by Ann Swinfen
‘Do you think we may accomplish this?’ she said. ‘Or am I indulging in idle fantasies, to think that we may buy John his freedom?’
‘I know Harry Danvers. If the decision were his, I think we should have no trouble, provided the bribe is large enough.’ He grinned at her expression. ‘Oh, yes, they may call it bail money, but you’ll not see it again. It will find its way into somebody’s pocket. However, my guess is that Danvers takes his orders from someone higher, perhaps from Ireton or even Cromwell himself. The only way to know is to go and talk to Danvers in Stafford. A strange fellow, that Danvers. A religious fanatic but a prancing fop. Full of hot-headed schemes, yet too cowardly to carry them through. He needs to be handled with care.’
‘Do you think I should come?’
‘Nay, I do not. We’ll hold your wifely pleading in reserve. That may prove useful later. Remember, many wives of the king’s men have saved their estates and even their husbands’ lives before this. But I wouldn’t expose you to that indignity if we may succeed through my offices.’
He tapped his teeth with his thumbnail.
‘He’ll need bribing in gold or jewellery. Have you gold enough?’
‘Very little, I fear. I’ve been obliged to commute many of the rents for the cottagers, and allow several of the larger tenants to run up debts. Everyone has suffered so with the bad harvests, and the losses of the war.’
‘I hope they’ve not taken advantage of you,’ he said.
‘Nay, I think not. They’re all families who have lived here for generations. If I cannot be merciful to them, how can I expect mercy at God’s hands?’
He grunted.
‘Well, then it will need to be jewels.’ He studied her, sitting opposite him in her countrywoman’s gown, with nothing about her neck but a plain linen neckerchief. ‘Or have you been forced to sell them, in these hard times? Forgive me for my bluntness.’
‘Of course. We must deal honestly with each other. I have some jewels. I see no need to wear them here. I’ll fetch them.’
She ran up the stairs to her chamber, eager at the thought of being able to do something, at last, for John. At the top she collided with Bridget, and told her what Henry Stone had said.
‘Then you must have my jewels also,’ said Bridget quietly. ‘They’re not many, I being but a spinster, but you shall have them all.’
Anne hugged her.
‘My dear, he’s my husband. You must keep your jewels.’
Bridget shook her head.
‘He’s my brother. When I was a child, he never laughed or mocked at me for my lameness. He always stood between me and our mother. I must help him now if I can.’
In her chamber, Anne drew out the small jewel box which she kept hidden under the mattress—a poor enough hiding-place, she knew, if ever the house were raided. The collection was not large, for she had never dressed lavishly, but all of the pieces were valuable. The long string of pearls John had given her last year shimmered like moving water as she poured the jewels out on the coverlet. She ran it through her fingers. Its opalescent beauty always moved her and the thought of parting with it wrenched at her memories. For one last time she fastened it round her neck, where it hung to her waist, and she felt again John’s hands as he caressed her neck and kissed it above the clasp. Tears started in her eyes at the thought of parting with his gift, but she brushed them aside angrily. What right had she to weep over a string of pearls, even if John had given them to her? She placed everything in a leather pouch except two rings: her marriage ring, which would never leave her finger in life, and a ring she wore on her right hand. Like her marriage ring, she wore this always, so that she hardly noticed it was there, but she turned it on her finger and kissed it now.
When John was fifteen, and on his way to Cambridge, he had travelled to London for the first time with his father, and there he had bought this curious silver ring set with a turquoise. The man he bought it from was a sailor recently returned from the New World, where he said he had bargained it off one of the savages in exchange for an axe. Anne was certain John had given much more than the price of an axe for it. When he came home that winter, he had given it to her as a Christmas gift, and they had both of them understood that this was a secret betrothal between them. This was the one jewel, apart from her plain gold wedding band, that she would not part with, for it would seem like a betrayal of John’s love for her.
Bridget met her again on the landing and pressed into her hands a small collection of jewellery: three gold chains, a small strand of river pearls with matching ear-rings, and a simple amethyst and seed-pearl necklace. Anne kissed her, but made no further attempt to dissuade her.
Henry Stone looked over the jewellery spread out on the parlour table, and set a few things to one side.
‘I’ll not offer everything at once, but keep some back to bargain with. I’m sorry to have to deprive you of your jewels, Mistress Anne.’
She gave a dismissive wave of her hand.
‘What are they but vanities, after all? I don’t need them. They are nothing to me beside my husband’s freedom.’
Henry returned the larger pile to the leather bag, then tied the other jewels in a silk handkerchief and stowed it in a pocket in the lining of his coat.
‘I’ll set off for Stafford tomorrow morning early. Don’t expect any word from me too soon. It may be that Danvers will need to send to London for instructions. But believe me, I will do everything in my power to secure John for you.’
He left soon afterwards, riding away down the carriageway on a big roan stallion who sent up a great cloud of red dust from the road in his wake.
After Captain Stone had left, Anne was too restless to remain indoors. She walked down to the meadow at the lakeside to watch Isaac driving the cows up to the barn for evening milking, then she crossed over to examine the remains of her wheat crop. The undamaged part was fine and strong, ready to be cut in a few weeks, but its very quality reminded her painfully of how she had planned to use this crop. Because the wheat had been so abundant before the troopers’ attack, she had thought there would be sufficient to sell a little and still provide enough for the household’s needs. She had intended to use the money it raised to buy in stock for slaughtering at Martinmas, so that she could overwinter most of her own beasts, and so increase her herds. She had spent many hours calculating feed and bedding—for her skill at arithmetic had never been great—and when she had arrived at the same answers three times over she reckoned that it would be possible, provided she lost none of her hay. Now, with part of the wheat crop destroyed, all her plans were in disarray, but she was unwilling to abandon them altogether. After all, she had not brought the wild deer into her calculations. Venison from the forest could provide some of the family’s meat for the winter.
She continued along the side of the wheat field, turning over these plans in her mind as a defence against her fears and hopes for Henry Stone’s mission to Stafford, then went on past the barley and the oats, which were happily untouched by the soldiers. Wheat, barley and oats must be cut soon. It was fortunate that she had noticed in good time how much of the mill needed repairing. A millwright had come from Tamworth a fortnight since to rebalance and polish the grindstone, and he had oiled and tested the rest of the machinery. Tom Glastock, who used to be miller, had been impressed into the New Model Army and killed at Colchester. His wife had returned to her family at Shenstone, so the mill house now stood empty. In years past, one of Matthew Webster’s tasks had been to assist Tom Glastock during the busy milling season. He had assured Anne that he understood the work. She had agreed that he could work the mill this year, with a young cousin to help him, and if he proved satisfactory, she would allow the Websters to move into the mill house and take over as millers to the estate. It would mean the daily labour at the old quern could be abandoned, to the relief of her whole household. The Websters’ children had been awe-struck at this prospect. Anne had seen them just last week, beating a path
through the nettles so they could peer in at the windows of the mill house.
Beyond the field of oats, on the nearside of an arm of the forest which reached around the farmland, there was an ancient stewpond. In the days of the old religion, when it was obligatory to eat fish rather than meat on Fridays and saints’ days, it had been maintained and stocked as part of the home farm. With the coming of Protestantism and the gradual relaxation of this practice, care of the stewpond had lapsed, and the fish were left to their own devices. Since Dick had come home, however, he had become as enthusiastic as Jack about fishing. Together with their cousin Richard Pott they had cleared some of the dense weed at one end of the pond, so that there was room for them to cast their lines. Anne walked along the edge of the pond now, assessing the work they had done.
It was then that she heard a noise, something between a sob and a groan. She stopped and looked about fearfully. She had wandered a very long way from the house. Usually she only came this far on horseback. The noise was human. It might be a wounded soldier or one of the many tramps and vagabonds and broken men who wandered the countryside, dispossessed by the war. Then she heard another noise, like the mew of a kitten, a noise she knew well. She gathered up her skirts and ran towards it.
The woman was stretched out at the edge of the pond, as though she had crawled there to drink. The baby must have been born no more than minutes since and lay on the grass in a pool of blood between the woman’s legs, still attached to the cord. The baby was crying and beating the air with its small fists, but the woman lay very still. She wore rags so thin and tattered that they could barely have given her modesty before, and now all modesty was gone as she lay sprawled where she had given birth. The blood poured out of her in a rushing stream, like a soldier fatally stabbed on the battlefield. Anne’s first concern was the baby, who seemed like to drown in his mother’s blood. She tore a ribbon from her sleeve and tied off the cord, then took the small knife she carried at her belt and cut it. The baby seemed lusty, but its nose was all befouled with blood, which she wiped away with a corner of her neckerchief. Then she wrapped him in the neckerchief and laid him on the clean grass while she turned to the mother.
Now that she looked at her more closely, she realised that this was a very young girl. A child—younger, probably, than Dick. And as her lifeblood poured away, she was growing pale as milk. Anne knew at once that there was no hope here. This was no natural rush of blood. When a woman bled this much in childbirth, there was only one end to it. All she could do was comfort the girl’s last minutes. She dipped her handkerchief in the pond and wiped the girl’s face and hands, then lifted her so that she was holding her in her arms. The girl stirred a little, and moaned.
‘Is it over?’ she said.
‘You have a fine strong boy,’ said Anne, ‘and the pain is all over now.’
The girl’s eyes fluttered open.
‘Can I see him?’
Anne laid her down again and brought the child. Kneeling on the bloodied grass, she supported the mother and kept a protective arm around the baby, in case the girl’s strength suddenly failed.
‘Tell me your name,’ said Anne, ‘and how you came to be here.’ She must discover what she might, while the girl could still speak.
‘My name is Penelope,’ she said obediently, like a child repeating a lesson. ‘Penelope Digby. I don’t know where I am.’
‘This is Swinfen, near to Lichfield. I’m Anne Swynfen.’
‘I thank you for your kindness, Mistress Swynfen.’ The girl’s voice was weak, but she was well-spoken, with a voice strangely at odds with her clothes. Her eyes closed again.
‘Who is the father of the child?’ Anne asked urgently. Someone would have to take the baby in charge, and she had a distaste for handing children over to the cold charity of the parish. In Richard Pegg’s day it would have been done with some compassion, but she mistrusted the new minister.
‘I don’t know.’ The voice was no more than a breath.
‘You must know, for I can see you are no whore.’
The girl smiled sadly and shook her head.
‘Nay. Not a whore. Though most would name me whore now.’
‘Tell me.’
‘The soldiers came to our house. We had a small manor in Leicestershire, near Market Bosworth. We owned the land. I’m a gentleman’s daughter.’
She sighed, and her arms around the baby slackened, so that Anne tightened her grip. It seemed for a long time that the child would say nothing else, then she roused herself.
‘It was early last winter, and food was scarce, you remember? The soldiers came and took everything. The servants ran away. The soldiers killed my parents and my two brothers. And then they defiled me. I don’t know how many of them. After a time, my senses failed me.’
‘King’s men or Parliament men?’ Anne asked. It seemed important.
The girl shook her head.
‘I don’t know. It’s of no consequence. Afterwards they took me with them for their sport and kept me until I grew too great with child. They turned me away near Shrewsbury and I have been walking . . .’
Her voice had almost faded away.
‘I thought, if I could but reach home, there might be friends left who would help me.’
Dear God, the child had walked fifty miles at least.
‘I’ll help you,’ said Anne, sadly, knowing that she lied. ‘What will you call your son?’
The girl answered at once, as if she had long ago decided.
‘I’ll call him John, after my father. He always said: It’s a plain name, but a good one.’
‘Aye,’ said Anne, ‘it’s a good name.’
They sat together there beside the pond, Anne now supporting all the weight of the girl and of the baby, who had fallen asleep on his mother’s breast. A blackbird was singing its evening melody in the forest behind her. When it fell silent, she realised that the girl was no longer breathing, and she held only one child in her arms.
Richard was gone four days, not two, and when he returned he seemed worried and secretive, but Anne did not ask about his sectarian friends. In part, she did not want to know. In part, she had too many other matters on her mind. She waited daily for word from Henry Stone, but none came. There was the burial to arrange for Penelope Digby. It was a sad affair, with none of her own people to see her to her rest, although Anne took all her household to Weeford church, and the Potts came out of kindness. More urgent still was the care of the newborn baby. Mary Pott was able to find a wet nurse at one of the cottages in Weeford. The woman could not leave her other children, so Anne took John Digby to her, riding over with the baby tied in her shawl like any peasant woman. The cottage was clean and the children healthy, but she was sad to have to leave him there. Whenever she could, she rode to Weeford to see how he was faring. She sent a letter to John’s cousins at Sutton Cheney, asking if they would make enquiries in the neighbourhood of Market Harborough about the girl’s family, and whether any who might be left alive would be willing to give the baby a home.
Lady Day had come and gone long since, and most of the tenants had paid their rents or come to an agreement with Anne for labour or produce in lieu of coin, but the largest of the rents remained unpaid. James Sylvester, tenant of the manor of Thickbroome, had neither come to pay his rent nor sent any message. After waiting in vain, Anne had sent him a letter, pointing out the terms of the tenancy agreed when she and John had moved to Westminster, and requiring him to pay the due rent immediately. To this letter she had received no reply. Now the next quarter day, Midsummer, was past, and six months’ rent owing.
It seemed she must go herself and confront James Sylvester, though she shrank from it. At first she thought she might take one of the men with her, or Richard, so that she would not be alone in tackling Sylvester, who was a loud, bullying fellow, much like his cousin who had treated her with such rudeness in Lichfield market. But the men’s labour could be ill spared at this busy season and Richar
d had gone off again on one of his visits, so she must perforce go alone.
Riding Brandy up the familiar drive to the manor, she was struck by an appearance of neglect. Weeds were encroaching on the roadway. The woodland was ill managed, with undergrowth crowding in below and fallen branches and uprooted trees crushing the new growth of the valuable timber. When the prospect opened out to the farmland and gardens, the same blight of poor husbandry was everywhere to be seen—the wall of a parterre crumbled and fallen away, one of the barns sagging, her pretty flower garden overgrown with bindweed and nettles. The cattle in the meadows, however, looked sleek and healthy, and there were at least twice as many of them as she had at Swinfen. There was a row of ample haystacks behind the cowbarn and a large flock of sheep grazed the higher meadow, for the Sylvesters had no pasture up on the moor.
Anne slid down from the mare and handed her over to one of the farm boys, then climbed the steps and knocked on the door. Her heart was beating fast as she waited for some sound withindoors. At last the door was opened by a slatternly maid, who showed her into the parlour and said that she would fetch Master Sylvester.
He came, after leaving her waiting there a good three-quarters of an hour. James Sylvester was something more of a gentleman than his churlish cousin, in wealth if not in manners, but his dress was that of a yeoman or working farmer, his hair—none too clean—straggled in grey locks about his shoulders, and his hands were seamed with dirt. He brought with him into the parlour, once Anne’s parlour, a decided odour of pig. She was thankful that he left the door ajar.
‘Well, Mistress Swynfen, and what d’ye want?’
His tone was abrupt and his face unfriendly. Anne gathered up her courage in both hands.
‘I have come about the rent you owe, Master Sylvester.’ She tried to speak with firmness, but it seemed to her that her voice shook a little.
He stared at her with eyes as cold and shiny as pebbles in the Black Brook. His mouth twitched slightly in a contemptuous smile and he said nothing.