“Get me some food and a change of linen, Penninah,” he said in a low urgent tone, turning to me. “I must be down at Bradford again within the hour.”
Seeing I stood staring at him, for I was not quite able to turn my mind thus suddenly from my own deep perplexities to his, he added: “Quickly, wife. The Royalists will be at Bradford to-morrow, or at latest Monday. We must arm the neighbourhood against them.”
Then I remembered all his errand, and exclaimed, and bestirred myself, kneeling with the tinder-box to light the fire.
“And Sir Thomas?” I asked.
“He’ll be here as soon as he can,” said John in the same low hurried tone. “We must try to hold them off until he comes. They’re in force—Sir William Savile has procured three troops of horse and some ordnance and five companies of dragoons, and I don’t know how many foot, from the Earl, to come against us.”
“All against Bradford?” I exclaimed. “Such a small untenable town?”
“Aye—if they command the clothing towns the Parliament is lost in Yorkshire,” said John, setting his jaw. “The Fairfaxes will be cut off in the east—pushed into the sea. Be quick, Penninah. Some of the men down there seem inclined to leave us; if they go our state will be desperate.”
He took the two muskets down from the chimney and began to look at their priming. I ran to the kitchen and saw to his food, then went upstairs to get his linen. The chink of money drew me to the loom-chamber; John was there bending over his desk, counting some gold pieces. He looked up as my shadow fell across his hand.
“This is our children’s living, wife,” he said steadily, “that I am taking to pay a garrison; I know it well. But I think it better they should live free than rich.”
“God go with it,” I answered him. At that moment I wished with all my heart that I was a true and faithful wife to him. But because I am sinful in one thing, I thought to myself, that is no reason for me to be sinful in all; I need not totally forget my religion and the liberties of my country, because I have been once untrue to them.
While we were at table, John eating hastily, I heard a pattering noise behind me, and looking round, saw Thomas and Sam standing in the doorway, smiling and mischievous. As soon as they saw we had perceived them, they ran forward and threw themselves into their father’s arms. I felt that they were thus delighted to see their father because in their hearts—for children have a strange piercing understanding of grown folk’s minds towards them—they felt deserted by their mother. This saddened me; and then I suddenly saw my danger, and lest the children tell John first of Francis’s visit, I said quickly, though ashamed of my haste:
“John, Francis has been here.”
“Francis?” exclaimed John, and the same look, half affection and half vexation, crossed his face as used to come there in the old days at any mention of his cousin. “And what is Francis like after nine years?” he said.
“Much the same,” I began, striving to keep my tone indifferent, dreading lest my cheeks should burn. The children saved me.
“He had a scarlet coat and a feather in his hat,” said Thomas eagerly.
“And a sword and two pistols,” said Sam.
“And very long boots,” said Thomas. “And a cut on his arm. Mother tied it up.”
“I didn’t like him,” announced Sam downright.
“He spoke well,” conceded Thomas doubtfully, with an air of determining to be just however much it crossed his inclination.
“Their throat is an open sepulchre,” said Lister, appearing suddenly in the doorway. “They flatter with their tongue.”
“Since you’re awake, Lister, you might saddle Dolly for me,” said John over his shoulder.
“Their inward parts are very wickedness,” grumbled Lister, disappearing.
“Well—and what did Francis want at The Breck?” resumed John.
I forced myself to smile at him falsely over the children’s heads while I explained about the bursting of the gun and Francis’s wound.
“He dared not go into Aunt Sybil’s presence with a bleeding arm,” I said.
A reluctant grin spread over John’s face. “I don’t blame him for that,” he said. “But he’s our enemy now if he’s with Savile’s troop,” he went on, sobering. “Don’t let him in again. And you, boys, don’t go up towards Holroyd Hall. If you hear any firing, stay within the house. Do you hear what I say?”
“Yes, Father,” said Thomas dutifully.
“Can’t I go down to Bradford and help to fight?” asked Sam.
“No,” said John shortly.
Sam sighed but made no argument; he knew his father always meant what he said.
John rose and brushed away the crumbs, put the muskets under his arm and went out. Lister seemed a long time saddling the other horse, for it was a few minutes before we heard the hoofs going down the lane.
The busying of myself about household matters, and now getting the excited children back to bed, woke me from my numb daze, and when I returned to my own bed I could not sleep or rest, but tossed all night. My mind was in two parts, and I could not make one part conqueror over the other, however hard I tried, however long I prayed. A minor battle was waging in my heart, too, now, as to whether or no I ought to confess my sin to John; and although I knew very well that it would be wicked cruelty to destroy John’s happiness so, my conscience nagged me to confession, and some weakness in me urged that I could not bear that heavy secret long alone. But no, no! I would never confess it, never! So I tossed and turned. When at last it was day and I rose, I must have looked exhausted, for Thomas asked very tenderly if I was ill.
I had forgotten it was Lord’s Day till I saw my little sons in their best suits, but as soon as I saw them and remembered it, I knew what I must do. I said to Lister:
“I will go to church—Corker is gone, and the prayers will be read by the godly under-minister.”
Lister gave me a surly look from beneath his carroty locks; his freckled face was very pale this morning.
I repeated: “I will go to Bradford Church,” for indeed I had a great desire to do so. Though whether it was because I wished to be near John if he should be in danger, or hoped perhaps to catch some glimpse of Francis, or thought that in church I might discover what God had to say to me about my sin, I do not know; all three perhaps. “I will go to Bradford Church,” I said again.
“God is not mocked!” cried Lister raucously.
I looked at him, surprised by his text, which seemed unapt. Then I looked away again in horror, for I thought I saw in his face that he knew what had happened between myself and Francis.
“I will go alone. Do you stay here and keep the children close,” I said, my voice as strange as Lister’s own.
“Aye, go alone,” said Lister, sombre. “I will take no wicked thing in hand; a froward heart shall depart from me.”
But certainly he knew, I told myself despairingly; how could I ever have imagined that with a guest in the house Lister would stay quietly upstairs in the loom-chamber? He had descended during Francis’s visit, and spied on me, for sure! He knew. He knew. I drew myself erect and turned my gaze full on him, facing him down; his eyes fell before mine and he moved off in his awkward jerky gait, but he still muttered discontentedly. Eagerness to be out of his company was now added to my reason for wishing to go to church, and, scarcely pausing to say farewell to the children, I threw on my best cloak and hurried away down the lane to Bradford.
It was a bright clear day of strong frost, so that my footsteps rang on the hard ground. Whether because I was late or because of the troubled times, nobody seemed abroad besides myself. At first I was glad of this, for with such a secret as I bore it was a relief to be alone, but after a time the stillness and silence of the lane, usually at this hour of the Sabbath enlivened by the talk and footsteps of cheerful folk on their way to worship, began to weigh on my spirits, and I started at every small sound in tree and field. And presently, as a stone rattled again behind the wall and I imagined ag
ain I heard a stealthy tread, it struck me suddenly that my fears might not after all be idle; Bradford was within reach of war and I might be indeed followed by some Royalist spy. I stood and listened; the stiff grass, white with frost, on my left rustled and was abruptly still.
There was a pause; then a sandy topknot, a shrewd homely little face and a pair of wary eyes rose slowly above the stones.
“Why, Sam!” I said, laughing.
Sam scrambled over the wall and ran to my side.
“What are you doing here, child?” I said.
“I’m coming with you,” mumbled Sam, looking aside.
I knew it was useless to press him further; he was his father’s son, and if he had come for some deep reason very near his heart—to protect me, to seek his father, or in hope of seeing soldiers—he would never reveal it. “Well, come then,” I said, stretching out my hand. He took it eagerly, and I let him walk along beside me without further scolding or question.
The church bell was still ringing as we crossed the Turls, but few churchgoers were in sight, and those were mostly men, and looking very sober and downhearted. We managed to enter with the last group in sight, who were coming down from Barker End; they proved to be the family of grey-haired Mr. Atkinson, one of the clothiers who had come before to warn John of the Royalist plans. I told Mr. Atkinson, rather breathless from our haste, of John’s return with the message from Sir Thomas, late last night. He looked at me gravely, and said he knew it. “Your husband has been very active through the night, Mrs. Thorpe,” he said. Round the church door, to my surprise, stood a band of Bradford men in their working clothes, Isaac Baume among them. I wondered what they were doing there, and then Sam’s hand gave a sudden jump in mine, and I saw piled up against a nearby gravestone a heap of muskets, and against another all kinds of fearful-looking weapons with shining blades. I exclaimed at the sight, for I felt faint to think of those sharp knives being used against living men.
“Your husband says we must hold the church; it is the only tenable place in the town,” said Mr. Atkinson beside me. “Is Thorpe within?” he went on to Baume.
“No; he’s out with the sentinels—he’s posted them round the town,” said Baume.
“He learned all that from Black Tom Fairfax,” I thought, as Sam and I went into church. And at once a musical voice seemed to sound in my ear, saying: “A melancholy ass but a good soldier.”
To shake off such wicked thoughts I looked about me; there was but a scanty congregation, and what struck me as strange and ominous, not one of Royalist sympathies amongst them. There were no Ferrands, for example—but I must not think of that name. I busied myself with keeping Sam to good church behaviour, for he was apt to fidget and to peep between his fingers as he prayed, not being of a devout turn like his elder brother. Just as the under-minister entered, John strode in. When he saw Sam and myself he lifted his eyebrows and came and stood beside us, frowning.
“What are you doing in Bradford, Penninah?” he whispered sternly. “Bringing Sam into danger! There’s no knowing how soon the Royalists will be here. I told you not to leave the house.”
I had no answer for him. His seeming to value Sam’s safety so much before mine hurt me, and then I remembered that I had no right to be hurt by anything John said to me, and I bowed my head in shame and tried to gather my thoughts to repentance of my sin before God. But I could not; they fluttered hither and thither amongst carnal things, from Francis’s laughing eyes to the weapons at the door; and when I urged myself to remember where I was, I saw not God’s house, but what had happened to me there: Will’s arrest and my wedding and now John’s angry frown. Always before it had been pleasant to me to worship between my husband and my son, but now it seemed a misery too great to be borne. And then suddenly, while we were on our knees, the church door was thrown violently open, and Baume’s voice shouted:
“Thorpe, they’re here!”
Without a word John sprang to his feet and hurried down the aisle. I followed him, pulling Sam, who was eager enough to come; but soon we were delayed, caught in the confusion of the congregation, whose members, crying: “Here! So soon! God save us! Here already!” scrambled hurriedly from their knees and made for the door, jostling each other in their haste. Just then the church bell began to ring above our heads, very harsh and loud.
“The Lord of hosts is with us, the God of Jacob is our refuge!” shouted our under-minister staunchly.
“Amen, Amen!” cried John. “By your leave, friends! I am about the Lord’s business.”
At this the crowd, being honest and godly folk, drew back decently, and we found ourselves outside the church, at Baume’s side. Baume stretched out his hand and pointed; I shaded my eyes and followed his finger; sure enough, away up on the hill beyond Barker End, the wintry sunshine lighted on a gleam of steel and a flash of scarlet. I shivered, and Sam’s hand tightened in mine.
“Aye, that’s Savile’s lot, right enough,” said John grimly. He turned, spread out his arms to call attention, and shouted: “To your posts, friends! The enemy’s on us. We’ll give him a welcome he isn’t looking for.”
“That’s right!” cried the men.
There was a moment of confusion as those unable or unwilling to fight dispersed down the Bank, while the rest gathered round the weapons and picked out their own. “The best marksmen to the steeple,” cried John, raising his voice again, and at once some pushed past us into the church.
“Be off with you, Baume, over Coley way to Halifax,” went on John urgently, putting his hand under the clothier’s arm. “There are many there well-disposed to us. Fetch in all the men you can find.”
“They’ll all be at worship,” objected Baume.
“Aye; well; that makes it easier,” said John impatiently. “Go in to each congregation and acquaint the ministers of our condition here in Bradford; tell them to beg from the pulpit for the assistance of every godly and able man.”
“They wouldn’t stay with us last night,” grumbled Baume again.
“Now the enemy’s in sight they’ll see things different,” John urged him. “We’ll send to Bingley too—we’ll bring in the whole countryside. We must hold these malignants off till Sir Thomas reaches Bradford. Take my mare—she’s at the Pack Horse.”
Baume, compressing his lips doubtfully, nevertheless set off at a good pace down the Bank.
“Thorpe! Thorpe!” came a shout from above our heads. John stepped back and looked up; I did the same, and saw men crowding at the steeple windows, their musket barrels protruding in all directions like faggots in a bundle.
“Are we to give fire when we see them, or wait for their warning shot?” cried out one. “Or will you give the word?”
“Fire as soon as they’re within your reach,” shouted John. “They won’t expect resistance, and it may daunt ’em.”
With a beating heart, I watched the men raise their pieces and take sights along the barrels—the Royalists were too far to fire at yet, they called.
When I looked down again, Sam was no longer at my side. I supposed he had run back into the church, to see what was going on there, and so I followed him. Some of the men gathered there were looking to the priming of their muskets, some breaking the glass of the windows to give them room to aim, some tying scythes and sickles to long poles. All this was just what a boy like Sam would be eager to watch, I thought, but Sam was nowhere to be found. I felt I dare not go to John with such a tale, and began to search the church again, asking every group if they had seen my little son.
“I reckon I saw him a while ago, running off down Church Bank,” said Mr. Atkinson at length, coming kindly up to me with a fowling-piece in his hand. “A sandy-haired little lad, tall for his age, isn’t he? Aye, he went off down the Bank. Making for home, I dare say.”
Knowing my little Sam, I doubted this, but glad of any news of him I hurried away. At the foot of the Bank I heard my name called; turning, I saw Sarah Denton at her cottage door, dandling her latest baby in her arms, wi
th her little girl and the other children clinging round her skirts.
“Have you seen my Sam?” I cried.
“He’s gone off to Little Holroyd,” said Sarah. “Our Sarah here saw him running by, and he told her he was bound for home.”
I was surprised but greatly relieved, for since the Royalists were coming from the east and The Breck lay south-west of Bradford, Sam’s course home took him out of their way.
“Stay a minute, Mrs. Thorpe, love,” urged Sarah. “You look quite peaked and out of breath.”
“Nay, I’d best go home,” said I, mindful of John’s orders.
“Eh, what are they up to now?” cried Sarah, shading her eyes and looking over my head.
I turned; and so both heard and saw a volley come from the muskets in the steeple. The noise was a heavy crackle, like a foot on breaking ice; the sight was very strange, for the short red flame seemed to start a foot or more away from the muzzle of the guns. There were shouts of applause from the direction of Kirkgate, and I looked there and saw a crowd of townspeople come out into the street to watch the fight; and there were angry shouts and cries from up at Barker End, and I looked and saw the hillside thick with scarlet and buff coats, some in ranks with pikes held vertically and colours, some lining the walls and the frosted hedges, some lying prone, some dragging a great gun out over the brow.
“That’ll be one of the Queen’s pocket pistols your father talks of,” said Sarah, pointing it out to her little girl.
“It’s a piece of ordnance, a cannon,” I said. “Oh, look! There is another.”
“Aye, they’re a pair. The men call them the Queen’s pocket pistols, in joke,” explained Sarah.
Her air of satisfaction maddened me; it seemed as if she cared not how great the danger was, since her Denton was safe out of the fight. The Royalists were now drawing their guns down into the shelter of two weavers’ houses which stood together on the slope; they planted them to point directly at the church, and wedged their wheels with billets of wood, and presently, as I supposed, charged one of them, for I saw a huge heavy black ball being thrust down its maw, and a buff-coat stood by its muzzle with a piece of lighted match in his hand.
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