Puritan

by David Hingley

They did not get much further with their discussion. It proved impossible to decipher the codes, and the meeting broke up, Nicholas’s sobering opinion ringing round the room. As she stood, Mercia could not suppress a yawn; she was ready for bed.

  ‘Are you coming?’ she asked Nathan.

  ‘In a minute. I want to speak with Remy.’

  She raised an eyebrow. ‘Remy, is it?’

  He returned the gesture. ‘Just one minute.’

  She watched as Nathan took Remembrance to a corner, but she could not make out their conversation. With Percy and Kit already gone, she chatted with Nicholas and Amery until five minutes later he came back across, asking the schoolmaster to walk Remembrance home and bidding Nicholas goodnight.

  ‘Why didn’t you walk her home yourself?’ she said as they came out into the street.

  He chuckled. ‘Because you are more important.’

  ‘Why did you bring her, Nathan? Weren’t you going back to change?’

  ‘She was in the street, Mercia. She approached me. And I think she is lonely. She is grieving for her brother and wants to talk with someone about it. Someone who understands.’

  ‘I suppose so, but I find it hard to—wait.’ She broke off. ‘Who is that?’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Over there, against the fence. Staring at Amery’s house.’ Peering through the semi-night, the candlelight from the cottage window behind them offering scant illumination, she cursed under her breath. ‘Him again.’

  As Percy and Kit must likewise have found, Richard Thorpe held their gaze as they strode down the street, unabashed they had caught him staring. He was shorn of his usual sash, but his smile was just as brazen a replacement. Mercia ignored it, but Nathan shot him a cocksure greeting.

  ‘You don’t think he’s been listening?’ she whispered as they moved out of earshot.

  ‘What, lurking beneath a window, straining to hear at the door?’

  ‘That sort of thing.’ She rubbed at her neck; it felt unfathomably stiff. ‘But Nicholas thinks we have to be careful of everyone, especially after that bodice was left on my doorstep. I did not want to mention that even to those three in there.’

  ‘For once he is probably right.’ Gently, he took her by the arm as they reached the meeting-house steps. ‘Here, sit for a moment. ’Tis a calm night.’ He reached for her neck. ‘Let me.’

  As they sat on the cold steps, he eased her hand from her neck, replacing it with his own. He squeezed tenderly, not too hard, but exerting more pressure than she could manage herself. For the briefest of moments, she allowed herself to forget Meltwater, feeling the knots in her neck untie themselves as Nathan caressed his palm across her flesh. But then a grunt brought her back into reality.

  ‘None of that,’ said Godsgift Brown, his steely gaze firm as he looked down from the street. His rapier gleamed in the light of the torch burning in the meeting-house sconce. ‘This is not England. Folks here get married first.’

  ‘No, Constable.’ She waited until he marched off. ‘Folks here get killed before they get the chance.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  A dark silence enveloped Mercia as she lay in bed, reflecting on the evening’s meeting. As much as she was pleased that Percy had called the group together, she was disappointed by his seeming detachment, more preoccupied with the regicides than with protecting his own town. But at least they had finally come together, even if none of the town elders were yet on her side. Maybe, at last, they had a chance to avenge Clemency’s death, and it was this hope she had to hold onto. For to her, it was still about Clemency, distressed as she was for Hopewell’s end. In her prayers, it was Clemency she cried for, and it was for Clemency that she would bring the murderer to a fatal justice.

  She turned on her side, musing then on Remembrance – Remy – wondering how the young woman had latched so quickly onto Nathan. In truth she was vexed by her demeanour, unforgiving of her harsh words on the day of Clemency’s death. She knew it was juvenile, but such were her thoughts. If only she could talk to someone about it, to laugh away her silliness. Someone like Clemency.

  ‘Did you see her?’ she would have asked. ‘Fawning after Nathan?’

  And Clemency would have grinned. ‘Jealousy does not become you.’

  In her imagination, Mercia protested. ‘I am not jealous.’

  ‘Come now, ’tis clear.’ Clemency leant in closer. ‘Do you really think Nathan would want a woman ten years his junior when he has you? One he has only just met, when ’tis evident how he longs for you?’

  ‘Do not talk so,’ smiled Mercia, enjoying the moment of friendship.

  But although she could feel her presence, Clemency was gone; there was no like-minded woman to talk with in the manner of a longed-for friend. Lying alone in bed, it made the pain of her loss still the more acute. And so her need for justice – for vengeance – grew.

  Three days passed. Rain came to Meltwater, dripping its depressing tedium from the sodden rooftops, two days and two nights of intermittent downpour, but the droplets were heavy, rebounding off the fences faster and sharper than in England. Obstinate, she tried again to convince Lavington to side with her, but the magistrate would not listen, even when she had approached him with his new schoolmaster after Hopewell’s funeral. No harm in it, Amery had said, seeing as he knew of the codes in any case. Just as obstinately, smilingly, Lavington had refused to hear her point of view – she was a stranger, after all, so how could she understand his town? – but as Nathan said, when a proud man such as Lavington has his life’s work threatened, perhaps it is easier to ignore the tragedies and hope they go away. As for the constable, she could not yet bring herself to talk with him after what he had done to the Indian boy, a mutually satisfactory notion.

  On the third day the clouds parted, revealing a forgotten blue sky. Fed up with her failures, she took a stroll in the muddy streets. She passed Lavington’s house, wondering whether to try him again, but deciding against it she passed through the southern gate. Sil was walking with his brother in the meadow, and she realised she had seen neither of them for the previous couple of days. She raised a hand in greeting, but Sil quickly lowered his face, steering Standfast in a different direction.

  She sighed, breathing in melancholy from the still-damp air, fresh from another argument with Nathan about the wisdom of her remaining. She decided to climb the small hill, wondering if she should take a leaf out of Kit’s philosophy, and gain inspiration by standing nearer to God. Resisting the gruesome urge to look back at the severed heads on the gate, she pressed onwards, but if she had hoped for solitude she was out of luck. Pulling herself up to the low summit, she was in reach of the half-finished fort when someone ran up behind.

  ‘Mercia!’ called a by now familiar voice.

  She cursed to herself and turned, forcing a smile. Percy drew alongside her, not at all out of breath in spite of the slope he had climbed: Mercia had felt the burn in her calves well enough.

  ‘Mercia,’ he repeated. ‘I was with my father. I have chased you from when you passed the house.’

  ‘Oh.’ She was nonplussed. ‘I had not noticed there was anyone behind me. I have been lost in my thoughts again.’

  He nodded. ‘We are all deep in thought of late.’

  She looked at the town from atop the small hill. From here, she recalled the first time she had ventured up the grassy slope, awakening from her doze to the nonchalant stare of the strange striped animal. Today the sound of gunfire drew her attention to the other side of the town, where beyond the palisade light smoke was rising, a group of tiny men firing off their muskets. One was standing apart from the rest; even at this distance she could see him marching back and forth, waving his rapier in the air.

  ‘I see your constable is drilling the men yet again,’ she said dryly.

  Percy laughed. ‘I should be there.’

  ‘So why aren’t you?’

  ‘Would you choose to spend time with Godsgift? Besides, I can get away with it. Being th
e magistrate’s son has to have a few perks.’

  ‘That it must.’ She hesitated. ‘Percy, why won’t your father see sense?’

  ‘Because he is a stubborn old goat who thinks he is always right. But he is also a clever man, a great alchemist and a fine leader, someone who had the courage to found this settlement, here on the edge of our lands with only the forests and the Indians behind. He no longer has my mother, no other children left but me. Would you not be scared if you feared your life’s meaning could be lost?’ He removed his black cloak, spreading the woollen garment on the damp earth. Dropping to sit on one half, he patted the space beside him. ‘Will you join me?’

  Thinking it was more that he was joining her, Mercia knelt down, as well as she could in her heavy dress. Feeling awkward, she flipped to a sitting position, trying to avoid getting dirt on the hem, but it brushed in the mud all the same.

  ‘Never mind,’ said Percy. ‘Take it to Jemima or one of the other women, if you like. Monday – tomorrow – is washday.’ He pulled at a wet blade of grass. ‘Monday was washday when I was born, it was washday when I left for England nigh ten years since, and it is washday still. They say the first day they came off the Mayflower was a Monday, and the first thing the women did was to wash their stinking clothes. And so, like much else in New England, it has followed the same rigid pattern ever since.’ He exhaled deeply. ‘For people forging a new world out here, there is yet much resistance to change. My father, like many of the townsfolk, is petrified of it. Mostly they are petrified of the Indians, and now the King’s fleet has arrived they are petrified of that too, scared he will take their autonomy. On that, at least, they are right. We stand to lose everything if the King has his way.’

  Mercia grunted, recalling a recent conversation in Whitehall Palace. ‘It is not the King you should be concerned with. It is his brother.’

  ‘The Duke of York.’ Percy grimaced. ‘Ah yes. We received such noble reports of his scuttling around Europe when I was working in Cromwell’s government.’ His tone took on a scornful note. ‘It does not surprise me that he has named his new conquest after himself. New Amsterdam becomes New York, and New Netherland becomes – surprise! – New York also. But how far north and east does he intend his royal territory to extend? To Hudson’s river? To here?’ He waved a hand across the landscape. ‘To the Bay itself, to Boston?’

  Mercia thought again of that fateful conversation back in April, when the King had authorised her to join his fleet bound for America. Only five months ago, and half of that aboard ship, yet it seemed much more time had passed.

  ‘I do not think there is much limit to the Duke’s ambition. And with the King still without an heir …’ She let the sentence drop.

  ‘Indeed.’ He tugged harder at the grass, pulling out whole clumps. ‘But I tell you now, we will not let him take away our lives.’ For an instant his eyes seemed to blaze, or was that a reflection of the sun? Then his cheeks softened and he turned to her. ‘But enough of that.’ He bit his lip. ‘I am sorry our acquaintance began sourly.’

  ‘As am I.’ She smiled, drawing on his own improved humour. ‘You certainly seem more cheerful today.’

  He returned the gesture. ‘And I am sorry for my demeanour at our meeting the other night. Kit tells me I was a little brusque at times. I have said the same to Remembrance.’

  A light breeze drifted over the knoll; as it passed, it seemed to take away some of the antipathy she had felt for him. His apology had sounded sincere.

  ‘Do not worry on it,’ she said. ‘You—’ She looked into the open fort behind her to ensure nobody else was near, lowering her voice all the same. ‘You are entrusted with the safeguarding of a wanted man. It cannot be easy, especially with people like Thorpe waiting to pounce.’

  He gave her a glance, rising to his feet and searching the fort himself. Apparently satisfied, he sat back down, but there was no harsh rebuke today.

  ‘Not just Thorpe. Maybe not so much here, or in New Haven, but some in other parts would be ready to give him up for scant return.’ He looked at her, thinking for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Very well. You proved yourself with Dixwell, and I know they would not object, for they have said as much. Why not?’

  Intrigued, she sat back. ‘Why not what?’

  He took a letter from his pocket and handed it across. ‘I received this yesterday. It relates to this very matter.’

  As she scanned the document a chill broke out inside. ‘Percy, I cannot read this. It is in code.’

  ‘It is not the code you are thinking of. Can you translate it?’

  ‘Not without time.’

  He smiled. ‘I just wondered if you … because your father would have understood.’

  She looked at him sharply. ‘My father?’

  ‘Yes. ’Tis a code from Cromwell’s time.’ He took back the letter and sidled closer towards her, giving her a meaningful look. ‘This has been written by William Goffe himself.’

  ‘Goffe?’ Mercia was startled. ‘I thought he had vanished? You don’t mean to say he is here?’

  ‘You think John Dixwell is the only one of those heroes to have thought to travel to New England, far from the King’s soldiers at home? What if I said there were two others here – not just William Goffe, but his father-in-law too, Edward Whalley?’

  Her eyes widened. Amery had hinted at other regicides hiding in New England when they had met with Davids – truly Dixwell – in Hartford, but she had never pursued the issue, respectful of the need for silence. ‘Goffe and Whalley,’ she said, ‘both here?’

  He tilted his head, an amused expression on his face, a new playfulness as charming as it was unexpected. ‘You have seen them already, I am told.’

  She shifted her position to face him more fully. ‘When?’

  ‘When you came through New Haven with Winthrop. They had heard your party would be passing through, and … well. It seems they wanted to spy Sir Rowland Goodridge’s daughter for themselves. Apparently you saw them as they peered out.’ He frowned. ‘It was impetuous of them. Thank the Lord nobody else saw.’

  ‘Goffe and Whalley. I cannot believe it. Men who worked with my father …’ Leaning closer, she crossed one leg under the other. ‘You said you met him yourself once, did you not? When you were in London?’

  ‘Ah, the London times.’ Percy went back to pulling at the grass. ‘The Cromwell times, when I thought God had been kind and helped us. But those days in England were not meant to last. All too soon after I joined the cause there, the old fox died.’

  ‘You mean Cromwell.’

  ‘I always wonder – what would have happened if he had lived? When his son took over, I hoped things would continue, but of course they could not. Richard Cromwell was weak, nothing like his father.’ He scoffed. ‘We all know that. The regime collapsed, the King returned, and I decided to come home to America. And now the King has caught up with me.’

  ‘You make it sound like he is hunting you down.’

  ‘He would be if he knew what I was doing. He calls those men regicides, no? ’Tis death to all who help them.’ He waved a dismissive hand. ‘But I merely meant he has come to America, or at least his soldiers have. As for your father, yes I met him. Briefly, but he bade me good day. If I had known sooner, I would never have spoken so harshly with you when first we met. He was a man of deep honour.’ He looked at her. ‘He died … bravely?’

  A gunshot resounded from the training ground, but she barely noticed as she found herself back at Tower Hill, the site of her father’s execution. The crowds, the noise, the yearning for death. And then she pushed the memory away.

  ‘Yes. Yes, he did.’

  ‘I wish I could have known him. But towards the end of my time in England there was such confusion, and I was but a clerk of sorts, far too lowly.’ He stared into the distance. ‘Still, it was more worthy than the tedium I am tasked with in this town.’

  She smiled. ‘I am sure he would have spoken with you. He was not the haughty type.’
A gust flew over the hilltop and she patted down with her topknot, checking it was still in place. ‘Does Winthrop know Goffe and Whalley are here?’

  Percy laughed. ‘Of course he does. As does Governor Leete of New Haven, Governor Endicott of the Bay, and every other person of importance in these colonies. By God’s truth, when they first arrived the Bay folk held a party for them.’ He traced a circle on the cloak in his evident pride. ‘There is a story that a bragging man challenged all-comers to a swordfight, and that Goffe, dressed as a roadsweeper, made a wager with him; of course the braggart accepted, and of course Goffe won, revealing himself onstage to the delight of all.’ The laughter in his eyes dulled. ‘But then the King’s demands for his return came to Boston, and he and Whalley were forced into hiding. They have been living near New Haven for a long while now. But the fleet you arrived on has orders to hunt them out, and New York is too close to New Haven for our liking. It is time to move them into safer territory, far from the Duke’s hounds. John Dixwell too, for a time, although he is not so well known in these parts. It may be he can blend in unknown to others, have some sort of life. Maybe Goffe and Whalley can too, if ever we rid ourselves of the King’s unwanted yoke.’

  She looked around. ‘Be careful what you say, Percy. Such talk is seditious.’

  He puffed out his chest. ‘I care not.’ He stood up and smiled, shouting to the wind. ‘I care not!’ Then he jiggled his letter. ‘This is a summons for me to help them move.’

  She patted the cloak, uneasy at his sudden bravado. ‘Sit back down. What will you do?’

  ‘Bring them to Meltwater, to the same place as Dixwell. It is halfway to their new safe house. I will take them there when I am sure the road is secure.’ He retook his space beside her. ‘When I went north last week, it was to check on their new accommodation. But you are right about needing to be careful. If I am ever away too long, certain people get suspicious.’

  ‘People like Thorpe, you mean. Or those others you mentioned.’