by Ann Swinfen
‘Edgemont,’ he gasped. ‘And the new fellow. On the way here.’
There was a shocked silence.
‘Where have you come from?’ Gideon was holding Ben by the shoulder, steadying him. ‘We thought you were in an army camp.’
‘We was, but it’s nobbut a mile t’other side of Crowthorne. We’re sent back here today. Them drainers are coming back, and we’ve to keep you in order.’
He gave a sickly smile around at all these people who had become his friends during the winter.
‘But what has that to do with the Reverend Edgemont?’
‘Nothing. But we was stopped in Crowthorne for our dinner, and there was a whisper going round that a wedding was to be held here today. Mebbe someone told their preacher, mebbe it’s just chance, but he and the new man, they’ve set out to come here.’
He looked round wildly. ‘If they catch you–’
‘Have you run all the way?’
‘Aye. I had to warn you.’
Already the women were gathering up the remains of the feast, shovelling food and dishes together hugger-mugger into their baskets. Toby pushed past Ben to roll a cask of ale out into the street and along it to the smithy, which was nearest. After a moment of panic, everyone was clearing away all signs of our wedding celebration.
Gideon turned to Amyas. ‘Was everything left as before in the church?’
‘Aye,’ he said. ‘I even removed the stubs of the candles.’
‘Then you’d best go back to Will’s and keep out of sight.’
‘Aye.’ Amyas laid his hand on my arm. ‘I am sorry it must end like this, Mercy. I may not see you again, for I shall be away at dawn tomorrow.’
I took his hand and pressed it between both of mine. ‘I shall be grateful to you all the days of my life. Without you, we could not have been wed.’
He hurried off to the smithy. All around us people were rushing about, piling the trestle tables back against the sides of the barn, sweeping any fallen crumbs into dark corners. All the children had been hustled away home, many of them crying.
‘Gideon! Mercy! What are you doing still here? You must go! Anyone may see that you are the bride and bridesman.’ It was Jack, urging us forward out of the barn. ‘Here’s Nehemiah with your horse.’
Gideon leapt into the saddle and reached a hand down to me. ‘Put your foot on mine,’ he said.
I hitched up my skirts and did as I was bid. Jack seized my other foot and heaved me up. I thought I would pitch head first over Blaze’s back and land in the mud on the other side, but after a scramble I managed to regain my position sitting in front of the saddle, though the blanket had fallen to the ground. By now it was raining hard, so when Jack thrust the blanket up to me I wrapped it around my shoulders to protect Mary Dillingworth’s shawl.
‘Where is Kitty?’ I cried. ‘We cannot leave her behind.’
‘Alice has sent her home,’ Jack said. ‘Nehemiah will follow when we have all straight.’
‘Ben,’ I said. ‘Take care of Ben. God be praised, he came in time to warn us.’
‘We must go, Mercy,’ Gideon said. ‘Now.’ He turned Blaze’s head to the lane and suddenly we were flying along, through the rain, great gouts of mud flung up behind us from the horse’s hooves.
I was suddenly frightened. Everything had happened so quickly. It was like slipping from a joyful dream into a nightmare. We were going so fast I thought I might slip off. One hand clutched the blanket, with the other I grabbed hold of Blaze’s mane, but it was slippery with the wet and offered little support. I began to feel myself sliding.
‘Gideon, I’m falling!’ My shriek seemed to fly away and be left behind us, but he must have heard me, for he took one hand off the reins and gripped me firmly about the waist.
Ahead I could just make out through the sheeting rain a faint glimmer of light from the farm. Mistress Morton must have lit candles against the early dark brought on by the storm. As we drew nearer, I saw Kitty just running from the gate to the door. At least she was safe, although she would be soaked from head to toe.
Gideon took his arm from my waist to lean over and unlatch the gate. Blaze pushed his way through, as anxious as we were to escape the storm. He slithered to a stop beside the door, breathing heavily, a line of foam on his lips. It had been a hard ride, carrying two of us at that speed through the clogged earth of the lane. Gideon leapt down and held out his arms to take me by the waist. I let myself slide down the horse’s wet side and my husband held me close.
‘You are safe now,’ he said.
I laughed a little shakily. ‘I hope every one in the village is so. This is a wedding no one will ever forget.’
‘I will not, for one,’ he said, and I saw that he did not look fearful. He seemed almost to be excited. Then he drew me close into his arms, with the rain half drowning us, and I forgot everything else.
Somewhere, a blackbird was singing. The square of window showed dark grey, barely discernible from the surrounding wall, yet already a blackbird was singing. I have always loved blackbirds, for they seem to delight in the music they make, the first of the birds to burst into song before ever there is a sign that the sun is returning to grace the earth. And in the evening, long after the sun has sunk below the horizon, I will hear a blackbird somewhere about the farm, still singing as though life itself is too short to express the joy which their frail bodies can barely contain. I wondered whether it was the same blackbird who had followed us on the way to our wedding, and who now sang a triumphant epithalamion over our marriage bed.
Gideon was still asleep. He lay on his side, turned towards me, his hand resting on my waist, his breathing quiet and steady, after a night of such passion that I still felt breathless. Yet now he looked young and vulnerable, as he had when I had cared for him after he was beaten nearly to death. My heart twisted at the remembrance. His hair had grown long while he was away and a lock fell across his face, stirring slightly as he breathed. As gently as I could, I brushed it back.
Not gently enough. His arm slid round my waist and he drew me to him, though his eyes remained closed.
‘I did not mean to wake you,’ I whispered.
He smiled, but did not open his eyes. ‘I was awake. I wondered how long you would listen to the blackbird.’
‘He is still singing.’
‘Aye. Let him rejoice, for my love is mine and I am hers, and none shall part us.’
He opened his eyes. Our faces were but inches apart. ‘Is all well with you, my beloved, on this, the first morning of our wedded life?’
I ran my fingers down his back, feeling the muscles beneath the skin and the curve of his spine.
‘All is well.’
I kissed him softly on the lips, and felt my whole body tremble.
‘Ah, Mercy, you set me on fire!’
He raised himself on his elbow and looked down at me. The lock of hair fell forward again, and I reached up to brush it back, but never had the chance.
We had decided to remain quietly at Turbary Holm while the Reverend Webberly made himself known to the village. Sooner or later he was certain to come to the farm, if he was conscientious about his parish duties. Somehow we must prevent news of Gideon’s presence reaching the Reverend Edgemont in Crowthorne.
‘I think I must change my name,’ Gideon said. ‘If word spreads outside the village that one Gideon Clarke is living at Turbary Holm, we may expect retribution. What do you say to my taking my mother’s unmarried name?’
‘Perhaps it would be wise.’ I was just growing accustomed to thinking of myself as Mistress Clarke. Who would I now become?
‘What was her name?’
‘Margaret Chandler.’
Gideon rarely spoke of his parents, who had died of the plague within days of each other, just a few weeks after he had gone up to Oxford. I reached out and touched his arm, leaving a powdering of flour on his sleeve, for I was making pastry.
‘Very well,’ I said, ‘we shall be Master and Mistress Cha
ndler as far as the outer world is concerned, but Master and Mistress Clarke in our hearts. We must alert all the village.’
‘If we have not already been mentioned by name to the new rector,’ he said. ‘I fear we lay an unfair burden on our neighbours, forcing them to keep our secret. Even the children.’
‘They will be glad to keep our secret. They have not forgotten little Huw’s christening and what you suffered for holding the service. You could have died. Nor have they forgotten all you did during the flood. As for the children, they have learned to watch their tongues. Even little Rob Higson did not give us away to the drainers last year, despite their striking him.’
‘I know they will do their best,’ Gideon said, ‘but we churchmen have a way of wheedling things out of people.’ He gave a self-mocking smile. ‘I am worried I may put you in danger.’
‘We are one flesh now, dear heart. You cannot shake me off, try how you may.’
So we became known as Master and Mistress Chandler, as far as outsiders were concerned. The Reverend Webberly, it soon became clear, was an outsider. Gideon now attended church with the rest of the family on Sundays, for it would soon have been noticed, had he stayed away. He allowed his hair to remain rather long, where before he had worn it quite short, and I altered some of my father’s clothes to fit him, so that he dressed like a yeoman farmer instead of a gentleman. They were, in any case, more practical for his new life. He soon came to like the cows, but had little time for the sheep. I saw that when it was the season for shearing, I should need to ask for help once again from Jack and Toby, for Nehemiah and I between us would not be able to manage.
I was very frightened the first time we attended church with the Reverend Webberly conducting the service. Gideon turned up his collar and wore a woollen cap pulled well down until we entered the church. As the leading family in the parish, we occupied the front pew, directly under the gaze of the rector when he preached, but I soon realised he was a man too self absorbed to pay us any attention. A Puritan out of the same mould as Edgemont, he was perhaps less violent in his sermons, although they lasted quite as long. The entire village had been told of our assumed name and soon made perhaps a little too much of using it as often as possible within Webberly’s hearing, but I do not think he noticed.
The days passed peacefully enough. After the near disaster at our wedding celebrations, life settled down to its regular pattern of the farming year. We were all worried that the yield of the crops this year would be meagre, for the weather continued very cold and wet, more like November than early summer, so the crops grew thin and poor. The Dutchmen worked hard at their vegetable growing in their specially raised beds, rich in manure and covered with straw against the cold. Many in the village laughed at this, saying that carrots and leeks and cabbages did not need to be tucked up in bed like sick maidens, but in truth the vegetables did grow well. Hans invited me to examine his own plot.
‘See now, Mercy,’ he said. (I had at last persuaded him to call me Mercy.) ‘Put your hand in here.’
He lifted part of the blanket of straw and urged me to push my hand into the soil between the rows of tightly packed cabbages. My hands were cold and chapped, and I had no wish to be thrusting them into cold wet earth, but I did as I was bid.
‘But it is warm!’ I said. Indeed the soil was far warmer than the surrounding air.
‘It is the manure in the soil,’ he explained. ‘As it . . . dies?’ He looked at me, questioning.
‘Rots down,’ I said.
‘Rots down, it gives off heat. In our big farms at home we can grow fruits in heated buildings, like–’ He searched for the words. ‘Like the south. Italy. Southern France. Even in our cold Nederlands. Peaches. Grapes.’
‘Could you do that here?’
He shrugged and smiled. ‘Too much money. Only the big landowners. You keep stoves burning all the time for heat.’
I could not imagine us having such a heated building on Turbary Holm, just for early and rare fruits, when we could hardly afford to heat the house unless we could cut turf freely again. Nevertheless I was impressed by the Dutchmen’s vegetable beds. When a very late frost blasted much of the crops in the fields, those vegetables remained safe and warm in their heated beds.
Tom wrote from London to say that he and his friend Anthony had paid a visit to Lincoln’s Inn and tackled the lawyer James Blakiston, who had refused to help them find the charter, even revealing that he was retained by a company of adventurers, though Tom did not know whether it was those who were trying to steal our land. These companies operated in much secrecy, so that it was difficult to know who they were. They instructed men like van Slyke and other surveyors through an intermediary, so I suppose even he did not know who they were. If the case ever came to court, this could prove a difficulty for us.
Nothing had yet been seen in the village of either Piet van Slyke or any of the men who worked for him, but it could only be a matter of time. News trickled in from Crowthorne. Van Slyke had been surveying the fenland over to the north of Crowthorne. He had discovered how their pumping mill had been stopped at the time of the flood and it seemed they had not been too gentle about it. Not understanding how the mechanism worked, they had smashed it with heavy hammers and broken the framework of the sails. Van Slyke, it appeared, was bent on retribution. Will, who had some knowledge of simple machinery, had stopped the pump on our land without damaging it, although he told us that he had removed one small but essential piece, which meant that the pump could not be started again until it was replaced. We had done no damage to the sails. The flood and the winter weather had accomplished that for us. I did not know how van Slyke could have expected them to survive without regular visits, but perhaps he had been occupied in other drainage schemes, in the Low Countries or elsewhere in England. In any case, the flood would have kept him at bay for weeks.
Ben had been followed back by the rest of the soldiers who had been billeted in the village and who had shared the time of the flood with us in the church. The day after our wedding, our own five soldiers returned to Turbary Holm, and I was glad that Kitty was well again, for the feeding of such a large household took up many hours and put a strain on our supplies of provisions. Nehemiah taught the soldiers the art of trapping eels, although they did not greatly care for eating them, and all the men about the farm, including Gideon, went wild fowling. The birds were fewer than usual, however, due to the cold weather and the lack of food. Those they did bring home were thin and wasted.
I had planted my own small vegetable plot as usual near the house, but everything was very slow to grow. Perhaps next year I would ask Hans to show me how to grow them the Dutch way. In the meantime, to augment our food supplies, I traded one of last year’s fleeces with Hans in return for a supply of whatever vegetables he had ready for the next six weeks. Griet began at once to spin the wool, which she would use to knit warm clothes for the family in readiness for the winter.
‘I shall ask Hans to build me a loom,’ she said, one day when she had come to collect the three pullets I had promised her, in return for her help when Kitty was ill. ‘He has never made one, but Ned Broadley has said he will show him. He has some ends of wood Hans can use. Then I shall be able to weave blankets. Now, we make do with old sacking.’
I would have liked to offer her blankets, but with my full house, I had none to spare.
‘Little by little, you will make a home,’ I said, passing her a piece of the spice cake I had made that morning. We were sitting in the kitchen, close to the cooking fire, for although it was early June it was too cold to sit outside.
‘Jack says that the drainers are coming to the village tomorrow.’ She blushed as she spoke, for it was awkward for her, speaking of the scheme which had brought her here and at the same time wrought so much damage for us.
I stiffened. Van Slyke would undoubtedly be angry when he discovered just how much damage had been done to his drainage works. Most of it was due to the flood, but we had assisted a littl
e in the weeks since the flood had gone down, shovelling earth back into the ditches to block them, ensuring that the Fen returned to its ancient ways, absorbing the water from the higher ground and providing us with food and fuel. That very day Gideon and Nehemiah had gone out to the moss, where Gideon was to have his first lesson in the correct way to lift peat for fuel.
When they returned late in the afternoon with a barrow load of peat, I went out to the yard to meet them and told them what Griet had said about van Slyke. As Jacob wound about our legs, Nehemiah spat contemptuously on the ground. He had good reason to hate the men who had cracked his skull, stolen his eels, and burned down his home.
‘Let them try their tricks again,’ he said, ‘and we shall be waiting for them.’
‘Still no word from Tom about the charter.’ Gideon frowned. ‘We do not want to put ourselves too much in the wrong. It could jeopardise our case in court.’
I knew he would not be in favour of violence, but with men like van Slyke, sometimes violence is the only language they understand. Last year I had been an unmarried girl and could join the men in attacking the drainage works. Now, as a married woman, I might need to be more circumspect.
‘I wonder whether we should approach Sir John again,’ I said slowly. ‘Perhaps if I went to see him–’
‘Surely you do not want to set foot in that house again!’ Gideon stared at me. ‘After your treatment by the Dillingworths.’
‘I am not sure. I think someone should speak to him. Tell him that we are now looking for the charter ourselves and urge him to help us to take the case to court. It would be too risky for you to go. He might recognise you. As Tom’s sister, I think perhaps I should go.’
‘I do not like the idea of you going there, to be insulted.’ He took my hand and gripped it hard.
‘I am not afraid,’ I said, though I was not as brave as I sounded. It would be unpleasant to return to the manor house, which I had left so thankfully before. ‘Let us see first what van Slyke intends. Then we may decide.’