is my oath.’

  ‘Yes, and it will not be long before someone here calls their daughter God-is-my-oath Jameson or whatever. There is no magic in calling your child by a literal English name.’

  ‘Many people around you would disagree. They think it makes the truth plainer to God.’

  ‘Then I am glad I am not many people.’ She held out a hand. ‘Consider what a marvel your name is, deriving from El meaning God, and sheba, which means oath. But then see how sheba also means perfection, as well as the number seven, and so ’tis a masterpiece of a name, alluding to the perfection of God in creating his world in seven days.’

  ‘I am impressed.’ Mercia found herself warming to the woman. ‘I did not know that.’

  Clemency raised an eyebrow. ‘You see, names that contain mysteries are much more interesting. But here I am in the minority.’ She edged her chair closer. ‘I am glad to meet you, Mercia Blakewood. I think we will get along very well.’

  Chapter Three

  Mercia slept well that night, tucked in a comfortable bed covered in thick linen, revelling in the pleasurable warmth of the newly laundered bedclothes. It was a welcome change after the five-day journey from New York, dozing in starts in makeshift tents under the open sky, even if she had enjoyed gazing at the stars with Winthrop, listening to his tales of the constellations. So she awoke the following morning refreshed, invigorated by the now familiar sound of New England birdsong as the American sunlight swept into her cosy room. In the distance, a muffled bell sounded out the hour: seven o’ clock, time to rise.

  She was eager to get ready, for Clemency had said she would return early to the house, and she was anxious not to miss her. Throwing on one of the three dresses she had brought, a brown woollen skirt split down the front to reveal a black petticoat – she could still follow the fashions, even out here – she descended to find Nathan perched on a table edge, sipping a mug of milk.

  She looked around. ‘Is Mrs Carter not here? She was to meet with Winthrop.’

  ‘Good morning to you, too. Who is Mrs Carter?’

  ‘The woman we saw last night, with that rude man.’ She glanced through the window into the backyard: the plot of land stretched on for a long way. ‘Has she been and gone?’

  ‘I don’t know. But the governor asked me to tell you he was in his workshop.’ He took another sip of his drink. ‘What shall we do today?’

  ‘Take Daniel to look around the town, I think.’ She pointed to Nathan’s mug. ‘Is there more of that?’

  ‘In the pitcher. ’Tis still warm.’ Nodding towards a white jug on the table, he set down his mug and filled another. Passing it over, his fingertips brushed against hers. ‘You are sure that is all you want to do?’

  She took the mug from him. ‘What do you mean?’

  He laughed. ‘You know what. Something about a code?’

  ‘Oh, that.’ She took a quick sip; the milk was thick and full of flavour. ‘I had not thought about it.’

  He grinned. ‘Of course not.’

  Draining her mug, she went to wake Daniel and made sure he ate, leaving him to talk with Nathan about his latest interest, the trees of New England – a fascinating subject until discussed to the exclusion of all else. Wondering what his young mind would fixate on next – native animals was a safe bet – she pulled a thin shawl around her neck and stepped out into the garden. She knew Winthrop had his workshop halfway down from the house; she betted she would find Clemency there too, assembling the medicines she was to take back to Meltwater.

  It was a bright day, the still-green leaves shining in the sun under a patchy blue sky, wispy clouds sauntering from east to west. She stopped a while to take in her surroundings, the governor’s house behind, two others to either side of much smaller proportions, but all three the same two-storey height. She inhaled deeply: the air smelt fresh and untainted, the light scent of verdant grass tingling her nostrils. The smell of pine penetrated her being: it was as though she could taste it. For a moment she closed her eyes, soothing her spirit.

  Opening her eyes once more, she squinted momentarily in the sunlight before continuing down the winding path. A large single-storey outbuilding sat to her left, smoke pouring from its stone-clad chimney. She caressed the rough wood of its door, clearly recently made. Everything here felt new, she thought, full of promise and hope, less crowded and complex than life back home.

  Working the latch, she pushed open the door and entered, closing it behind her to keep in the warmth of the fire. Enough light came in through the two windows to see that the whole structure comprised one large room. Taking care not to knock over the several glass vials stacked across the floor, she approached the far side where two darkened figures were hunched over a bench. As she drew near she brushed against a conical bottle; it vibrated as it turned round on the spot, emitting a low sound that made the figures look up.

  ‘Mrs Blakewood,’ said Winthrop. Beside him Clemency widened her eyes in greeting. ‘Come closer, please. Now, if only Elizabeth were here I should feel as if I were poor Paris, unable to choose between you.’

  ‘See how he tests us?’ Clemency looked over his head and winked. ‘We debated the story of Paris last month, how he was forced to choose the fairest goddess.’

  Mercia played along. ‘But which of the goddesses would we each be?’

  Winthrop sucked in through his teeth. ‘I should say Elizabeth for Hera, Clemency for Aphrodite, and you, Mrs Blakewood, would be Athena.’

  ‘Indeed? And Governor, Mercia will suffice.’

  ‘I am honoured.’ He turned to Clemency. ‘You know the first time I saw Mrs—Mercia, she was a baby in a cradle?’

  ‘Back in England?’

  He nodded. ‘I had gone to her father’s house to discuss matters of philosophy, and, well – this.’ He held out his hands towards his workshop.

  Clemency put hers on her hips. ‘And why does she get to be Athena?’

  Winthrop tutted. ‘Because, Clemency, she is wise and intelligent and you are more controlled by your passions.’

  Clemency laughed, a deep sound of happiness that made Mercia smile too. ‘I can be wise.’ She looked at Mercia. ‘Not that some of our menfolk would believe a woman so capable.’

  ‘My father always thought a woman had a certain place.’ Winthrop ran hi
s finger down a table of sorts, avoiding their gaze. Glancing over his shoulder, Mercia was intrigued by a strange symbol dotted across the page that seemed somehow familiar. ‘And I agree with—no, wait a moment, I have not finished.’ He held up a quietening finger as the two women began to protest. ‘I believe everyone has unique responsibilities in God’s world. Where my father and I differ is I do not see such rigid distinctions. And yet clearly a woman’s mind is better suited to some tasks as a man’s is to others.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Clemency pursed her lips. ‘To needlework and child-rearing, no doubt.’

  ‘To other things as well.’ Winthrop held up a box and shook it. ‘Like medicine. You are a great doctress, Clemency.’

  ‘Is that one of your mixtures?’ Mercia leant in. ‘May I see?’

  ‘Of course.’ He untied the red ribbon that was keeping the small box closed and opened the lid, revealing a fine white powder within. ‘This is antimony. More specifically, ceruse of antimony. It causes the body to perspire and so drive out fever.’

  She frowned. ‘Is not antimony poisonous?’

  ‘Yes, until an alchemist removes the impurities and makes it the exact opposite. It is a discovery such as this that excited your father so, as it excites me.’ He closed the box and turned to Clemency. ‘You know the dose?’

  ‘He always asks this,’ she sighed. ‘Although I have administered it a hundred times.’ She smiled at Winthrop. ‘Yes. One grain only as it is for a child.’

  Mercia looked up. ‘A child is sick?’

  Clemency nodded. ‘Praise-God Davison. Who deserves treatment in spite of his ridiculous name.’ At her side, Winthrop shook his head. ‘Now, Mercia,’ she continued. ‘I must attend to other errands, but I would like to see you again before I leave. Praise-God is sick but not in mortal danger.’ She began tying on her bonnet. ‘Will you meet me this evening?’

  ‘I would like that.’

  ‘Then I will see you later. Governor, if I may call on Mrs Blakewood at sunset, I will leave the antimony with you until then.’

  ‘I will put it with the other varieties and the saltpetre. I will give you extra to see Meltwater through the winter. You said you had antimony of copper enough?’

  ‘Most definitely.’ She paused. ‘And do not be concerned over – the other matter. It is in hand.’

  Winthrop’s eyes flicked to Mercia and away again. ‘Very good.’

  Clemency gave a slight bow and left, sending a cold draught whipping around the laboratory as she opened and closed the door. A wind had sprung up since Mercia had come in; some of the glass jars nearest the door jangled.

  ‘Perhaps a storm is brewing,’ said Winthrop.

  ‘It was fine weather when I was in the garden just now.’ She looked around the room, wondering what Clemency had meant about the other matter, but even more entranced by what she could see. ‘You described yourself just now as an alchemist. Is all this concerned with such endeavours?’

  He beamed. ‘Indeed. I am proud to help the people with the discoveries I have found.’

  ‘So many vials and parchments. I never knew alchemy was so involved.’

  ‘Perhaps you thought it was all fools on a quest to turn lead into gold?’ He arched a grey eyebrow. ‘Did you think your father a fool?’

  ‘My father was the cleverest man I knew.’ She paused, saddened as the last image she had of him, standing grey but proud on the scaffold at Tower Hill, filled her mind; she shook the picture aside and concentrated on Winthrop, a man of roughly the same age. ‘How well did you know him? Did you discuss this?’

  ‘Matters like this.’ Winthrop folded his arms, leaning against the fireplace. ‘The last time was two years ago, when I was securing Connecticut’s new charter from the King.’ He smiled. ‘When I was not flattering the royal ego, I managed to visit friends across England. Sir Rowland was one of them.’

  ‘But you did not come to Halescott.’

  ‘No, we met in Oxford, not long after I was elected to the Royal Society.’ He scoffed. ‘They want me to be their colonial expert, to send them intricate details of America’s wilds. Well maybe I will, but I will not tell them anything that will hurt my people. I know the King’s brother is no friend to New England.’

  ‘But my father—’

  Winthrop bowed. ‘I am sorry. Your father was a curious man. He wanted to know things, to understand the world. Cromwell must have valued his council.’

  ‘I think so.’ She looked again about her. ‘How involved was he in your work? I had no idea.’

  He wandered to one of his overflowing shelves. ‘He was never one of the principal actors, but he was certainly interested.’ Taking a well-worn book from the shelf he placed it on the bench, opening it at a page near the front. ‘Take a look.’

  ‘’Tis a letter.’ She peered at the page. ‘In my father’s hand!’ She looked up at Winthrop, amazed. ‘But it is in some sort of code.’ She read the first word, or rather scanned it, for it was impossible to take it in:

  JFDRJNCWWRBLZDTIYVGSPUOAIHCRBYICDHPBFHOY

  She frowned. ‘I cannot make anything out.’

  ‘This volume is full of correspondence I have pasted in, all from alchemical practitioners across Europe and the New World. As we are dealing with God’s secrets, we must write to each other in code so the Devil cannot use our work to his own ends.’

  ‘I see.’ She leafed through a few pages of notes. On many the same strange familiar symbol she had already seen was repeated. ‘I confess I know little of alchemy, Governor, but I do seem to recognise this mark here.’

  ‘Ah.’ He smiled. ‘Do you recall its name?’

  She pondered a moment, examining again the symbol, a crowned circle with a dot at its centre, the circle perched on a cross that nestled between two mounds.

  ‘Yes,’ she said eventually. ‘I think I might.’ She screwed up her forehead, thinking back to her childhood. ‘From one or two of my father’s books, among those he told me not to read.’

  Winthrop laughed. ‘But which you looked at nonetheless.’

  ‘Of course. Although at that age I did not understand most of his library, the religious treatises and philosophical works. But I do remember this symbol. It was so … captivating.’ She tapped on a large depiction. ‘It is a monas.’

  ‘A monas hieroglyphica, to be exact. It is the very symbol of creation.’ Animated, Winthrop leapt to another workbench, taking up a paper and quill and beckoning her to watch. ‘The circle represents the heavens,’ he said, scrawling on the paper, ‘and the dot is the Earth.’ He jabbed a dot at the circle’s centre. ‘And this, is the moon.’ He intersected the top of the circle with an upside-down arch.

  She glanced at the monas in the workbook. ‘What of the cross?’

  He sketched an elongated cross beneath the circle. ‘The cross is quite naturally the cross of our Lord. But its four lines also represent the four elements of air, fire, water and earth.’

  ‘And the flourishes at the bottom?’

  Winthrop finished by adding two adjoining semicircles, one each side of the bottom point of the cross; they had the appearance of two small hills. ‘This is the symbol we use for Aries, the first constellation of the zodiac.’

  ‘A most mysterious depiction.’

  He looked at her. ‘Can you see anything else in the monas?’

  ‘I … do not think so.’

  ‘I suppose your father would not have taught you the signs of the metals.’

  She pursed her lips. ‘I suppose not. Although … is not gold represented as a circle?’

  ‘Very good.’ Winthrop seemed impressed. ‘And silver is depicted as a crescent, like here at the top; copper is the circle and cross combined, and so on. If you look at the monas from different angles, you will see all the metals within it. And so also the signs of the planets, for their signs and those of the metals correspond.’ He looked up, his elderly eyes shining. ‘The monas is a perfect symbol of creation and alchemy.’

  She shook her head. �
�And you devised this yourself?’

  ‘Oh no.’ Winthrop smiled. ‘It is a century old. But we alchemists are still searching for the hidden meanings of God’s world.’ He held up the box of antimony. ‘The Lord has allowed me to discover some morsels of use. I have found that minerals in the earth can have wonderful recuperative powers for the sick. But I have not been deemed worthy enough to uncover the two ultimate prizes, alas.’

  ‘And what are they?’

  ‘Why, the philosopher’s stone, and the alkahest.’ He rested his hands on the table, entwining his thin fingers. ‘The first will allow us to refine base metals into the purest gold and silver.’

  ‘So that is part of it.’

  ‘Indeed, but the aim is not merely to gain profit, even if so doing will help us support ourselves in our endeavours.’ He sighed. ‘Of course there are many who do seek financial gain through the stone. But then the second of the prizes, the alkahest, is of universal good, for it is the ultimate elixir. Once discovered, the alkahest will cure all sickness, and nobody will be infirm or die of illness again.’

  She stared at him. ‘You believe that is possible?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Winthrop was earnest. ‘One day we will uncover these wonders. Adam knew them before his fall from Eden, but God hid them until the time shall come for us to reveal them anew. Indeed it is said that the Second Coming of Christ will be preceded by a time of great discovery. The Book of Daniel makes clear that at the time of the end, many shall run to and fro, and knowledge shall be increased.’ He turned back to his workbook. ‘That letter of your father’s.’ He flicked through the pages to find the correct spot. ‘It was the alkahest that encouraged him the most. Here, he reports meeting a man who claimed its discovery. But his next said the man was a charlatan, an all too common occurrence.’

  She looked again at the unintelligible page. ‘How do you decipher it?’

  Winthrop smiled; on a separate piece of paper he wrote down the first jumble of letters beside another much smaller sequence: NCUYNB.