‘No. And nobody else but Standfast knows she is after him, so nobody else knows why she is watching. I think some of them worry she is scouting for another assault, but apparently it happens all the time.’
They came into view of the ever-enlarging pile of wood. ‘An assault?’
‘An Indian stationed nearby, just watching.’
‘I suppose. Vic suggested as much before.’ She sighed. ‘But we have no time to worry about Sooleawa. We need to find Percy and tell him what you have learnt.’
It took more than an hour to seek him out. Wobbling on a stool beside the bonfire, Humility grudgingly broke from his ale to admit Percy had been helping there earlier, but when one of the boys had repeatedly asked about the regicides he had stormed into the woods in fury. By the time the light was fading and the townsfolk were gathering for the procession of the guy, he was still missing. But they persevered with their search, until nearing the low hill the sound of frenzied banging finally drew their attention. Climbing to check, they found Percy hard at work, tying up logs to strengthen the forlorn barricade of the half-finished fort.
‘I need something to do,’ he said, not looking up. ‘Something away from other people. They are making me angry.’
Mercia glanced at Nathan. ‘I fear we are not come to assuage that angst.’
He paused in his work. ‘Oh?’
She told him about the regicides, about how they could not have been the killers. He listened impassively, scarcely seeming to pay attention, but when she had finished he picked up the axe at his feet and thundered the sharp head into the side of the fort.
‘I know all that. I know they cannot be the killers. The question you should be considering is who would make them out to be so?’
Nathan folded his arms. ‘Mercia has gone to Hartford. I have ridden to Hadley. You do not seem to be doing much to disprove the notion yourself.’
Percy glared at him. ‘Do you never listen? I said I have been too angry.’ Mercia jerked back her head, for there was a fervour in his eyes stronger than she had seen, in those instances when he talked of his charges, of his duty. ‘But I have been thinking. And I am tired of playing his games.’ He wrenched the axe from the barricade. ‘You want me to do something?’ He looked down toward the town. ‘And you? All of you?’ He pushed past Nathan, causing him to sway despite his bulk. ‘Follow me. Let us settle this for good and all.’
He marched down the hill as a man with a purpose, heading straight for the site of the bonfire. In the field, a murmuring of people was now surrounding the finished edifice: Lavington, Kit, Amery; Remembrance, Humility, Vic; Fearing, Thorpe, Godsgift, the blanketed constable in a chair in the midst of all, his faithful servant Rose at his side. Mercia hurried in Percy’s wake, worried to know what he had in mind, Nathan keeping up the pace as avidly as she.
Reaching the bonfire, she lingered at the edge of the field, watching as Percy leapt onto a large outcrop of rock a few yards from the huge pile of wood. Brandishing the axe, he thrust the tool skywards and bellowed for silence.
As one, the town turned towards him. On the rock, in the trickery of dusk, he seemed taller than usual: he was raised above them all, of course, but it was more than that, Mercia thought, more … menacing. His axe held high, he appeared more aggressive, more focused, and all the townspeople could sense it. His father raised his head in the semi-light, and nearer to Mercia, the constable shifted in his chair, a determined expression of – approval? – on his pale visage. Next to Lavington, Humility had been bending to set a torch to start the fire, but he left the wood uncaught, heaving himself upright to listen.
‘People of Meltwater!’ Percy began. ‘We are deceived!’
A feeling of doom settled on Mercia. She brought her hand to her mouth and looked at the people close by, Nicholas not far down among them, arms folded beside Vic and Kit. Further off, Richard Thorpe was standing with his head held back, Sir William Calde at his side, the great man looking vaguely bemused. Yet the power in Percy’s voice was enrapturing: Cromwell’s man come through at last.
‘Our friends,’ he cried, his strong words piercing the air. ‘Those brave men.’ He surveyed his audience. ‘You know who I mean. Our friends, who have been guests in our country these past years. Our friends, who have come to escape the tyranny of England, where they were rejected through malice and spite. Our friends, dear to us as fellows, who have been accused now of crimes their noble morality would never allow them even to contemplate.’
‘Very stirring,’ muttered Nathan. ‘What is he hoping to achieve?’
‘I am not sure,’ she whispered. ‘But if he is prepared to break his usual silence, I do not think it can be good.’
‘In England,’ pursued Percy, ‘they call these friends traitors.’ He thrust out his axe towards Thorpe. ‘And there are those among us who share this view. But it is not they who are traitors. No! It is those who would call them such.’
A grumble of agreement shot through the crowd, the enthusiasm of shared opinion taking hold. Despite his injury, Godsgift crossed his legs, nodding with satisfaction.
‘And now, as these noble men, these great … patriots – as they stand accused of the terrible murders that have fallen on this town, the Duke of York himself has sent an army to subdue us!’ He swept the axe towards the guy lying listless in the cart. ‘Behold, there, the image of the tyrant itself! And there!’ He stabbed the axe to the back of the crowd. ‘His henchman, the great Sir William Calde, peer of the realm of England, and would-be ruler of this!’
‘What is he talking about?’ said Mercia, all eyes turning to Sir William, the nobleman shifting uneasily on his feet. ‘He is getting carried away.’
‘We all know how the King craves the men he calls the regicides, but whom we call kin. But we did not know the lengths he would go to in order to seize them!’
Nathan shook his head. ‘Carried away to the executioner’s noose if he keeps this up.’
‘Notes were found in their hiding place.’ Percy lowered the axe, reaching into his pocket to pull out the sheets of paper Mercia had since given him. ‘But they are fake, left there by the King’s own men to implicate them.’ He looked around the crowd. ‘And you know what I think? About who has killed all our friends, our own blood?’
The sound of the breeze stirring the branches, and then, ‘Tell us!’ shouted Amery and Fearing across each other, the one apprehensive, the other more brash. There was a tension in the crowd, a holding back, as if a coil that was primed and ready for release.
Percy’s eyes blazed as surely as any bonfire could. ‘Who hanged Clemency Carter? Who cut open Hopewell Quayle? Who dared saw apart Silence Edwards and scatter his remains across our hard-won land?’
‘Who?’ Speaking as one, the crowd was fast growing hysterical.
‘Then it is this! It was the King’s own men responsible for these murders! The King’s own men, in a perverse attempt to scare us into handing over our friends, Whalley and Goffe!’ He gripped his axe and shook it. ‘For such runs the spite of the King’s ill will!’
‘Yes!’ The grumblings became shouts, the unfulfilled tension finding its release in one fulsome leap. ‘You are right!’
‘And there,’ he concluded, holding the axe out again at Thorpe, ‘is the demon who has plotted this appalling deed!’
‘He is mad!’ said Thorpe, backing away. Near at hand, John Lavington looked between his son and Sir William with frantic eyes. ‘We all know he harbours them. He would say anything to make them look innocent!’
‘What I say is the truth!’ cried Percy. ‘But there is no need to take my word. Let us go to his house and find out!’
He leapt from the rock, pushing through the crowd, making eye contact with no one. As he passed Godsgift, the constable reached up to grab him by the wrist, and for a moment Mercia thought he was trying to stop him pursuing his foolishness. But he merely nodded in support, releasing Percy’s wrist to allow him on. The crowd noticed the gesture, even those who were
uneasy, and for them it was enough.
They fell in behind Percy, marching on their own town.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Sir William, no longer bemused, edged backwards with Thorpe. But the great man’s coat was long, and he stumbled on its hems, the action distracting the crowd from their singular purpose. Within an instant he and Thorpe were surrounded.
‘Percy!’ Scuttling forward with tentative steps, Lavington tugged at his son’s sleeve. ‘Percy, stop!’ He strained his neck to peer over his shoulder. ‘This is not my doing, Sir William, I implore you!’
Fearing Davison looked on him with unbridled glee. ‘So you’re with them, are you? Years of service … and not an ounce of respect.’
Before he could react, Lavington was grabbed by the mob and spun through its ranks. He fell against Thorpe, the pallor of the physician’s face a contrast to his usual fiery temperament.
‘I am your magistrate!’ cried Lavington. ‘End this madness!’
But the crowd, his manservant, his son; nobody was in any mood to listen. While some held back to guard the captives, Percy led the rest to Thorpe’s house, Mercia following in the mob’s wake. For a moment he waited, gripping the gate with his left hand as his shoulders rose and fell in time with his steady breaths, but then he pivoted to face his audience.
‘This does not need all of us!’ He searched the faces in the crowd. ‘Who will oblige?’
A pause, and then Amery stepped forward, staring up at Percy with – what was that? Admiration? Then Vic pushed through to join him, his own face grim.
‘I will help,’ he said. ‘For Clemency, and for the others.’
Nathan and Nicholas were flanking Mercia at the back; she lowered her voice, not that it much mattered in the tumult.
‘One of you go with them, if you can.’
Nathan made to move off, but Nicholas was ahead of him. The crowd was edging left and right, weeks of repressed worry finally finding an outlet, but he wove a quick path to the front, leaping the cottage gate before Percy could prevent him. He disappeared into the house behind Amery and Vic.
‘Tell us more,’ shouted a lone woman as the crowd waited. But Percy shook his head. An impatient muttering descended, an angry, unsatisfied need for action after the terrible weeks of pain. Not far from the restless group, the three prisoners could be heard protesting loudly, while the occasional dull thud emanated from the house as some heavy object was wrenched from its place, or a groan as another door was opened.
Then silence. The sudden quiet was frightening. It would almost have been better, Mercia thought, if Percy had allowed the mob to ransack the house, for the dearth of noise loomed more ominous. The whole gathering quivered and swayed, eager to dispel its energy and yet wanting to stay in place. Then a first-floor window was flung outward and Amery’s head appeared.
‘You were right.’ His shrill voice penetrated the night as he thrust his arm through the gap, waving a piece of paper. ‘This proves it.’
Face twitching, Percy lifted his eyes. ‘What does it say?’
‘They are orders from the Duke of York. Shall I read them?’
The crowd roared its consent.
‘The relevant bits, then.’ He cleared his throat. ‘To Richard Thorpe, by command of His Royal Majesty Charles the Second, King of England … and so on. I thank you for your unwavering loyalty … hereby order you to take any means necessary to discover the whereabouts of those barbarous traitors Goffe and Whalley’ – he paused, and the town growled its rage – ‘through scaring the people into panic for their lives, whereat they will surely be persuaded to renounce their cause … and I further order that you make efforts to foment alliance with the Indians of that country, by which means we shall take the territory most easily into the lands of my brother the Duke. It is signed Sir Bernard Dittering, whoever he is, for the King and the Duke of York.’
The crowd went wild. No longer content to wait for instruction, they turned as one, sweeping past Mercia and clawing for Thorpe. The story was shared with those guarding the prisoners, and the two groups merged, seizing Thorpe and Sir William, dragging them towards the field, leaving Lavington behind to stare after the whipped-up mob. Percy followed, allowing Vic and Amery time to catch him as Nicholas halted at Mercia’s side.
‘Is it true?’ she said. ‘Did you see that note?’
He nodded. ‘He found it in a desk. It has the seal of the Duke, if I remember it rightly from the ship we arrived on.’
She stared at the back of the vanishing crowd. ‘What is going on here?’ She turned to Nathan. ‘Does that letter not seem too … convenient? And the Duke, he may be dislikeable, but I cannot see him sanctioning Thorpe to foster an Indian revolt.’
‘Then what?’ he said.
‘I am not sure, but—Lavington!’ The magistrate was the only townsman left with them inside the palisade. ‘Mr Lavington, can you not control them? Percy is so incensed with the accusations against the regicides he could encourage the people to anything.’
Lavington turned his head, a glib whiteness in his eyes. ‘They have become crazed,’ he said, matter-of-fact. ‘What can I do until they calm themselves?’
She shook her head. ‘Come.’ She set off for the field. ‘He is no use when he is needed.’
Abandoning the magistrate, the three hurried through the western gate. Back in the field she halted, gripping Nathan’s arm as she took in the scene before them. The bonfire was now lit, flames springing to life throughout the hungry mound as it began its fearsome burn. The guy had been flung face down in the dirt, and in its place in the cart, Thorpe and Sir William were being wheeled around the meadow, the gloating crowd chanting its malice.
‘By the Lord!’ she cried.
A small section of the townsfolk was clapping a slow rhythm, a fiendish monotone to urge on the boys pushing the captured men, their young faces ecstatic with vulgar pleasure as they jarred the ramshackle cart over every bump and rut. The steady beat lured the people even further into their trance, and as Mercia looked on, they began to hurl stones and abuse at their terrified victims. Then the boys overturned the cart, dumping their captives to the ground. A musket was produced, and at gunpoint the men were forced towards the woodpile, screaming yet unable to resist.
The crowd was no longer under any kind of control. Like the flames licking the base of the bonfire, the people were uncontainable, returned to the savagery of the wilds in which they lived. Yet on the side, looking on, Percy stood with Amery, observing in silent contemplation as his friend tried to talk. Remembrance, too, seemed immune to the town’s spell, shouting from the side for them to stop, but a rough arm shoved her aside. By now Mercia had seen enough. While Nathan and Nicholas joined with Remembrance, she circled the field’s edge to reach Percy.
Amery watched her come up. ‘That is enough, isn’t it?’ He tapped Percy’s arm. ‘You’ve scared them enough? After all, those are men, whatever they have done.’
‘He is right,’ said Mercia as she joined them. ‘Do neither of you sense something odd about this whole affair?’
‘Odd?’ Percy’s attention was trained on the mob. ‘I should say ’tis clear. Thorpe is the murderer, as we always thought. Purely to root out Whalley and Goffe.’ His voice began to shake. ‘He gambled that the only way to make the town give them up was to make them guilty of such crimes that the people would turn against them. It is … astonishing, Mercia. But he should have known, too, that I would unmask him. No, ’tis the hangman’s noose for him, so he may as well have his judgement passed now.’
‘Whose judgement?’ She stepped round to face him. ‘Yours? Percy, I know you are incensed, but I am still not convinced it is him. Your reasoning is too … straightforward.’ She searched his face for any sign of compassion. ‘And what of the right to a fair trial? Or does that not exist in your noble America?’
His gaze drifted once more, following a wisp of ash as it floated into the sky. ‘Was he fair with his victims? With Clemency?’
He wrenched himself from her grip. ‘There were two men went into Clemency’s house, so you said. Strange that he happens to be in town at just this time.’
‘That is preposterous. He is here because of me, as you well know. Besides, he has only just arrived.’
‘So he says.’
‘That is exactly what was said of your charges, and you disputed it strongly enough then.’ She shook her head in frustration. ‘Very well. Stand by and do nothing if you wish. But I cannot simply watch those men die, even if it means diving into the crowd and ending on the fire for it myself.’
She held his gaze, daring him to let the chaos continue, knowing there was little influence she could work on the mob herself. But she counted on his seeing reason. He was intelligent, after all. Rational.
Wasn’t he?
She waited. The fire began to crackle, the mob’s chants taking on ever more menacing tones. And then he surprised her.
‘No.’
She blinked. ‘What?’
‘I will not act. They chose their path, and it is at odds with ours. If the people want them to burn, let them.’
She stared, unbelieving what she heard. Behind her, a cry for help rang out, Sir William’s usually deep voice shrill with fright.
‘Tell me you are not serious.’
‘Why not? Enough of his kind executed – murdered – good people who only wished for peace.’ He folded his arms. ‘Hanging up men and slicing their stomachs, cutting them down and wrenching them in four? That punishment was approved of by men like him, and he did naught to stop it. So what if he burns? Is that not just recompense?’
Amery grabbed his sleeve. ‘Listen to her, Perseverance. What of your ideals? Your plans for a fairer world, a rebirthing of freedom and hope? I know you are angry, but this is too—’
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