by J. D. Davies
Orders are newly come from the flagship for us to make ready to sail. Our course will be northerly, and set for the westernmost point of the great island called Cuba. Then we will endeavour to beat our way through what is called the Florida channel, thence into the open ocean beyond. Once there, God willing, fair winds will take us safe home to Plymouth, and bring me to your arms.
God guard and keep you, my sweet Catherine. Be well and be good until we meet again, in this world or the next.
God save Queen Elizabeth.
With all love from your husband, faithful unto you and to God,
T. Stannard
Only prayer and the burden of our own thoughts… Faithful unto you, and to God.
The words were not quite lies, but they were not quite the whole truth either; and the fact that Tom felt impelled to sit and write what would almost certainly be an unnecessary, perhaps even unsent, letter to his wife, an act that concentrated his mind on her and their children to the exclusion of all else, spoke of an uneasy conscience. It also spoke of one considerable omission from his account of what had transpired at Cartagena.
We have sent out scouting parties, though, and have found undefended wells in the midst of dense forest on an island south of the town.
Not quite the whole truth.
* * *
The first inkling Tom had of the trouble to come was when he saw the Jennet’s pinnace returning unexpectedly early from the heavily wooded island of Bomba, a half-mile or so across a broad channel from the port of Cartagena. It contained no water casks, which it should have done if its task was complete. Instead, it held only its crew: a grim-faced Hal Ashby, and two men who seemed to be under restraint. It was young Matthew Bradlow and an old hand from Blythburgh named Anthony Sargeant. Jack Stannard was asleep in the Jennet’s stern cabin, and some instinct told Tom it would be best not to wake him.
‘Well?’ he demanded of Hal, as the boatswain of the Jennet stepped onto the deck.
‘A word, Cap’n’, said Ashby, taking Tom to one side and speaking quietly.
‘What is it, Hal?’
‘Buggery, Tom. No way to dress it up. I noticed they were missing from the work party at the second well, so I went into the woods. Saw Bradlow taking Sargeant over a fallen tree trunk, clear as I’m seeing you now.’
‘Bradlow taking Sargeant? Not—’
‘No, it was Bradlow. He’s confessed it, too, and half a dozen of the men who came with me saw it.’
Tom felt the blood drain from his face. Such unequivocal evidence, with so many witnesses, should mean only one thing. But Bradlow…
‘Bring him to me.’
Ashby beckoned to the youth, who was brought over by Mark Ferris. Bradlow, a scrawny lad with a round face, had been weeping, and the other men on the deck were staring at him with a range of expressions: some disgust, certainly, but also a fair measure of pity. Word travelled fast, and there were no secrets aboard such a small ship as the Jennet. Tom hoped against hope, though, that perhaps there was still one secret left.
‘Well, then, Will Bradlow,’ he said, ‘you know what the bosun here says?’
‘Aye, Captain Stannard,’ the lad replied, in little more than a whisper.
‘So what say you?’
‘Nothing to say, Cap’n.’
‘You don’t deny it?’
‘Can’t deny it, Cap’n, not with all the witnesses.’
Say he forced you, boy. But the overwhelming evidence, and Bradlow’s own admission, contradicted that.
Just then, Jack came up on deck, having been woken from a light slumber by the strange conversation taking place among the men standing on the deck directly above where he lay. He looked over to Tom, caught his son’s eye, but merely nodded, then joined the ranks of the curious onlookers.
‘You know that the penalty prescribed by law for buggery is death,’ said Tom, trying to keep his voice steady. ‘If it went to the admiral for his judgement, I don’t doubt that he’d say the same, and impose the same sentence as any judge and jury in England.’
All around the deck of the Jennet, men were glancing at each other and nodding. Tom knew that Bradlow, who came from a popular family in Dunwich, was well liked; had the much older, sullen, and frequently drunken Sargeant, an outsider to boot, been the instigator, their attitude might have been very different.
He had to make a decision, and he had to make it as a ship’s captain, not as anything else. He knew men’s eyes were on him, but he felt an utter fraud. He deliberately looked away from where his father stood, offered up a silent prayer, and then began to speak.
‘There is the law of England,’ he said, ‘but we are very far from England. Then there is the law of the sea. Sometimes that is more forgiving than the law of the land, sometimes it is harsher. We face greater dangers than those on land’ – a growl of agreement from the crew – ‘and thus we do things differently, by custom handed down to us from all those who have sailed the seas before us, since time immemorial.’ Another growl. ‘What’s more, we are a ship of Dunwich, and we all know that Dunwich has always had special privileges, special rights, also since time immemorial. Dunwich was the seat of emperors and ancient bishops, and they gave us laws all our own.’ The growl turned into loud and cheers and shouts of ‘Aye!’ ‘So I say this. Matthew Bradlow here shall have fifty lashes, Anthony Sargeant there twenty. The matter is then to be closed and never spoken of again, with any man who does so to be subject to twelve lashes. This sentence to be carried out when the Jennet is not in company and not overlooked by other ships in the fleet, as we are now. Does any man dispute this?’
Heads shook vigorously. Tom was gambling that no true-born Suffolk man would want the Devonian Hawkins to sit in judgement on one of their own, with the certainty that a man so desperate to maintain the favour of the queen and some of her ministers and courtiers would impose the full rigour of the law of the land; this despite the fact that his own mercy towards Edward Dudley, a man who had attempted to murder him and perhaps committed a form of treason against the Queen of England’s admiral, was arguably even more egregious. But all that being so, no one from the Jennet’s crew would want two floggings carried out in full sight of the other ships of the fleet, all of them manned primarily by Devon men, when questions would inevitably be raised about the cause of the punishments. There was, of course, the unspoken possibility that the Jennet might never be on her own during the rest of what every man in the fleet hoped would be their voyage home.
Tom would deal with that eventuality if it arose. As it was, he ordered the release of Bradlow and Sargeant, then turned to see that his father had come to his side.
‘Well done,’ said Jack. ‘I don’t know if I’d have had the courage, or the foolhardiness, to go against both the statute book of the realm and our admiral.’
‘Foolhardiness, I think,’ said Tom, although in his heart he knew that other sentiments had also driven him. ‘If word of this should ever reach Hawkins, or lawyers back in England – my brother George, or your Master Walsingham…’
‘It won’t. We know all these men, Tom, and they trust us. No man on the Jennet would betray you. As for George and Walsingham… I’m the only man on this ship who would be likely to tell either of them. But you’re my firstborn son, Tom. I still recall the day you were born – how happy I was, how happy your poor mother was. How unhappy your sister was.’ They both smiled at that. ‘So rest easy, lad. One thing more, though, for conscience demands I say it.’
‘Father?’
‘I know how hard this was for you, and why.’ Jack smiled. ‘As I say, you’re my firstborn son, Tom Stannard. I’ve always known. You’ll not want to hear it, but one advantage of the old faith – my faith, your mother’s faith – is that it looks upon such things a little differently to the hellfire-and-damnation sermonising of your friend Drake and his ilk.’
Tom stood speechless upon the deck of the Jennet as his father turned and went off to the pinnace, intending to go ashore with Hal
Ashby to complete the filling of the water casks.
* * *
As he looked out at the distant ramparts and towers of Cartagena, Tom’s thoughts raced. His father’s words came to him time and again, battling against his own doubts about the verdict he had given. What would Hawkins do if he found out that the captain of the Jennet had excused an undoubted sodomite from the full rigour of English law?
But there was an even more insidious thought than that, and it began to torment Tom Stannard.
What sentence would he have handed down if the roles had been reversed? What if the ugly and unpopular Anthony Sargeant had been the instigator, rather than the young, lean and supple Matt Bradlow, with his winning smile?
Tom went below, took the cork from a flask of wine, drank directly and deeply from it, then sat down to pen a letter to his wife.
Twenty-Three
As she walked back to Dunwich through the ancient forest of Westwood, Meg de Andrade sang a merry tune to herself. Her patient, a house carpenter of Blythburgh, looked set to live, against the odds. Letters had come from her father and brother. True, they were more than six months old, sent at Christmas from some infernal place called Sierra Leone and miraculously reaching Dunwich after, it seemed, a shipwreck and a particularly circuitous overland journey through Spain and France. But as she turned the letters over and over in her hands, Meg had a powerful sense that both of those dear to her still lived. Even so, her father’s concern for the Raker affair seemed like ancient history now, for she had resolved that matter herself, trumping her stepmother and sister in the process. Moreover, she had seen much more of Philip Grimes during the course of the summer, and increasingly liked what she saw. Mayhap she would finally accept his offer and become a respectable goodwife again, rather than the strange, solitary woman who lived upon the heath. The only matter of discontent for Meg was the Queen of Scots, who remained firmly under lock and key in one northern castle after another, the usurper Elizabeth evidently fearful of the manifest rightness of her cousin’s claim. But if God so willed, perhaps that matter would be resolved satisfactorily, too.
She came into Dunwich, and at once saw her half-brother Ned standing by the old lazar hospital of St James. The expression on his face was pained, and just for a fleeting, impossibly glorious moment, she wondered if he was about to convey the news that Jennet Stannard was dead.
‘Sister,’ he said, ‘I have been looking all over for you. You must come with me.’
‘Must, Ned? What is this “must”? Why “must” I do anything at your behest?’
‘It is by command of the bailiffs and the Reverend James.’
‘And since when have I paid heed to any of them?’
Ned swallowed hard, and for a moment, Meg felt a fleeting sympathy for him. His mother and sister would have compelled him to do this; Edward Stannard had not an ounce of initiative in his body, and precious little more of courage.
‘It is better if you come, sister.’
Curiosity got the better of her, and she fell in beside him, increasing his discomfort by making no attempt at all to engage him in conversation. They turned north to follow the course of the ancient Palesdyke, then walked along Maison Dieu Lane, past the ruinous hospital of that name and the Stannard house where Meg had grown up. A left turn took them down to the harbour, under the lee of Cock Hill, and then toward Hen Hill, passing the remains of St Francis’s chapel.
Meg could now see a substantial crowd assembled on the low summit of Hen Hill, in truth no more than an ancient, grass-covered sand dune barely deserving its name, and suddenly had an inkling of what was about to happen.
They climbed up the well-worn path. Perhaps two score of curious townspeople stood around, murmuring to each other as Meg approached. She knew almost all of them well, and knew with almost complete accuracy which ones would send sympathetic glances her way and which would shun her; or at least, would shun her until they or their children needed a cure, at which time they would crawl back to her, making out that this day had never happened. There, too, stood Thomas Cowper and John Bradley, bailiffs of Dunwich for the year, and next to them, William James, the stooped, hawk-nosed reforming rector of St Peter’s, attired in austere black and white vestments.
Meg had no cause to fear these men. She had recently cured Cowper’s son of a sweating sickness, Bradley was a mere cipher, and while James might chide her for her backsliding on those Sundays when she deigned to attend St Peter’s to avoid falling foul of recusancy fines, she knew full well that his superior, Archdeacon Wendon, sympathised with the old ways. But then she saw the other party, standing in the shadow of the ruinous windmill that had stood upon Hen Hill since time immemorial. It consisted of her stepmother Jennet, her half-sister Mary, and Hugh Ebbes.
Mary, grinning broadly, tried desperately to catch Meg’s eye, but instead, she fixed her gaze upon Ebbes. He looked at the ground, shuffling his feet like a small boy caught in an orchard.
Finally, she looked upon the small pyre that had been erected on the summit of Hen Hill. It reminded her of the one that had consumed the heretic William Flower at Westminster. But whereas that, perhaps, had been God’s will, the opposite was true of the travesty that was about to be played out that afternoon in Dunwich. For placed on top of the pyre was a large panel, or rather set of conjoined panels. Some of the whitewash had been cleaned off, revealing the familiar face of the Devil of the Doom.
‘You are not here to face trial, Margaret de Andrade, sometime Stannard,’ said the Reverend James, clearly revelling in his moment. Thwarted ambition seeped out of every pore of this man, who considered himself worthy of being an archdeacon at the very least.
‘Then why, precisely, am I here, sir?’
‘To witness holy work done in God’s name. God’s, and that of her blessed majesty Elizabeth, our queen.’
‘I doubt if Queen Elizabeth concerns herself overmuch with what happens on Hen Hill in Dunwich, sir.’
‘Careful, Meg,’ said Bailiff Cowper, as representative of the secular arm of the queen’s authority. In normal circumstances, he was a friend, cousin to the forthright widow who had been the Stannards’ servant when Meg was a child.
‘This,’ said William James, pointing to the pyre and turning upon his heel so he could emphasise the point to every man, woman and child on the hill, ‘is the so-called Doom of Dunwich, a monstrous piece of popish idolatry that once held the people of these parts in its superstitious thrall. Do you deny, Margaret de Andrade, that since the destruction of St John’s church, where it was housed, you have hidden this vile, beastly and ungodly relic, contrary to all the injunctions issued by the Queen’s majesty and her bishops?’
‘And if I have,’ said Meg defiantly, ‘what crime is it?’
‘It is a crime against God’s holy law, and against His will,’ said James, looking around his makeshift congregation for approval. To his obvious annoyance, there was very little, other than from Jennet and Mary Stannard.
‘But what crime is it against the law of the land, Master James?’
‘No law has been broken,’ said William Cowper. ‘It has been enjoined by Parliament and convocation alike that those concealing holy relics – that is, superstitious and proscribed items – should surrender them. But the concealment in itself is no crime, and there are no penalties under the law.’
‘It is a crime against God’s law!’ insisted James. ‘As for the penalty, Margaret de Andrade, that will be the damnation of your immortal soul! You will burn in hell, woman!’
‘Mayhap one of us will burn, sir. Shall we toss a coin for it?’
James’s face was puce. ‘You are impudent, woman!’ he yelled. ‘It is not fitting from one of your sex!’
‘Father,’ said Cowper, ‘remember why we are here.’
William James recovered himself and made to speak again, but Meg pre-empted him.
‘I have observed, Master James,’ she said, ‘that “impudence” is a word often used to describe the truths that some fo
lk do not wish to hear. Well then, let me be a little more impudent, and say this. The Doom painting was venerated and loved in this town for centuries. The old faith was followed in Dunwich for countless centuries more. My life has not been long, but Lord, haven’t we seen more change in my time than in all those times previous? Who, then, is to say that things will not change again, and that folk will venerate the likes of Doom paintings once more?’
‘Treason!’ screamed a young woman’s voice. Meg felt a stab of pain and anger when she realised it was her half-sister Mary. ‘She envisions the death of the queen! That is treason!’
James nodded vigorously, but Cowper raised a hand. ‘The widow de Andrade has made no mention of the queen’s blessed majesty,’ he said. ‘Does any other here believe that such was the import of what she said?’
Men and women looked at each other, but with the exceptions of William James and Meg’s own family, none nodded.
‘Was it your intent, Meg?’ asked Cowper.
‘Sir,’ said Meg, bowing her head, ‘I would never demean, nor even dream of speaking treason against our lawful sovereign, the queen’s most excellent majesty.’
Her hands were behind her back, concealed by her kirtle, so none saw that her fingers were crossed; nor did any know which queen she had in her thoughts.
‘Well, then,’ said Cowper reluctantly, ‘let’s get this done with.’