The Glovemaker's Daughter

by Leah Fleming

  ‘Stand by,’ I ordered.’ You’ll see. Do as I say. Just act normal and shut the door.

  On the First Day there was just the three of us, sitting as we did at meeting in silence, reading our portion of scripture. By the next sevennight word passed round and the Middletons and Brindles brought their children. Two sevennights later there was a bench full of infants, some just toddling, content to waddle around the barn.

  Their parents gathered in the chill outside in silence as we sat for an hour, not in study at all, but soon the cat was out of the bag and more Friends gathered and the constable began to complain. He flung open the door to find us sitting in a circle, as we were trained from when we were small infants to wait on the Lord as if we were grown-ups at meeting.

  ‘This is no schoolroom,’ he declared. ‘What’s going on?’

  Mall pointed to the Bible. ‘We aren’t doing anything wrong.’ I tried my false smile but it was wasted on him. ‘Just reading practice,’ I lied.

  ‘Why, you sly minx! You can’t fool me. This is no study lesson. Wait until the authorities hear about this! Out you come now, all of you!’ he barked.

  This was not the time to argue with him. The point was made, the defiance noted. It was time to leave meekly.

  ‘Well done, lass. I’m that proud of thee. Your parents would be proud to see they’ve bred a stubborny mare,’ said my uncle and I glowed with pride at his praise.

  The next sevennight they were all lined up against us; Swinstey, Carr and their hangers-on waiting to bar the door but we were already hidden behind the straw to thwart them.

  The other children were turned away from the barn but we had managed six of us meeting in defiance on a bench, each sitting fearful at this second act of disobedience.

  My heart was thumping, knowing I was the instigator of this act, old enough now to be accountable for my crime but still not of age under the law.

  Once again we were hauled out and set down before the constables and warned. This time I bowed my head and said nothing, passing through them meekly.

  We tried one more time to defeat the law by assembling children to hold a meeting but the Parson came up on horseback to see us for himself. Dilly huddled into my lap as we sat in silence, not daring to look up.

  ‘What is this mischief?’ yelled the black crow. ‘Who has put them up to such rebellion?’

  ‘Rejoice Moorside. She’s trouble indeed, sir. Yon maid over there.’ Swinstey jabbed a finger in my direction.

  ‘Well! What have you to say for yourself, girl?’ he spat as he marched up to inspect me more closely. He smelt of stale ale and tobacco. I refused to give him my eye.

  ‘Suffer the little children to come unto me’ I whispered with a muffled voice.

  ‘What, what say you?’ he grabbed my arm and yanked me up. I was puffed up now with righteous indignation.

  ‘Jesus said, suffer the little children to come unto me, for of such is the Kingdom of Heaven. These are not my words but our Lord’s. Children must also wait on the Lord on First Day.’ The words came from somewhere out of my head.

  ‘Enough!’ he spat, turning to face the onlookers. ‘This is a disgrace that your wayward daughter should rule over a household. Where does it say that in scripture, tell me that, farmer. Like father like lass, another windbag from Windybank, is it?’ he laughed.

  ‘Sadly she is no daughter of mine but the daughter of the martyrs, Matthew and Alice Moorside and kin to the Justice at Scarperton Hall. She has taken upon herself to teach our childer that lately were robbed of their schoolmaster, Christopher Sampson, struck down by a violent act, as well thee knows.’ Roger was standing by my side full square against that horrible man.

  ‘Don’t you thou and thee me!’ snapped the Parson. ‘Have you no respect for your betters, no respect for a man in holy orders? I can see where she gets her defiance from if this is your attitude.’

  ‘Are our childer to be denied a schooling?’ My uncle stood his ground.

  ‘This is not schooling but a devious way to hold a conventicle, yet another illegal assembly. Out of my way . . . you’ve been warned too many times,’ the Parson roared.

  ‘But they are minors,’ said my uncle. ‘They do no harm. Rejoice is right to quote the scripture. Would you disobey our Lord and forbid them to come to him?’

  ‘Who are you to argue with the church’s law? These minors are making a mockery of the law of the land and must be punished, minors or not. If they wish to worship there is only one dedicated place as well you know. Let them attend service each week or face a fine. As for this forward lass . . .’ He sniffed, looking me up and down. ‘I’m sure Justice Moorside must be informed of her arrogant behaviour. If you cannot control this troublesome wench then he must. I have heard enough of your ranting. Now it’s time to stop this once and for all. Out, all of you! You were warned, but are too proud to listen. Now you must be taught a lesson.’

  This time we were rudely herded into the yard while the constables went about their sorry business, smashing up the benches into kindling sticks, piling up the chairs and straw into a bonfire. How can grown men behave so wickedly? Will Carr bent his head and obeyed the orders but I sensed his heart wasn’t in it.

  The tears rolled down my cheeks. This was all my doing. Was it false pride that made me think I was cleverer than the might of the powers against us? I was only trying to be true to the voice in my head. Now that obedience had led to trouble and I was cast down in shame and confusion.

  I could not bear to watch as they set the tinder alight within the barn until it roared like a furnace and the walls cracked with the heat and the beams crumbled, the slates crashed down and all Uncle Roger’s hard work came to nought. Yet into my heart the flames lit a spark that burned into a rage and the words rose up, whipped by the smoke and stench and heat.

  ‘You can’t stop a fire. You can burn our barns and our houses but you can’t stop the Lord’s will. Seekers cannot be cowed or beaten into submission. The Spirit of the Lord will rebuild this place, this I know. God is not mocked. If you will not let children worship, then be thee warned. The children of the Lord will rise up against you and take you where thou wouldst rather not go. Memories are long in these parts.’ I was beside myself in fury.

  ‘Shut the hussy up for me. She’s bewitched with her own vainglory. I will have her examined and whipped,’ said the priest as he watched the flames engulfing our ancient barn.

  ‘I beg you, spare the lass. She is young and quick to speak. I will admonish her,’ pleaded my aunt, dragging me away.

  ‘She will go before the Justice on the morrow. He will deal with her impertinence forthwith and that’s an end on it.’ The Parson mounted his horse and rode away as we stood watching the flames devour the barn in silence.

  ‘Now look what you’ve done,’ shouted Margery. ‘Get her out of my sight. I cannot bear to look on such cockiness. We take thee in out of the goodness of our hearts and this is what it comes to! Shame on you!’

  ‘Enough, Margery, you’re upset. The girl followed her conscience. She is her mother’s daughter. Be proud of her conviction.’ My uncle tried to calm her anger but none of us was thinking aright as we pumped the water up into pails and tried to douse the flames from catching any other building alight.

  I needed no one to tell me that this was all my fault as I lay on my mattress in the loft peering out on the starry night. There would be a hard frost for my journey tomorrow to Scarperton. The barn fire was dying but the flame of rebellion in me was well alight. I had tried and failed but Uncle Roger’s voice in my head was clear. ‘Trying’s all that matters, Joy. Hold fast to what is true and you’ll not go far wrong.’

  Yet I could see that look of frustration on Aunt Margery’s brow. Now they would have to find a secret meeting place and it was too cold for gathering outdoors in the hills. ‘No more of such giddy capers, milady. You can’t defy the parson. This one’s not soft in the head. He knows all the tricks and now he’s brought the Justice on our hea
ds. What is he going to make of thee? Happen he’ll learn that where Rejoice appears, trouble soon follows . . .’

  I lay awake all night listening to the creatures of the dark about their business, the mice scrambling and scratching in the walls, the hoot of the tawny owl, the smoky fumes wafting from the barn and the restless stamping of the horses in the stable.

  Where would I be sleeping on the morrow? Would the Justice be sending me to York Castle or to a House of Correction? Suddenly the fire of my bold action was doused by a bucket of icy water. I was to be turned out of the safety of Windebank farmstead, out of the only place I had ever known as home into a strange world of danger, and I was sore afraid.

  Had I known then that this journey was but the beginning of an exile that would last a lifetime, I don’t think my head would have slipped so easily onto the mattress; but youth brings comforts of its own and the grass in the far pasture is always sweeter than the croft by the door.

  5

  As soon as it grew light I drew back the casement shutters early to scan the sky. There was a shepherd’s warning cluster of crimson clouds rising from the east, a promise of more wild weather to come. This was no morn to be venturing into foreign lands and yet . . .

  When you have never been above five mile from your homestead, it is a fearsome prospect to journey abroad. We sometimes went to market, or to hear a visiting Friend preaching from his fellside pulpit, but Scarperton was over hill and dale, a full ten mile or more, with a river dividing us. This was punishment indeed and yet, if I was honest, there was a flutter of excitement at the thought of such an adventure too.

  How strange that my secret wish to travel afar was being granted, albeit not of my choosing and under the cloud of admonishment. But any flicker of curiosity was snuffed out by the prospect of standing before Justice Moorside: stranger, judge and grandfather. What would he want with me? Would I be banished from the county, put into bondage or transported across the seas?

  At that moment I wanted nothing more than to be about my daily chores within this houseplace, seeing to the farm hands’ breakfast porridge, sweeping up, stirring the gruel pot, getting under Aunt Margery’s feet, setting up everything in the dairy; all the familiar duties of a farmer’s daughter. This would be a day like no other in my young life.

  Before me on the carved oak chest was a clean shift, my stomacher and bodice and best woollen skirt, new knitted stockings, thick petticoats, my best jacket with freshly starched collar and cuffs and my thick cloak.

  My hair must be braided tight under my linen hood, plain style. It felt like First Day, not a workaday. Everything else would go in the wooden kist with the leather straps on the pony; my parents’ hand Bible, the rest of my second-best shifts and collars, under-skirts and bodices and the precious books given to me by Friend Sampson for the instruction of children in reading.

  ‘Master Kit would want you to carry on the good work among the poor children,’ she said, patting my hand with encouragement. ‘May the Lord go with thee.’

  Then there was my sewing kit and needle pricks and Bessie, the wooden Bartle baby that had been my constant companion all my life.

  ‘She’s too old for babbies now,’ teased Mall, watching my packing, full of envy. ‘Dilly should be having it.’

  ‘Dilly has her own babby to play with,’ I snapped, not ready to yield up my wooden companion. ‘Cecily goes where I go.’

  ‘Joy needs a baby!’ Mall shouted, lifting Cissie out of the kist and throwing her in the air.

  ‘Give it here!’ I screamed and chased him, trying to snatch her away from his grasp but he clung on. ‘She’s mine! Give her to me.’

  ‘No!’ he yelled. Mallory Moorside could be so stubborn but so could I.

  ‘I’ll count to three and if thee don’t . . . One . . . Two . . . Three . . .’ The rage just burst through my bones and I grabbed his hair until he yelled and punched me and I punched him in the belly and winded him and there was an almighty howl. Cissie was bashed against the wall and her head cracked and split. That shook us both with horror so that my blood-curdling scream had everyone rushing from the cobbled yard to see who was being murdered.

  Mall was crying, holding tufts of his hair in his hand and I was howling for my broken Cissie, inconsolable. It was a sorry sight for Uncle Roger, who burst out laughing.

  ‘That’s what comes of warfaring. Just look at the two of you, winded, wounded and the poor innocent babby destroyed beyond hope. I hope thee’s proud of theesen. Is this to be our last memory of you leaving Windebank, Joy? Is this how I must recall you in years to come, clothes all awry, red-eyed with fury and tears; a girl born for trouble indeed?’

  That set me up snivelling and sobbing and in need of comfort. Dilly sat down beside me and sucked her thumb and that got Mistress Margery huffing and puffing and threatening bitter aloes on her fingertips.

  ‘Friends do not fight each other with fisticuffs. Friends forgive each other’s shortcomings. Friends make peace before they bid farewell,’ said Uncle Roger. His face was grim but his eyes were sparkling. ‘Give each other your hands in peace and we’ll say no more on t’ matter.’

  I could have strangled my cousin there and then but for the sake of the day, I swallowed my bile and reached my hand vaguely in his direction. He bowed his head and grasped it but neither of us said anything and I could feel the tickle of his torn hair still in his palm. It must have really hurt, but he did start it.

  ‘That’s better. Let that be a lesson to you both. Don’t start what thee can’t finish. Besides, we want your last hours to be pleasant, not tearful and Mistress Margery has something of interest to take with you,’ said Uncle Roger as he tousled my head with affection.

  My dear uncle was ever my ally, oil to my mistress’s vinegar. How I was going to miss the comfort of this gentle giant.

  My aunt was holding out a soft linen bag. ‘This will be proof of thy birthright, proof you be the daughter of Matthew Moorside and here is something only the Judge himself will recognise.’ She shoved the package in my hand. It smelt of dried lavender and crushed tansy flowers. I fingered it, unsure.

  Inside was a pair of the most exquisite gloves I have ever seen; creamy calfskin gauntlets with lacework cuffs of gold thread with spangles and decorated motifs of velveteen, highly beaded into intricate patterns and the letter M scrolled and embossed for all to see. I had never seen objects of such beauty before. ‘Whose are these?’ I asked hardly daring to touch them.

  ‘They were sent in secret to Alice by Millicent Moorside; her own wedding gloves, sent as a token of her wish to be reconciled with her son and his bride before the lady died. The Justice was bitter with disappointment at his son’s betrayal but a mother will always bleed for her son and never could accept the estrangement. She sought to send this token as objects of friendship and beauty. What were we to do?

  ‘They were both in prison and by the time she returned . . . well you know the rest. Friends do not display such extravagances. We don’t have the worldly ceremonies where fancy dresses and finery like these are on show.’

  ‘They’re beautiful,’ I smiled, feeling the long tapered fingers and the stitching.

  ‘They’ve been packed away for safe keeping but alas, your mother never got to see them and I almost forgot we had them until now. Justice Moorside will recognise their significance, for he must have given them to his young bride many years ago,’ said my aunt with a sigh.

  I traced the patterns with reverence, seeing the skill that created such embroidery and design. The gloves were for display not use, bridal tokens, speaking as they did of another time and another world of elegance and wealth. The colours were as bright as the day they were finished, like a rainbow of jewels in my hands. How I yearned to put my fingers inside and feel the soft skin’s caress.

  ‘I will take care of them,’ I whispered, suddenly feeling grown-up again.

  ‘Don’t go making idols of them, Joy. Think on, they are but tokens of something no jewels or baubles
can buy. Don’t go hankering after worldly decoration either, it will only disappoint,’ came her warning.

  I swallowed my fascination and stuffed them back into the bag, sinking them deep into my travel chest, hiding my sighs, but the enormity of my going was overtaking me fast. ‘I don’t want to go, Aunt,’ I croaked, feeling tears dripping down my cheeks. ‘Let me stay a while longer.’

  ‘Don’t take on so, girl. The Justice has sent for you and we must render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s and to God what is His alone. ’Tis the Lord’s will that thee stand witness to our cause within his walls. Remember who is your father. We will hear of thy witness and rejoice. It is not so far a journey to Scarperton . . .’ My uncle hugged me and I smelt the warm smoky smell of his jerkin in my nostrils. Margery patted me on the shoulder.

  ‘You’re a troublesome lass at times but I’ll miss your smile, for I see Alice in your eyes . . . Now let’s be having thee on the way before I start blubberin’ mesen,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks kindly, Aunt,’ I snivelled.

  ‘What for now?’

  ‘For giving me a home, teaching me to honour the truth and showing mercy on my weaknesses. I will write, I promise, if parchment can be spared. Perhaps we will visit each other someday and I can return here . . .’ Why was parting such a painful sorrow? Why did I feel as if the end of my world was nigh?

  ‘Don’t make promises you cannot keep, lass,’ said Aunt Margery with sharpness but her eyes were full of concern. ‘Be about the Lord’s work and that’ll please us all and honour thy parents’ memory, right enough. And think on . . . Honour the Lord and He will honour thee in all things. You will find their worldly town ways different from ours, happen. They are all steeple-house goers. It’ll be hard to hold fast to what is seemly, I fear, in such places.’

  Uncle Roger mounted his horse to escort us down the track for a mile or two. The young constable rode behind us, keeping his distance. Nan followed behind me, sniffling and weeping to be leaving Windebank after so many years, but I could not travel without a chaperon. My hood was pulled hard over my head like a blinkered pony about its business, plodding forward, not looking back to what once was but sniffing the embers of the ruined barn.