The Outcasts of Time

by Ian Mortimer

  William and I look around. The windows have green velvet curtains on either side. In one corner is a painted table with a very deep top: like a coffin on wooden legs. Bowls of blue and white pottery of an extraordinary fineness stand on this, in the same way that silverware was displayed on an aumbry in our day. On the wall directly opposite the window are several paintings in gilt frames. One illustrates a battle, with many men in armour and horses rearing up in panic. Another shows a man resting his hand on a black-draped table. He looks rich. His long hair is folded back from his forehead. His upper tunic has padded shoulders but is tailored very close to his waist, so his chest is compressed into a tapering tube; it then expands in an embroidered short skirt, and his breeches are decorated with the same patterns and colours. White hosen cover his lower legs, and he wears black shoes with tassels on the front. From his belt hangs what looks like the hilt of a very thin sword.

  William plucks a note on a musical instrument hanging on the wall. It has a teardrop-shaped body and six courses of strings, and a head that is at ninety degrees to the neck.

  ‘What sort of music do you think they play nowadays?’ I say to him as I walk over and place my travelling sack on the curved bench by the fire, and hold out my hands to warm myself.

  ‘Joyful music,’ he replies. ‘The master of this house has everything he could desire – glazed windows, a fireplace, cushions, paintings, music, food, silverware – and a beautiful wife.’

  ‘She said there’s a war in progress.’

  ‘It appears not to bother her unduly.’

  We hear footsteps and Mistress Parlebone appears in the doorway with a young dark-haired lad. ‘Carnsleigh here will take you to change into some dry attire,’ she announces. ‘He will bring you back to the hall for lunch.’

  ‘By “lunch” do you mean “dinner”?’ enquires William.

  ‘Indeed. Cook informs me that we will be having a venison pie, with vegetables.’

  The very thought of venison, a prince among meats – one that is reserved for only the wealthy – melts on my tongue and swells my appetite.

  ‘This is Heaven. I could stay here forever,’ murmurs William.

  ‘I thought you did not care for Heaven any more,’ I reply, as Carnsleigh leads us out of the hall.

  ‘I’ve changed my mind, now I’ve seen what it’ll be like.’

  Carnsleigh is tall, about sixteen years old. We follow him to a staircase which is the grandest I have ever seen in a house. It is all carved of wood, with banisters and a banister rail, rising in stages around a large square stairwell, so that light pours down from a window.

  Upstairs, we follow him along a corridor to a panelled door. The chamber within is whitewashed. There is a plasterwork frieze above the fireplace, which depicts dogs and hunters pursuing a stag in full flight. A fine bed frame stands opposite, with wooden posts showing semi-clad women beneath strange trees in an exotic land; it has an unmade-up mattress with pillows stacked on it. Against two walls are chests. But what catches my eye is an object on a table to the right of the fireplace. I see it reflect the light of the window. I stop, and walk closer. I lower my face towards it, and see the light disappear and an image move in the glass. I am looking at a narrow face, which is looking at my face, which is looking at it.

  I turn away, startled. Then I look again at what I realise is a reflection – but not like a normal reflection in a puddle of water. This is as clear as seeing myself in the flesh.

  ‘William, look at this!’

  I lift the reflecting object and take another look at my face. It is gaunt. I stare at it, seeing the lines around the eyes, the scars and marks on the cheeks, the griminess of the ears, and the stubble on the chin. I look at the dark hair, which is long and dirty. It is my hair. I turn the glass, and look at myself from an angle – and see that the nose on my face is not at all how I imagined it to be. But most of all I look at the eyes.

  ‘You are not beautiful enough to warrant gazing at yourself for so long,’ says William, and takes the object from me. He alters the angle, then looks up at Carnsleigh. ‘Does this glass ever lie?’

  ‘No. It is a looking glass,’ says the lad, bemused at our interest in it. ‘It reflects whatever is held before it.’

  ‘You mean, it always shows the truth?’ asks William.

  ‘Yes, but in reverse. If you close your left eye, it will appear in the looking glass that your right is closed.’

  William performs this experiment. And stares at himself. ‘So that is what other folk see when they regard me.’

  I take the looking glass back from him. I turn it so that I can see William’s face.

  William points at the mirror. It looks like he is pointing at me. He says, ‘Just think of all the people who have lived over the years not knowing how they appeared to the world. Even Jesus did not know what He truly looked like.’

  Carnsleigh lifts down a chest from where it rests on top of another. ‘The mistress says to try these.’ He opens the lid. Inside are piles of clothes.

  I stare at them. This is the answer to our prayer. ‘We should wash first, before dressing in such fine garments.’

  ‘They are all old,’ Carnsleigh replies. ‘It will not matter to Mister Parlebone. I do not think he will want them back after you have worn them.’

  ‘I’d prefer it if we were clean.’

  William agrees. ‘If we are going to Heaven, then the least we can do is not trample mud in through the front door.’

  Carnsleigh bows. ‘I’ll fetch you some fresh water.’

  I turn to look through the chest of clothes. Remembering the painting I saw in the hall, I select a pair of reddish-brown breeches and white hosen for my legs, and a tightly fitting tunic of a similar reddish-brown hue for my upper body. This will be the first time I have worn a garment with these fasteners at the front. I look through my bag and choose the least filthy shirt, and, although it is wet, I decide that that will do. It will dry out with my body heat. My boots look out of keeping with this new attire and I search for some newer ones. I find a pair of black shoes but they have great wedges underneath the heel. I can barely walk in them; I certainly could not run. I put my old flat-soled boots back on my feet.

  William is still staring at himself in the looking glass. ‘Why do you think Mistress Parlebone is being so kind to us?’

  ‘Perhaps she has a weakness for beards.’

  ‘In truth, John.’

  ‘Maybe those who are so rich have nothing to spend their money on but doing good works.’

  ‘Do you believe that?’

  I shrug. ‘This is the third day we’ve visited away from our own time – and it’s the strangest yet. If I asked you, “Are you loyal to the king?” you’d say, “Of course.” And if you were to ask me if I obey the laws agreed by Parliament, I’d say the same, for Parliament sits in the king’s name. But now the law-makers and the king are fighting one another. I do not know what to make of it.’

  Carnsleigh enters holding a brass basin of water. An older man follows him, holding another, which is steaming, with several white linen towels draped over his arm. This older man bows his greetings to us. Both basins are set on the table where the looking glass previously stood.

  ‘The cold water is for your washing,’ says Carnsleigh, ‘and the warm for your hair.’ He puts down an earthenware flask beside the latter, and two ivory combs. ‘Here are lye, combs, and towels. Dinner will be served in half an hour.’

  After both servants have gone, William sets the looking glass down. He selects a bright-red tunic, holds it across his chest, and picks up the looking glass again. ‘Does the colour suit my complexion?’

  ‘Since when has that ever been a concern to you?’

  ‘I bet that the last man to wear this had not a single louse on his body.’

  ‘Everyone has lice. Always has done, always will. Folk will always need clothes and shoes, sleep, water and food. And lice will always need folk.’

  I strip off and wash my bod
y, and rinse my hair in the hot water.

  ‘Use the lye,’ says William.

  ‘How?’

  ‘Rub it into your scalp. It kills the fleas and lice and loosens the dirt. And then you can comb the filth out of it.’

  ‘How come you know these things?’

  ‘I knew some women in our own time who were very particular about their hair.’

  The lye irritates my scalp. I lean over the basin but some water trickles down my neck. I find the whole washing process very vexing. But worse comes when I look up, for water gets into my eyes, and it stings. I rub them.

  William is combing his hair in the looking glass, pulling at the snags. ‘Do you think that Mistress Parlebone will have me now?’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘Do you think Mistress Parlebone will welcome a kiss or two?’

  ‘She’s a married woman.’

  ‘But she has a loving side to her. If you were to distract her husband in some way, it would allow me to charm her. You would not deny a man his last request, would you? Your own brother too, who has been so forgiving.’

  ‘William, you may be my brother but sometimes you are the Devil incarnate. Can you not leave women alone? Especially one who is married, and who is our hostess – and even more especially when you are on the verge of meeting your Maker.’

  ‘That’s cruel hard of you, John. You are right and moral, I know. But you could have some pity. You have so many joys to help you along; I have few. My life is a swift-moving river of loneliness. Women are the stepping stones I need to avoid getting swept away.’

  ‘So you need to tread on them? To feel that you are not alone? Can you not be content to . . . to talk with them?’

  ‘That is like picking at the pastry and not tasting the meat. A man like me needs to feel. Feeling is the truest of the senses, no? We trust our eyes and our ears, but when we want to test the truth of something, we reach out and touch it.’

  ‘She is married, and that’s that. She’ll not have you.’

  ‘I’ve never yet known a woman who would only say no.’

  ‘That’s a lie.’

  ‘But it is true that I want to love them all, and many women want to be loved.’

  I finish putting on my new clothes and look at myself in the glass. To see myself the first time was strange enough but now I am almost a stranger to myself. William, on the other hand, looks almost comfortable in his red suit. He holds up his ring over his chest, as if to see how the gold-set garnet goes with his new attire.

  Carnsleigh returns, looks at us without a word, and bids us follow him. As I descend the stairs, I hear the notes of a musical instrument. I smell cooked meat. Entering the hall, I see a small gathering near the fire: Mistress Parlebone is there with three men and a boy of about six years of age. At the painted table, which I thought looked like a coffin on legs, all the blue and white pottery and bowls have been taken away and the top lifted up and propped at an angle. A girl of about thirteen sits there pressing ivory keys down to make the sweet notes of a lively tune – she is playing several parts simultaneously with astonishing dexterity. There are now eight places laid at the table.

  ‘So these are our strange travellers,’ says a clean-shaven man with short fair hair, in his mid-forties. I notice his belt is a wide leather strap, with the fastenings for a sword. ‘I have to say,’ he continues, ‘those faces of yours do not seem to suit those clothes. Could you not have chosen others?’

  ‘It is not our fault,’ I reply. ‘When we were at the market, looking for faces, our elder brother had first pick, William here had the second, and I had the third.’

  ‘Thank the Lord you did not have a younger brother,’ says the elder of the two other men, who is grey-haired and bearded.

  ‘Nay, thank the Lord they did not have a sister,’ says the third man. He has longer, dark hair, which hangs down to his shoulders, and his face is shaved. He has a bandage around his right arm, which looks recently tied, and his topmost garment is hung over that shoulder, the sleeve hanging empty.

  ‘Good, good,’ says our host. ‘You are welcome, the pair of you. Forgive my vulgar jest. I am Charles Parlebone, master of this house, and these two gentlemen are my friends.’

  The younger-looking man seems jovial, and nods a greeting. The older one withdraws his right hand from his glove and extends it to me. He grasps my right hand very tightly, and shakes it, and then does the same with William. ‘It’s a bitterly cold winter, is it not?’ he says. ‘All the better for being in Mister Parlebone’s warm hall.’

  The master invites us to take a seat at the table and Mistress Parlebone points to two places next to each other. Mister Parlebone sits at the head and his two guests sit opposite us. Mistress Parlebone sits at the foot. The girl who was playing the musical instrument finishes and takes the seat on my right. She bows to us and introduces herself as Sarah. Her little brother, Thomas, sits opposite her.

  ‘Friends, please be silent,’ says Mister Parlebone. He utters a short prayer. As he gives thanks for the food, I notice that no one but me crosses themselves when the Lord is mentioned. Not even when Mister Parlebone says the name of Christ. From the corner of my eye I look towards Mistress Parlebone’s hands, which are palms-together in prayer. She is not wearing a wedding ring.

  I remember her saying ‘we are a good Protestant family’. Does this mean they abhor sculpted images? Then I remember what we are about to eat – venison – despite the fact that it is still Advent. I feel nervous and unsteady. When I spoke of us not knowing how people behave now, I never realised it would entail failing to observe the most important fast of the year.

  Mister Parlebone says ‘Amen’ and nods to the door. Carnsleigh and the older servant are there; they enter bearing two large silver bowls. My pulse is racing, my fingers wavering. Everything is so wrong I want to leave. My hunger has suddenly diminished. But these people have been so kind in allowing us new clothes, warmth and food, I cannot refuse. I look in the bowls: the one nearest me contains bulbous white lumps. They look like solid fat. The next has yellow roots in it.

  ‘Have you not seen carrots before?’ says Mister Parlebone, as Carnsleigh pours a modicum of translucent wine into the glass before me.

  I point at the bulbous lumps. ‘These are carrots?’ I ask.

  ‘Those are cauliflowers,’ says Sarah. ‘Those are carrots.

  Had you dragged me through all the countries of Africa, I could not have felt further from home. Yet I was born only two parishes away.

  I watch as the servants bring in another silver dish topped with pastry. It is steaming and smells of meat.

  ‘Mister Parlebone,’ I begin, nervously. ‘Am I correct in saying that this is Advent?’

  ‘You are indeed.’

  ‘Then why are we eating meat?’

  ‘It is not against the word of the Lord: only Catholics maintain the old ways now.’ Then he pauses. ‘You are not, I hope, from a Catholic household?’ He glances at the other men.

  ‘It depends what you mean by that word “Catholic”,’ I reply.

  ‘Well, very simply, do you acknowledge the supremacy of Rome?’

  ‘I follow the word of God, the guidance of my priest, and the direction of our bishop. But that is not the point. There was a time when there were no such divisions and all Englishmen acknowledged the overlordship of the king in temporal matters and the guidance of Rome in spiritual ones. Nowadays all society is divided. But why? How does a man determine God’s will? I think that a man knows God no more than a cat knows its own grandfather.’

  ‘The will of the people reflects the will of God,’ says the older man.

  William nods and says, ‘That is true,’ as he reaches forward to help himself to some of the venison pie.

  ‘Mister Perkins is right,’ replies Mistress Parlebone. ‘God made mankind in His own image. It follows that the will He gave to Man is in accordance with His divine will.’

  ‘If that is the case,’ I reply, helping mysel
f to some carrots, ‘then God is as fickle as Man, and as greedy, disloyal, selfish, cruel and pompous. That is a terrible thing to say.’

  ‘Wherefore do you speak in this strange archaic manner?’ asks the younger man.

  ‘We’ve been travelling a long while,’ William replies, draining the wine from his glass.

  ‘What happened to you? Were you captured by Turks?’

  ‘No, thanks be to God,’ I reply.

  ‘It is truly dreadful, the Turkish horror,’ says the older man, whom Mistress Parlebone described as Mister Perkins. ‘I heard of a Dartmouth woman whose husband went to sea three years ago and never returned. Had he drowned, she could have remarried, but the ship was taken by pirates; boys from the vessel later were sold in the slave markets of Tunis. Not until seven years have passed can she be allowed to presume her husband dead and then remarry. Until then she has neither money nor food but three children to feed and rent to pay. She pleaded with the churchwardens for relief and they gave but fourpence a week. It is a sad lookout for a woman in such a plight, at the beckoning of any man with a sixpence.’

  ‘How can that be God’s will?’ I ask. ‘Has God deserted the people? Has not the wrongful interpretation of God’s law caused Him to shut his eyes to the suffering of the great flock?’

  ‘I do not understand your meaning,’ says Mister Parlebone.

  ‘Even if God’s law has changed rightfully from generation to generation, how do you know that by following the will of the people you are not deviating from God’s will, and not bringing damnation upon all your souls?’

  ‘That is why we are fighting this war,’ says Mistress Parlebone. ‘God shall express His will through victory. The Royalists hold that King Charles is king by the grace of God, and that he is God’s representative among us, and that the king’s will is to be obeyed as if it were that of God Himself. Others believe the king to be a weak and foolish man who should be deposed and replaced by a council for the common wealth of men. If the Royalists are right, then God will ensure that the Parliamentarians shall be vanquished. But that is highly unlikely. Few major strongholds are left to the king – the town of Oxford and the city of Exeter being the only important ones.’