Puritan

by David Hingley

  ‘He is my manservant,’ she said.

  ‘Then tell him to stand aside.’

  ‘Why, so you can go through a lady’s garments?’ Nicholas folded his arms. ‘I would be a poor manservant if I let that insult go unchallenged.’

  Visibly irked, Thorpe tugged at his sash. ‘Show me what is in the cart, or I shall assuredly report your insolence.’

  Nicholas stared him down for several seconds. Then he smiled, taking a pace to his side.

  ‘If you insist.’

  Shaking his head, Thorpe brushed past to set his hand on the side of the cart. Scarcely breathing, Mercia saw Amery, calmer than she, move his hand to his side; looking askance, she watched as he pushed back his cloak, revealing a pistol wedged in his belt.

  ‘Now, let me see,’ muttered Thorpe.

  Slowly, Amery gripped the handle of his gun. As Thorpe reached into the cart, he began to ease it from his belt. Mercia held herself ready, her whole body on alert as Thorpe threw back the blankets, and then – she stifled a gasp.

  Where Davids had been hidden, nobody was there.

  She looked at Nicholas, battling to prevent a deep frown of puzzlement from breaking across her face, but he remained impassive. Amery withdrew his hand, covering his pistol once more with his cloak. Nathan merely held still his horse.

  ‘Well, then.’ His inspection complete, Thorpe’s cocksure demeanour had fled. ‘You understand I am merely following instructions. It is part of my new role.’

  Recovering her composure, she cleared her tight throat. ‘I suggest you be more careful whom you inspect in future, Mr Thorpe. You may have the right but you do not have to use it.’ She pursed her lips. ‘Now I shall have to ensure my belongings remain in order.’

  Thorpe stared. ‘You cannot think I have—’

  She jumped from her horse, sending up dust from the dry earth. ‘I can think what I like. Please, I am embarrassed enough. I would like to check, and to do so undisturbed.’ She glanced at Amery. ‘Besides, given this – misunderstanding – perhaps you should more properly explain your commission to Mr Oldfield here, so he can better know what to expect.’

  ‘Yes.’ Amery nodded, tugging on his reins. ‘Shall we ride ahead, Mr Thorpe?’

  Thorpe swallowed, his unsure eyes darting in all directions. ‘I suppose that would be wise.’ Remounting his horse, he kicked at its flanks. ‘Very well. Get your cart in order, and then back on the road. Meanwhile, Oldfield – you come with me.’

  Unseen by Thorpe, Amery widened his eyes at Mercia before falling in beside him. As soon as the pair were a safe distance ahead, she rounded on Nicholas.

  ‘By God’s truth, man. What is going on?’

  He held up his hands. ‘No need to be angry. All I did was get off my horse and help Davids from the cart. I knew Thorpe would pay me no heed while he was talking to you. That sort of princock never does.’

  ‘But what if he had seen?’ she pursued, still agitated from their near escape.

  He shrugged. ‘He didn’t. You had him fair well surrounded.’

  ‘Nicholas, I—’ About to rebuke him for taking such a risk, she stopped in surprise as Nathan burst out laughing.

  ‘Well done,’ he said, fair shaking in the saddle in his mirth.

  His unexpected reaction broke the tension. She found herself smiling too, although she did not know why.

  ‘Yes, well done,’ came a voice from the wood. Brushing leaves from his jacket, Davids emerged in their midst. ‘Thank you, Wildmoor. I think you just saved my life.’

  ‘He saved Thorpe’s,’ she said, a powerful relief now racing through her body. ‘Amery had a gun.’ She looked up at Nathan. ‘And I think he would have used it.’

  ‘Amery?’ Davids smiled. ‘All he talks of is alchemy and books. But that was good thinking, Wildmoor.’ He put a hand on the cart, raising his left leg to clamber in. ‘Back to my comfortable lodgings, I suppose.’

  A short time after restarting, Amery dropped back to join them, but Thorpe continued to ride ahead, whether preferring his solitude or through haughty aloofness Mercia could not tell. But she was thankful, for it kept him from the cart, its human contraband once more hidden within.

  As the afternoon progressed she felt the tension return, worrying ever more frequently whether they would be unmasked. Every stretch of road, every bend seemed to take forever, but they had no more encounters, Thorpe gradually passing from sight. After some time, longer to her than in reality, she supposed, the trees began to thin, a purl of smoke appearing above the canopy. A log blocking the road was the marker for them to release Davids into the woods; her heart thumped as she saw Thorpe waiting before it, but he merely ordered them to move the flaking trunk before leaping over and continuing on. She said goodbye to Davids with a proud sense of fulfilled duty: in turn, he gripped her hands in gratitude before disappearing into the trees where Amery said Percy Lavington would be waiting.

  Their task complete, and the log heaved away, the mood in the group changed to cheerful relief. Soon the trees gave way to open meadows where a number of people were scything corn, the unfamiliar crop surrounded by numerous orange heads of a large, grooved vegetable Amery called a pumpkin. As they approached, the workers broke from their tools, staring at the new arrivals; Mercia smiled down, receiving uncertain greetings in return. And then a wooden palisade appeared before them, curving away left and right. Beyond, the smoke rose now more clearly, filling the air with the promise of homes and people.

  ‘Meltwater,’ said Mercia. ‘At last!’

  Riding alongside, Nathan was leaning forward in his saddle. ‘I cannot wait to see what they have accomplished.’ His eyes seemed to glint. ‘Such fearlessness to live out here.’

  Away to their left rose a small, flat-topped hill, a half-finished structure sitting atop, before the road ducked down to avoid a tiny plot of gravestones, finally ending at an open gate in the south section of the palisade. A severed head was nailed above the narrow opening, the spear and arrow beside it suggesting their former owner’s provenance had been Indian. So, considered Mercia, thinking of the heads of traitors that were displayed on London Bridge, some things are very much the same in America as they are in England.

  Leaving Nathan and Nicholas to look after the cart and horses, she entered the town with Amery. A wide main street led directly in front, meeting the encircling palisade at its far end, although the gate on that side was currently closed. A shout to their right drew her attention; Thorpe, who had entered the town before them, was waving his letter of authority at a sturdy-looking man, a number of townsfolk looking on.

  ‘I ask you again,’ he was saying. ‘Where is Mr Lavington?’

  ‘And I ask you,’ returned the other, ‘to pass that parchment down here.’ He stood with arm outstretched, waiting.

  ‘My business is not with you, Constable.’

  The burly man kept his gloved arm straight. ‘Thorpe, did you see that festering head on the gate?’

  Thorpe peered down. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Well, it was I cut it clean off that thieving brute’s shoulders while you were away and nailed it there. Your surgeon’s knife is not the only sharp blade here.’ He tightened his fingers against the hilt of the rapier that was hanging at his side. ‘Now pass me that letter, lest you want your own head to join it.’

  Some of the townsfolk laughed, making Thorpe’s jaw clench, but he leant over his horse to pass down the parchment. The constable snatched it from his fingertips and read quickly, his eyes speeding from left to right. As he read, Mercia felt a bright presence beside her; she looked round to see Clemency smiling, the breeze fluttering her light-red dress. Feeling conscious of her own dusty brown outfit, she brushed at her sleeves and returned the smile.

  ‘You came, then,’ said Clemency. ‘I was not certain you would.’

  Mercia beamed at her new friend. ‘Of course I have. How could I not?’

  Clemency lowered her voice. ‘I feared you might think I was using you for …
the other matter. But I am so glad you are here.’ She nodded towards Thorpe. ‘He was on the road with you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Not wanting to alarm her, Mercia feigned nonchalance. ‘But most everything went as it should.’

  By now the constable had finished his perusal of the document. Without looking up, he clicked his fingers and a wide-eyed boy ran forward.

  ‘Take this to Mr Lavington,’ he ordered. ‘Now.’

  ‘That is for me to do,’ objected Thorpe.

  ‘Go!’ The constable handed the boy the paper, sending him on his way with a swipe to the head. Ignoring Thorpe, he instead marched across to Mercia. ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘You know who she is, Godsgift,’ said Clemency. ‘She is the friend I talked of. Mercia Blakewood, the daughter of one of Oliver Cromwell’s old aides.’

  The constable grunted dismissively. ‘Much good he ever did.’

  ‘And this is Amery Oldfield, our new schoolmaster.’

  Amery bowed. ‘Constable. It is a pleasure to be greeted by you.’

  Another grunt. ‘Save your flatteries for the magistrate.’ He sniffed. ‘Very well, Mrs Carter, I will leave you to vouch for these people.’ He pulled the bottom of his jacket down tight and pivoted on his well-worn boot heel, striding away.

  ‘Wait,’ shouted Thorpe. ‘Now you have read my authority I insist you acknowledge it!’

  ‘Insist all you like.’ The constable carried on, not turning his head. ‘I make the laws here, Thorpe. Not the King, and certainly not you, for all you preen in that foolish sash.’

  As Thorpe blustered on his horse, Clemency laughed. ‘Welcome to Meltwater, my friends. Don’t mind Godsgift. He is quite the old soldier. I would say he is harmless but’ – she glanced back towards the gate, where the iron spike that was securing the severed head was sticking through – ‘he is not.’

  ‘It is of no matter. We are just pleased to be here. The journey was long.’ Mercia looked at Thorpe’s back as he rode off down the street.

  ‘If I had known he would arrive with you, I would never have put you in such danger.’ Clemency bit her lip. ‘But I hope you understand why I had to leave.’

  ‘Of course. How is the child now?’

  ‘Better, I hope. And thank the Lord you are both here safe.’ She turned to Amery. ‘When I returned, I could barely restrain Percy from setting out for Hartford in my stead.’

  Amery sighed. ‘Percy needs to trust us better.’ He bowed at Mercia. ‘Thank you again, Mrs Blakewood, for your help. You will excuse me while I pay my respects to Percy’s father.’

  ‘Yes, you go,’ laughed Clemency. ‘Mr Lavington will not like to be kept waiting.’ She winked at Mercia. ‘Come. I will take you to secure your lodgings.’

  Amery gone, Mercia returned outside the palisade for Nathan and Nicholas, leading them in through the gate. Deprived of their prior entertainment, the townsfolk turned their attention to the new arrivals, eyeing them with undisguised curiosity. Feeling lightly embarrassed, Mercia looked instead at the town as she walked after Clemency. Smaller than New Haven or Hartford, she could only make out two streets: the thoroughfare she was walking, running south to north, and another intersecting it at a crossroads up ahead, where a small rectangular building sat shorn of adornments.

  ‘Our meeting house,’ said Clemency as they turned right at its steps. ‘In other words, our church.’ She drew to a halt, setting her hand on a white fence post. ‘Where is Daniel, by the way?’

  ‘I left him with the governor. After today, I am glad I did.’

  ‘As long as he is well, that is the important thing.’ She swung off the post. ‘Now, we need to go in here before we do anything else.’

  Mercia looked up at a wooden-slatted building slightly larger than the others surrounding it. ‘This is our lodgings?’

  ‘No.’ Clemency smiled. ‘This is Old Humility’s place of gathering for the Elect.’

  ‘The Elect?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘And anyone else who wants to use it. The Elect is what we – Puritans – call those among us who are chosen by God to be saved. A reward denied more and more of us as the years go on, it seems.’ She edged towards the building. ‘This is supposedly a tavern, Mercia, but ’tis nothing like where we went the other night, so do not expect much.’

  Pushing open the white door, she led them into a dim, sparse room, about as remote from an English tavern as Mercia could envisage. There was no noise, no bustle, no stickiness to the floor, no serving hatch either, just a number of tables and benches, not many of them occupied. In the corner, an older, corpulent man rose from a chair altogether too small for his weight.

  ‘The inaptly named Humility Thomas,’ whispered Clemency. ‘The tavern keeper.’

  Wiping his hands on his apron, the man ambled across. ‘So this will be the English folk,’ he said. ‘And near right when you thought they would come.’ He looked at Clemency. ‘I always said you were a clever one.’

  Clemency rolled her eyes and had begun to retort when the other men in the tavern leapt from their seats. Three ran for Nathan, forcing him against the wall as another two grappled with Nicholas. Both struggled but were caught off guard, trapped in a strong grip.

  ‘What on earth?’ said Clemency.

  ‘Sit down.’ Humility peered at Mercia. ‘You too, my lady. Now, you had best answer my questions in a way I find pleasing, or we shall see who fights better, Americans or English.’ He licked his lips. ‘And from the look of it, I don’t think your boys stand much chance.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘My God,’ growled Nicholas. ‘This is worse than the Anchor back home. I thought you lot were meant to be holy.’

  ‘Let them go.’ Mercia took a seat, undeterred by the men posturing about her. ‘You do not know me, for if you did you would know I have been in worse situations than this.’ She looked down, straightening her dress with deliberate palm strokes. ‘Which means neither I nor my companions are scared of your threats.’

  Humility stared a moment, before throwing back his head and descending into guttural laughter. ‘A feisty one you have here, Clemency. I see why you have an acquaintance.’

  ‘There is no need for this,’ said Clemency. ‘What do you think is going to happen?’

  ‘That is what I am trying to find out, perhaps prevent.’ Humility called to his friends. ‘Vic, show those two to a seat.’

  The man he called Vic grabbed Nathan with a muscled arm and thrust him towards a chair, or rather he tried to, for no sooner was he released than Nathan slammed him against the wall in his place. Immediately the other townsmen seized him by the shoulders.

  ‘By God’s truth!’ Clemency stared at Humility. ‘Tell your dogs to be silent.’

  ‘Nathan, Nicholas, come and sit,’ ordered Mercia. ‘Perhaps talking will solve these people’s problems more readily than fighting.’

  Gradually the five combatants broke off, but nobody sat. ‘I think we should stay standing,’ said Nathan.

  Nicholas nodded. ‘Too right.’

  She sighed. ‘As you wish.’

  ‘And you, Victory, Fearing,’ said Clemency. ‘Come now. What grievance do you have with these folk?’

  ‘That depends why they are here,’ said Vic, his lightly pockmarked face sharp with distrust. ‘Perhaps they would enlighten us?’

  ‘They are here because I invited them. That is all.’

  He peered into her eyes. ‘And how do you know this? Trust?’

  ‘That is not fair. I do trust these people.’ She glanced at Mercia. ‘This woman, at least, and she speaks for the rest.’

  Mercia inclined her head. ‘Are you always so welcoming to strangers?’

  A younger, dark-haired man, one of the duo who had tackled Nicholas, emerged from the back of the group. His eyelashes were long, accentuating his handsome aspect.

  ‘When you live on the edge of God’s creation you learn to question others’ motives,’ he said.

  ‘Kit.’ Clemency sighed.
‘Surely someone not long come from England should not treat others with such suspicion.’

  Kit shrugged his slender shoulders. ‘There were those who did not trust me when I arrived. I do not hold it against them.’

  The man Clemency had called Fearing folded his arms. ‘Perhaps you have come to take news of us back to your masters in New York.’

  Mercia studied him; after Humility he seemed the eldest, his tanned face worn with creases. ‘So that is what worries you. You think we are here to spy for the Duke. I assure you we are not.’

  ‘And yet Percy says you arrived in America with the King’s own fleet. Then you appear in Meltwater close behind Richard Thorpe.’ He looked at Humility. ‘He has gone to see Lavington. We will have to get him to tell us what they spoke of.’

  ‘Good luck.’ Humility lowered himself into a seat. ‘Now answer Vic’s question, Mrs Blakewood. We are keen to hear your response.’

  ‘Very well. It is a long story, but if you are prepared to listen, I will tell it.’

  Taking in her audience, Mercia began her tale, heeding Winthrop’s advice by talking of the King and his brother as little as possible. As she spoke, some of the men sat, leaning towards her so as better to hear. They nodded; they winced; they glanced away; and when she had finished, only the breeze rattling in the windows could be heard. ‘So you see,’ she concluded, ‘I am here because I am fighting for my son and for myself. I came to Meltwater as I understood you would share something of the same spirit.’ She looked around the room. ‘Was I mistaken?’

  A brief silence. Then Kit, who had stayed standing, bowed his head. ‘You were not. I apologise for my actions.’

  ‘As do I,’ said Vic. ‘We shall judge you by your conduct.’ The others remained silent but made no fresh argument.

  Humility rose from his chair: it took some seconds. ‘Clemency has asked if I will offer you my son’s cottage this week.’ He reached into his pockets. ‘So here is the key to the plate chest. You can stay there for naught, in apology for our rough welcome.’ He rubbed the small key on his apron. ‘But you must understand – we love our town. The spirit you spoke of, we plough it into the buildings, into the land, our church. We will do what we must to protect it, from the King or from anyone.’ His circular eyes drilled into hers. ‘Anything at all.’