Havoc, in Its Third Year

by Ronan Bennett

  They walked some little distance from the town, Brigge almost dancing as he went, and were on the high moor above the river when Brigge heard his name called. When he turned round to see who it was that called him in this wilderness he discerned at once from the manner of his companion that it had not been Starman who had spoken. Yet he had heard his name called—John!—very clearly, though whether it was by man or woman he could not say, nor from what corner it came.

  The air was still. Nothing moved, no bird or cloud or blade of grass.

  Looking out over the moor, he thought he saw someone in the distance. “Do you see a woman coming this way?” he said to Starman, but for all Starman peered to see, he could devise nothing. “Do you not see her?”

  “No, your honor,” Starman said. “Who is it that comes?”

  Brigge waited where he was, and as the figure came near, he saw it was Elizabeth. She came out of the air, from somewhere and nowhere, without covering on her head, dressed all in white, her hair about her shoulders, her face and eyes serene. She carried in her arms Brigge’s son. The child was pale and did not move.

  Brigge gave a cry and fell to his knees, unable to bring himself to look up again. Starman bent over him and Brigge saw his face full of fear and anxiety.

  “What is it?” Starman pleaded. “What do you see?”

  Brigge jumped up and ran toward Elizabeth. He had not gone ten yards when he perceived she had vanished. He came up quick and looked forlornly about and called for his wife. His heart was wretched and tears flooded into his eyes. A spirit has no muscle, bone or sinew, a spirit is emancipated from all corporeality and so can know no dread. This was confirmed by the Ancients and is universally accepted to be true. Elizabeth could be quiet, but Brigge, who was solid and of flesh and blood, shivered violently with fright.

  Starman came limping up and saw Brigge was deathly pale.

  “As true as the Lord’s Prayer, I saw nothing,” Starman said to reassure and calm him. “Perhaps a shadow and trick of light on the moor deceived you.”

  “I must go home,” Brigge said.

  “What about the girl?”

  Brigge put his head in his hands. Had he uncovered Doliffe’s secret only to lose his son?

  “Have the constable convey her to the Master,” Brigge said, collecting his wits. “Tell him not to fail in his duty or he shall answer to me,” Brigge said.

  “Should you not accompany her?” Starman said. “Should you not be present to see that there is no meddling with the girl or concealment of the truth?”

  “The Master is honest,” Brigge said. “He will listen to the truth.”

  Twenty - six

  SIX MILES FROM THE WINTERS. BRIGGE ’ S MARE THREW HIM and bolted. He fell to the ground, bruised in his back and right shoulder but otherwise unharmed. Starman gave chase and caught the horse. Removing the saddle, they found a sore about the bigness of a man’s fist, red and livid, and no matter how they tried to calm her, the mare would not consent to Brigge’s mounting of her again. They left the way to go on foot, leading the horses across mountain and moor and so shorten their journey. It was all Starman could do to keep pace with his master, for Brigge went angry and desperate, cursing aloud as he slipped on the sharp stones and pebbles that he should be kept longer from his wife and child.

  As they were at last approaching the slopes where Brigge’s flock was pastured, the sheep scuttled off, but one ewe stumbled and fell. Brigge halted to watch the animal pick itself up, swaying as though unsure of the ground. Starting forward again, it went first one way, then twitched to the left and turned right about. For a moment it did not move, but bleated twice; then, its legs giving way, it tipped and fell again. Starman hobbled to the giddy ewe, attempting to pull it upright, which, between its incapacity and the shepherd’s own feebleness, was no easy thing to achieve; and once up, there was nothing for it to do but fall down. Starman left the ewe and went to another in a like condition, forelegs folded under it, hind legs helplessly splayed.

  Brigge mounted Starman’s little gray nag and rode down to the house, leaving the shepherd with the stricken sheep. There was nothing in his mind, no thoughts of what this portended for him or his family. He did not think of his debts or his ruin. He was benumbed, grief and despair beyond him.

  THERE WAS NO one outside the house, no manner of activity. He did not hurry himself but very deliberately set about the horse’s needs, providing water and oats and taking care as he removed the nag’s saddle and blanket.

  When he had delayed as long as he could, he started for the house. As he approached, the door opened and Deborah appeared in the threshold. He did not quicken his pace but went steadily on, his heart hanging in a trance.

  This is the day I lost my son, he said to himself.

  “I am sorry, sir,” Deborah said when he came up.

  Brigge halted at the door. Deborah’s face was red and swollen from her copious crying. He looked into the kitchen, which he saw was empty, as lifeless as his child. Brigge took her hand to comfort her.

  “I thank you, Deborah, with all my heart, for the care you gave Samuel. Without you, his life would have been still shorter and the joy we had in him still less.”

  He kissed her on her brow.

  At once Deborah withdrew her hand and put it to her mouth. She was about to speak when Brigge heard from the house the sound of a child’s crying. He looked at the woman, his mournful gaze giving way to puzzlement and panic.

  Deborah said, “Samuel is recovered, sir.”

  Brigge’s heart leaped with hope.

  Then came understanding.

  THE NEIGHBORS AND gossips washed the body and crushed rosemary and put sprigs in Elizabeth’s hands, for the smell was rising as is common with women who die of the purples, and tied her ankles with footbands and bound her in the winding sheet she had prepared for herself before Samuel was born. The kitchen maids set out crosses and candles and tapers, and the faithful knelt before the corpse to pray a Pater Noster and De Profundis for the soul. Brigge kissed his wife’s brow and put a penny in her mouth for St. Peter. Those uncomfortable at the performance of the rites quietly absented themselves to the kitchen, where they ate a dinner of cold meat and bread and sweet butter.

  “The child recovered himself the day you departed,” Isabel told him. “But as soon as he was well, his mother fell ill, a fever having come upon her very quickly. She was scarce able to walk for the pain she had in her belly. I saw she would not recover for she had death in her face. She was not in any way distressed in her mind but rather was calm, as if having seen her son recover she could leave this life content.”

  Brigge turned away and cried. Raising his head at last, he saw Starman come in and take off his hat and stand with his head bowed.

  “She came awake only once after she fell into her delirium,” Sara said, taking up Isabel’s account. “Her eyes suddenly opened and she spoke, her voice very clear, saying that she felt well again and asked if her husband had come home. I answered you had not, and of a sudden she smiled and said it did not matter for she had seen you and you were safe. Those were her last words.”

  “When did she say this, what time of the day?”

  “Early this morning,” Isabel said, “not long after it was light.”

  “I saw her at that time,” Brigge said. “She was bringing little Samuel to me. I thought it was to tell me the child was dead.”

  The maids crossed themselves.

  “It was not for that she came to you, sir,” Isabel said.

  “She was coming to leave Samuel in your care,” Sara said.

  FATHER EDWARD ARRIVED with James Jagger. He wore a big gray hat so his face was not clearly seen. The kitchen maids came to usher him quickly into the chamber where Elizabeth lay. When those not of the faith had retired from the room, the priest consoled Brigge and prayed with him, then donned his vestments and sprinkled and censed the body.

  “Almighty and everlasting God,” the priest intoned, “we humbly entr
eat thy mercy, that thou wouldst commend the soul of thy servant Elizabeth, for whose body we perform the due office of burial, to be laid in the bosom of thy patriarch Abraham; that, when the day of recognition shall arrive, she may be raised up, at thy bidding, among the saints of thy elect.”

  Toward evening they set off, taking turn to carry Elizabeth’s bier, to make their way to the chapel. The priest did not accompany them for the danger his presence would bring.

  “Fly the country while you can,” Brigge said to the priest at their farewell. “They have arrested Lacy and his wife and hunt everywhere for you.”

  The priest clasped Brigge to him with his large red hands. He said, “I live to do God’s work. For as long as my life is useful to that work, I shall be protected. And when my death becomes more useful than my life, I will gladly give it.”

  Brigge wanted no more talk of death or sacrifice. “How have we come to this?” he asked. “How is it that good men divide and are at each other’s throats and like to tear each other apart?”

  “Those who walk in truth cannot go accompanied by those who peddle error and falsehood.”

  “I have heard Doliffe and Favour say exactly the same thing.”

  “A perverter of the truth will not scruple to claim it is he that possesses the truth,” the priest said with vehemence. “He may deceive men, but his lies cannot be concealed from God Almighty.”

  Brigge felt a great tiredness come over him. “Save yourself, Father,” he said. “Do not go to your death for the sake of such trifles.”

  Anger flashed in the priest’s eyes, then passed as though he were making allowance for Brigge, for the suffering he was enduring. He spoke quietly but fervently. “These are no trifles. Good and evil contest for supremacy. The battle has only just begun. Men will die. I will die. It cannot be avoided. War is coming. It is on the horizon.”

  Brigge took a last look at the martyr before him, then turned to rejoin the little procession. The priest mounted his horse and was gone.

  At crossways and forks they stopped and knelt to pray, as they had done when Brigge’s mother was laid to her rest, leaving little crosses by the wayside before picking up the bier again and continuing their journey.

  When they arrived at the chapel, the curate came to meet them at the stile, his look unwelcoming and cold. He stood reluctantly aside to allow the mourners entry into the church, where they set down the corpse and prayed in whispers, crossing themselves and knocking themselves while the curate performed the service they ignored. The bell tolled once and stopped, and Brigge went to the bell-ringer and demanded of him that he toll throughout as was fitting to mark the decease of a Christian. The bell-ringer hesitated but, seeing Brigge would not be satisfied otherwise, the curate nodded his approval and so the bells rang as in the old rite. Elizabeth was taken outside to the graveyard.

  Brigge kissed Elizabeth on the mouth for the last time and the bury-men lowered the body into the grave. Starman and Deborah threw flowers and herbs. The curate, offended at these superstitious enormities and able to withstand no more, withdrew himself from their presence.

  Brigge whispered:

  Man behold so as I am now, so shall you be

  Gold and silver shall make no plea

  This dance to defend, but follow me

  But follow me.

  And the others took up the chorus, murmuring:

  Follow me

  Follow

  Follow.

  The earth fell on Elizabeth. The white of her winding sheet was first sprinkled, then covered as the clods came down.

  Brigge made his way homeward. He prayed that in her final moment of clarity, when she came across the moor with Samuel in her arms, Elizabeth had not found him lacking in heart or soul or sympathy. That she knew she died loved by him.

  RETURNING TO THE house, they passed the fields where the sheep were and saw how the turn had taken hold, so many animals now plainly infected. Brigge’s flock was lost.

  In the house Brigge gathered the neighbors and Deborah and Starman and the kitchen maids and, taking from his chest what little coin he had, he divided up his money and gave it to each person there, begging them to receive these doles in memory of his dear wife who was dead.

  Starman hesitated before accepting and whispered to his master that he should preserve his money if he was to avoid ruin. But Brigge would hear nothing of it.

  That night he slept fitfully but long enough to dream the thing he had not dreamed in many weeks. He was once again before the walls of the great city, the key he had accepted in his hand and now the warlike citizenry coming upon him, the leader among them holding aloft a noosed rope. Katherine Shay appeared at his side. She said, “Fear nothing from them. You shall be protected.” “How shall I be protected?” Brigge asked the Irishwoman, to which she gave no answer and was gone again as suddenly as she had come. The armed men stepped forward. The first blow they gave woke him with a fright so sharp he thought his heart would never stop pounding.

  It was almost dawn. Resolving in his mind what he should do, he rose from the feather bed he had shared for so many years with Elizabeth. He dressed himself in simple homespun clothes.

  In the kitchen Samuel was asleep. Not wanting to disturb the child, he knelt by the cradle and whispered, “Your mother has passed from this life and you will never see her again on earth. Do not cry over this, Samuel. She has flown like an arrow to heaven and there we will one day be reunited with her.”

  He directed James Jagger to get ready the gray nag, telling his household he had business in the town. The kitchen maids put up great lamentations and begged him to stay, but Brigge would not be dissuaded. Starman said he did not trust the Master to deal justly with Brigge though Susana had told him all, and pleaded that he might go with him. Brigge refused all offers of accompaniment, saying he would go alone. He went to the stable and saddled the nag, the mare yet being beyond use.

  Leading the horse out, he found assembled all of his household-Samuel, Deborah, Starman, James Jagger and Sara and Isabel-with their bundles about their backs. Since he would not remain at the Winters, they would go with him.

  Twenty - seven

  The women took turn to ride with Samuel, the rest going on foot, even Starman, who limped, though he made no complaint about his leg or the difficulty of the journey.

  At Skelder Gate they were challenged by the watch who, seeing Brigge lead the nag with Deborah upon it and the child at her breast, became outraged that he went blasphemously in imitation of Joseph leading Mary and the Christ child from Bethlehem when they departed into Egypt. Brigge retorted they were no such thing and showed by his anger he would suffer no insult. The watchmen stepped aside to let him pass, one whispering with spiteful laughter that Brigge was well come and in good time, for tomorrow he would see hanged the very Jesuit he had harbored.

  Brigge stopped. “The priest has been taken?” he said.

  “He was taken this morning and will be hanged tonight. Lacy and his wife will swing also.”

  Another of the watch gloated, “And Fourness and Lister for the depraved sodomites they are.”

  All wore in their hats the blue ribbon of Savile but now also boasted sprigs of laurel with it. Brigge asked what it meant that these two opposite emblems should be mixed together thus, but the watchmen gave him only more scoffing and enigmatical laughs and proclaimed that all now would be well in the town by reason of the great reformation newly begun among the governors. Unwilling to collude in their making further sport of him, Brigge left off his questions, guiding those who followed him to the Lion, where he used to lodge when he was in the town about his affairs. There were blue ribbons and laurels in every window they passed and the streets were strangely quiet.

  When the innkeeper saw who it was, he became alarmed and would have turned them away. But by his entreaties Brigge prevailed upon him to let Starman and the women have beds for the night, for they and Samuel were worn out from their journey.

  Before he left th
em, Brigge commanded Starman to swear he would let no harm befall his son.

  AS HE PASSED under the arch at the entrance to the House of Correction, Brigge halted. Above, over the escutcheon where was inscribed the governors’ apodictical motto-And when was sin more plentiful?-blue ribbons were draped, which caused Brigge much perplexity: what could it mean that Savile’s emblem flew at the very seat of Challoner’s government?

  Banging on the door, he roused the keeper, who was amazed to see Brigge present himself here of all places. He stuttered his surprise and when commanded to bring forth the prisoner Shay, hesitated to obey, doubting Brigge’s authority, but Brigge continued with him as though he were still a governor and coroner.

  The keeper licked his lips and gathered his courage. “I am under strict orders, your honor, that the Irishwoman is to have no conference with any man,” he said.

  “Bring her to me at once,” Brigge ordered him, his voice low and firm.

  When the keeper saw Brigge would not be denied, he took the key from his belt and started up the stone stairs.

  Brigge turned and entered the room where the Master and governors met. Everything remained as he had known it: the gleaming hard floorboards, the table in the center, the simple chairs around it, the unadorned walls. It possessed in perfection the very spareness and order Challoner had aspired to bring to the town. A brainsick fancy! Brigge should never have had any hand in the governors’ work. He should never have allowed himself to be persuaded into their number. He knew—and had known from the first—what Challoner did not, that chaos beats in man’s heart and is vital to it. It pulses his loins, it swims in his dreams. Easier to tame the wind than man, who is as turbulent, capricious, obdurate and selfish as dread and doct professors of religion maintain him to be, but also, which they do less, loving, merciful and selfless. Who knows better what man is than He that created man? It was Shay who had asked him if our Savior ordered for man’s correction the whip and the prison. The Irishwoman had the right of it: nowhere in the gospels is this written. In place of the things of terror Jesus put into man’s mind a glorious shining conception that would save him and raise him above the beasts and make him kind: He that loveth his brother abideth in the light. This is what the teacher taught, this is what is written for man. Had the governors been, as Jesus commanded his apostles to be, harmless as doves? Had they forgiven their brother until seventy times seven? Were they kindly affectioned one to another with brotherly love? Did they put brotherly kindness next to godliness and charity? He that loveth not his brother abideth in death. This too is written.