Nathan tried, so very hard, to get close. He talked with her, he waited beside her when she did not want to speak, he held out his hand to touch her with the comfort of his warmth, but she edged away, no emotion on her face, knowing she could never give him what he wanted – what she wanted – because she would lose him as surely as she had lost everyone else: her father, her brother, her friends.
He saw her sorrow, but he could not understand it. He wanted to help, but she would not let him in. Then one morning, a beautiful day in a pine-scented meadow under the bluest of skies, he came to her while she was sitting beneath a tree, watching Daniel playing in the dew-filled field.
He sat beside her, and he made her hold his hands.
‘Mercia,’ he began. ‘You know I love you.’
She closed her eyes.
‘And I know, I hope, that you love me too. And I know you are sad, and in a deep melancholy. I know you want to shut out the world and live in your head.’
An involuntary tear dropped to her cheek. He reached across to brush it away.
‘I think, perhaps, you are scared of the feelings inside you, but I hope, my beautiful Mercia, that you can let me in.’
Her chest began to heave, and the tears began to flow.
‘All I ask is that you let me help, because I love you.’ He squeezed her hands tight. ‘Mercia, I love you with all my life. Please, Mercia, open your eyes and look at me?’
She did as he asked, although she did not want to.
‘That’s better.’ He smiled. ‘I know you think you will feel this way forever, but I promise that you will not. Not everyone has left you. Nobody ever really did. They are all still there, in your heart.’ A tear fell down his own cheek. ‘But I am here now.’ He gripped her hands harder. ‘Feel me, Mercia. Feel the life and the warmth, here, right now. I know it will be hard, but I can help. I want so much to help.’
The tears dropped from her cheeks onto her dress.
‘Mercia, will you marry me?’
The tears stopped. She looked at Nathan and she saw the kindness and the hope in his eyes. She looked inside herself and she saw the fear and the worry for the future. Yes, she told herself, yes, I do want to marry you. But I love you too much to put you at risk. And so I know what the answer must be.
‘I cannot,’ she said.
His jaw shook. ‘Mercia. Please. Remember the happy days we have spent together, and think of the happy days that could lie ahead.’
But she looked at him one more time, suppressing the anguish she felt, and she lightly shook her head.
‘I am sorry, Nathan. Too much has happened.’ She lowered her head as his grip on her hands loosened. ‘Please, do not ask again. I could not bear it.’
He waited a moment, and then he stood, and he nodded, his face trembling as much as hers did not.
‘Then I have to go now. Mercia, I want to help, you know how much, but if you will not let me, then I cannot stay with you. You must understand it is too painful.’ He took a deep breath. ‘And that is why I decided that if you said no, I would not travel back to England with you. It would hurt too much.’ His lip shook. ‘I want you to know I am going to stay here, in America, unless you change your mind. And if you don’t, well, maybe one day we can meet again, and things will be different.’ He laughed, an awful, sorry sound. ‘The ocean is not that far across. For now, please do something for me. Let yourself live, and let yourself hope, and let my love into your heart, however far away it is, and you will be protected and safe. For I love you, Mercia, and I will never stop.’
And he walked away.
‘Today,’ she mumbled as he went. For she had listened to his words and a tiny ray of love had nestled in her heart. ‘Oh, my love. Today. I cannot marry you today.’
And then she cried, and her son ran to her to find out her troubles, and she held him, feeling an overwhelming love, and she wept out her sorrow until she steeled herself to face whatever would come next.
Nicholas had packed all their things in a cart they would share with Sir William, the great man saved from the mob’s wrath by Nathan and Remembrance, hiding him at the Davisons’ farmhouse while they waited for the crowd to calm. It would be too late now to gain passage home from New York before winter, but she preferred to wait out the cold in the new possession of the English than in the Puritan town tainted by death. She planned to slip away without much fuss, but when she left Hopewell’s cottage for the last time, turning the corner at the meeting house to walk south past the smithy and Lavington’s grand house, she passed through the gate, unadorned by any head, to be received by a line of well-wishers, keen to say goodbye.
The town had descended into reproachful silence after the events of that night, ashamed as individuals and as a whole by their actions. When she had returned to the bonfire with Nicholas, in her angst she had collapsed, raving about Percy; and Godsgift Brown, more composed, had ordered Fearing and Vic to the waterfall in response to Nicholas’s adamant pleas. They had returned with a body, Amery, leaving Kit for the moment with Percy at the base of the falls, and Renatus, constant, had stood on the rock in the field, comforting the people as Percy had inflamed them. Since that day, Richard Thorpe had already left, saved from the fire by the townsfolk’s hesitation, as they waited for orders that would never come. Too bruised to remain, he had finally found reason to leave his wife’s grave, gone to the east to make a new home.
Now, the morning of her departure, Vic walked up, a horseshoe he had made in his hand, and he bowed his head as he passed it across, a present, he said, for her time among them. But his words, and the faces of the others who mumbled farewell or nodded goodbye, were tinged with shame and with sadness, and in truth she wondered whether the town could endure in the face of its loss. But if any folk could do it, it would be these pioneers who had braved so much already to live as they wished in the American wilds.
She reached the end of the line, unsure if she hoped to see Nathan, but then as she was turning to clamber onto her horse, Nicholas tapped her shoulder, and she looked back to see him running across the field, skidding to a halt as he reached her. Her heart leapt, and she wondered if he would change his mind and come with her, but she pushed the hope down, not wanting it. Not yet.
His face feigned brightness, but she could tell it hid his grief.
‘I could not let you leave without saying goodbye. I had thought it might be easier not to, but I had to see you.’ He looked at her and pulled her close. ‘Had to hold you once again.’ He breathed in deeply, squeezing her tight. ‘I love you, Mercia Blakewood. I always will. Don’t ever forget it. If you need me, I will find you. I swear.’
And then he released her, and she looked at his handsome face, and she managed a small smile.
‘I know.’
Daniel pushed forward. ‘I wish you were coming with us. Mamma, why is he staying behind?’
She looked at him, his face full of innocence, but not even for that could she change her mind.
‘One day I will tell you, and then you will understand. Now, say goodbye.’
‘We will see each other again,’ said Nathan, ruffling Daniel’s hair. Then he turned away, easing Daniel towards his mother, and she knew he could not look because he was too upset to see. So sparing him more sorrow, she swung her son onto her horse, and while Nathan beckoned to Nicholas for a final word, she joined him in the saddle. And so they set off south, leaving Meltwater and her heart behind.
At least, that was, for today.
They rode through the woods, Mercia trying desperately not to think about Nathan. It was the right thing, she knew, to refuse him. And it was his choice to stay if he wished. In time, he would learn to live without her, and maybe Remembrance Davison would make him a good wife. But still …
Up ahead, a woman stepped out onto the path. Sir William cried out, startled, but Mercia recognised her well enough. Her right arm was covered in bruises, her face with healing cuts, but she was whole, and she was alive.
‘
Sooleawa,’ she said. ‘I did not think to see you again.’
The Indian woman approached. ‘We heard you were leaving. The sachem wanted me to come and say goodbye. And to thank you.’
‘The sachem?’
Sooleawa smiled. ‘And me also. I am sorry events came between us. But I am not sorry for what I did. The honour of my tribe is satisfied. As is the young woman’s from many years ago.’ She paused. ‘My mother.’
Mercia steadied her anxious horse. ‘Is it true what you said about Godsgift?’
‘It is. The young woman … my mother – she loved him. She fell pregnant with his child, but he abandoned her. Or so my aunt said, after my brother – his son – fell last year in battle, and she was freed from the promise she had made to hide the truth. But now I have seen the lies that can divide a people apart, I do not know. Perhaps there is more to find out. He changed his name to forget about his past. I wonder why.’
‘I hope ’tis for a better reason than Kit did. And I hope you can find peace, Sooleawa. I think you saved our lives at the waterfall. Thank you.’
She stroked the horse’s mane. ‘There has been too much death of late. It is time to let the spirits go to the south-west and be satisfied.’
‘So Godsgift is safe?’
She smiled, the feathered arrows in the quiver across her back shaking in the breeze.
‘Perhaps.’
And then she plunged into the woods, returning the way she had come.
As they continued, Nicholas fell in alongside her.
‘That was good of her,’ he said. ‘A brave woman, all told.’
‘That she is,’ said Mercia. ‘As we must be now.’
He looked at her askance. ‘What of Dixwell and the rest? Whalley and Goffe?’
‘I do not know. The reverend who is hiding them will be in charge now, and they have other friends. Winthrop, too, will help them. But they will be distraught to learn the truth.’
‘Did you not want to see them again?’
‘I cannot. Not with Sir William riding with us. No, ’tis better if I stay away. At least I can see Winthrop once more before we return to New York.’
They rode a short while in silence, until she asked the question she had been hoping to resist.
‘What did he say?’
‘Who?’
She looked at him.
He sighed. ‘I know you have told me to stop asking, but I don’t know why this is happening.’
‘Because it must. Because I will lose him, as much as I have lost everyone else.’
‘But Mercia, you have lost him already if you let him stay.’
‘Just tell me what he said.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘That I had better take damn good care of you, or he would find me out and hunt me for the rest of my days.’
She smiled. ‘Anything else?’
‘That he hoped I would find someone I could love as much as he loves you.’
She reined in the horse, drawing to a sudden halt.
Nicholas lingered up ahead, waiting for her to decide what to do.
Then she looked at her son, and she thought of her house and his future: the reason she had come to America at all. Kicking her horse’s flanks, she started up again.
‘Come then, nétop. Let us go back. Let us begin our long journey back home.’
Historical Note
Throughout Puritan, I have used the term ‘Indian’, among other such references, to reflect terms the colonists themselves would have known. In the modern day, ‘American Indian’ or ‘Native American’ are commonly used, but neither is universally accepted. Regardless of terminology, it is important to note that the multiple American Indian Nations have never been a homogenous entity, each enjoying distinct identities, traditions and dialects of their own.
I have been filled with immense awe in writing of the colonists of seventeenth-century New England. That these pioneers had the courage to travel the ocean to start a new life is bravery enough; that they remained in their new home in the face of disease, hardship and conflict, astounds and humbles me. That so many tried to coexist peacefully with their American Indian neighbours is a shining mark on their humanity; that so many did not, a terrible blot.
In 1664, when this novel is set, the land we know today as the United States of America was almost a total unknown to the Europeans spreading into its embrace. When Percy asserts he has no idea what lies westwards, he is speaking truly. And yet just forty-four years after the landing of the Mayflower, five separate colonies had emerged in New England: Connecticut, where Puritan is based; Massachusetts Bay; New Haven; Rhode Island; and Plymouth. Representatives from four of these (but not the heretical Rhode Island!) were convening at a pan-New England council to consider issues of common interest. Although separate, Virginia further south was an older territory still, and the royal conquest of New York was assimilating land previously held by the Dutch. As New Haven was subsumed into Connecticut, so Plymouth would some years later merge with Massachusetts. The political geography of the modern eastern seaboard was fast being shaped.
Already by the 1660s, a great number of towns spanned the New England wilderness. Unlike the Roanoke failure of the previous century, these settlers were here to stay. Many made homes on cleared American Indian land that the native population thought to loan or share, rather than sell for good. Communities founded on Puritan zeal centred around their meeting house, a simple, communal structure used for religious worship and town hall debate. Farmers worked the land, artisans crafted goods, preachers carried the Gospel within and beyond the town. I may have stretched the limits of authenticity at times, such as in relaxing the strict rules governing taverns, but the fictional Meltwater is infused with the spirit of these women and men. Their unusual names are reflected in those of the townsfolk, the much earlier trend for Latinised names (Renatus) long since given way to plain English traits (Clemency, Perseverance), attitudes to God and morality (Fearing, Remembrance), hopes for the future (Victory) or recognitions of the past (Seaborn), mixed in with more traditional names such as Richard and John.
One of five historical figures in this book, John Winthrop Jr, was a hugely respected figure across New England and beyond. The alchemy he practised was anything but fantasy, taken utterly seriously by those learned men who immersed themselves in its promise. To them, alchemy was nothing short of the means of liberating humankind to a more fruitful existence. That they truly believed in the philosopher’s stone and the alkahest may sound remarkable now, but real advances stemmed from Winthrop’s research: his wife Elizabeth is not boasting when she talks of his achievements, for he treated many grateful patients with the minerals he refined. His membership of the Royal Society, the newly founded organisation of science and learning, speaks for itself. Yet as to most things, there was a flip side. Many self-styled alchemists were solely motivated by profit, and in general alchemical work was mistrusted by the population. The monas hieroglyphica, devised by John Dee in the sixteenth century to reflect the cosmos and the earth, was as much a sign of promise to Winthrop and his like as it was a sign of suspicion to those who feared it could be the harbinger of unnatural magic.
Besides Winthrop and his wife, Puritan’s other real-life characters are the three regicides Dixwell, Whalley and Goffe. That these men were used by Percy to frame the Royalists and inflame the people is a political fiction for this book, but that they were in the area is anything but. When Charles II was restored to the throne in 1660, he issued orders for the arrest of the several men who had signed his father’s death warrant. Those who were not imprisoned or executed had to lie low or flee, often overseas. It is not surprising that Whalley and Goffe, both Puritans themselves, chose to sail to New England. As Percy says, they were initially greeted with open arms, mingling openly with the colonists for whom they were Puritan heroes. But when the King’s demands arrived in Boston, they were forced into hiding.
These demands were soon reinforced by the arrival in America of a roya
l fleet, whose mission was, as readers of Birthright know, to seize New Amsterdam from the Dutch and thereby found New York. But the fleet was also instructed to seek out Whalley and Goffe, and so in October 1664, precisely when this novel is set, the two men left their hideout in coastal New Haven to travel north to Hadley, Massachusetts – a route taking them through the vicinity of the fictional Meltwater. John Dixwell is not recorded as journeying with them, but there is a reference to his visiting Hadley the following year. More recently (and more discreetly) arrived than his fellows, Dixwell was, in time, able to live openly in New Haven under his pseudonym of James Davids, indeed marrying and having children. Not so fortunate, Goffe and Whalley were to remain in hiding for the rest of their lives, except for one day in 1675, maybe 1676 (the sources are not clear), when legend tells of a man who appeared from nowhere to lead Hadley’s defence against an Indian attack … the Angel of Hadley, supposedly – on this occasion – William Goffe.
Evidently, religion was a matter of utmost importance to the Puritans (not, incidentally, a term they would have preferred for themselves). The persecution of their beliefs was the factor that drove them to the New World in the first place. While migration to America slowed over the Cromwell years, the restoration of Charles II gave rise back in Britain to a heightened political nervousness and worries for renewed civil war. Many people, regardless of denomination, were ever more certain the Second Coming of Christ was near. A millennial fervour had been developing through the century, a conviction that Christ would descend from heaven to cast out the unworthy and herald a thousand years of peace. Groups like the Fifth Monarchists, to which Kit’s brother belonged, took instruction from the prophesies in the Books of Daniel and Revelation, believing the recent civil wars to be a foretold necessity for the so-called Rule of the Saints. The Restoration shook that belief, and they rose up against the new King. Yet few were prepared to turn words into deeds, and they were slaughtered as they made their stand. In New England, the religious ardour of the first immigrants was dimming in the next generation, but passions could still be firmly aroused. Until the 1660s, only the children of those believers who could claim a genuine conversion experience were permitted baptism. The Half-Way Covenant easing this restriction was the fierce religious question of their day.
Puritan Page 39