by Amy Wolof
From above, I heard Moll yell, but I and the rest of the company—sans Jeffries—wisely remained out of sight.
“God’s nightshirt!” said Carnatus, his hands actually shaking as he downed a bottle of beer. “Is she being flogged?”
“In a sense,” I muttered. “You cannot know the pain—”
“That’s right,” said Aventis. “As a woman, only Megs can know.”
“Ah,” said Carnatus. “Well, for my money, I could not be gladder that my children were born without me.”
“Good Lord,” I breathed, “how many are there?”
“‘E’s not entirely sure,” said Gad.
“Well,” I asked, “who is their mother?”
“Let’s see . . . there’s Mary, Betty, and Kitty; Berenice; and uh . . . there might have been a Caroline. Or Felicity. In truth, I do not recall.”
“You mean to say,” asked Aventis, as we heard muffled footsteps above, “that you have had a child with each one of these women?”
“Hmmm . . . “ said Carnatus, “there were two boys with one of ‘em. And perhaps a set of twins.”
“How many are there in total?” I asked.
“Seven,” he said, then closed his eyes. “Zounds! I think there are eight.”
“And how do they live?” I asked. “You provide for them, I assume?”
“Of course,” said Carnatus.
“‘E sends ‘em ‘is dicing wins,” added Gad.
“Very nice,” I said, my voice rising. “And tell me: as unwed mothers, they are all treated well?”
“Oh,” Carnatus laughed, “no troubles, for they are all whores.”
Had my sword been within reach, I would have slit his throat. But Carnatus’s life was saved as the sound of a faint wail echoed over the stairs.
“The baby!” cried Aventis, and we all stood as if in its honor.
It wasn’t long before Jeffries cam down, a bundle held in his arms.
“It’s a boy!” he declared. “Like me and my father before me, he shall be a Charles.”
“Charles III!” cried Carnatus, and we all gave a mock-bow.
“How is Moll?” I asked.
“Never better!” Jeffries roared.
I doubt that, I thought.
“She is hardy as any tobyman,” he said, “as the boy will be in time.”
“Surely he need not work,” I answered. “Not with your vast fortune.”
“Charles will not be a layabout!” cried the elder Charles. “He will earn his coin. And what trade could be more noble than that of an honest thief?”
“Dam’d right!” cried Carnatus. “Jeffries, you old scoundrel—break out your best wine and brandy! I feel I might drink it all.”
As Jeffries hurried off, he placed his son in my arms. I looked down at the babe (noting, with a mother’s pride, that his hair was thinner than Frances’s). At that instant, I found myself torn. Of course, I was happy for Jeffries and Moll, but, in my own case . . .
“Be glad,” I whispered to the newborn, “that your parents can raise you.” I felt my resentment rise not only against his father but also that of my child.
“Be very glad,” I said, “that they were both born Protestant.”
The Great and the Small
After the birth of his son, Jeffries’s life changed not one whit. Why bother to amend his ways when he had a Moll at home to take care of little Charles? He spent his days on the roads and most of his nights sleeping rough. How nice it must be, I thought, to have been born a man. I might pretend all I wished, but when it came to household matters, I was no more than a slave to my sex.
Yet, while plying my trade, I refused to be subservient. I strove to speak to Aventis only when I was forced, and though this seemed to pain him, I continued for some months.
One afternoon at midday, all seemed well with our band as Jeffries led us on the Bath Road. We hid out of sight on a rise, until—happiness!—a lone coach rounded the bend.
“Megs,” asked Jeffries, “would you do the honors?”
“With pleasure!” I cried and meant it. Galloping down the hill, I halted the coach’s progress with a firm, “Stand and deliver!”
My fellows soon joined me, Carnatus and Gad dismounting to truss the coachman up like a turkey. For once, there were no shooters on the box! Jeffries, Aventis, and I were three abreast on our mounts when the coach door shuddered open to expel a red-robed . . . judge.
“What is the meaning of this?” he asked, his accent decidedly Welsh.
“You are a learned man—think!” said Carnatus. “What can it signify when four masked men with guns stop a coach on its way?”
“You do not know me, knaves!”
“Nor do we wish to,” Carnatus replied. “The only closeness we desire is with the gold in your purse!”
The rest of us laughed heartily.
“Indulge your mirth now,” said the judge, his white wig shaking. “You should know that I am Judge Jeffreys and may dictate your fate one day.”
“Excellent effort,” said Jeffries, leaning down to run a hand over his namesake until it came to his purse. “Is this all you carry?” he asked, making a face. “I have seen beggars with more.”
Carnatus poked his head—and sword—into the coach’s recesses.
“As empty as His Honor’s words,” he said. “Perhaps his red robe might fetch a shilling.”
“This is an outrage!” cried Jeffreys, looking down his long nose at us. “I expect to go far on the bench and look forward to having you hanged.”
“Alas, judge,” I said from my saddle, “that does not seem to work in our case.”
“We outlaws,” said Jeffries, “have a way of winning the crowd. Perhaps you should try it, Judge.”
Most of us laughed—even the coachman—but Judge Jeffreys remained as stoic as well . . . a judge.
“You disgust me,” he said. “You and all your kind. Though the mob might fancy you heroes, I view you as despicable and enemies of the crown.”
“Now ‘old on there, judge—” said Gad, extending a coil of rope.
“I fought and bled for the crown,” Jeffries said in a low tone. “For my efforts, I received nothing.”
“Such tales do not sway me.” Jeffreys shrugged. “All that the king does is right and must be upheld by the courts.”
Carnatus shook his head.
“I’ll wager six-to-one that you don’t have any friends.”
“Enough!” said Jeffreys, as if he were the one in charge. “Since you’ve taken my purse, send me on my way. I am late for a trial.”
“Yes, sir,” said our Jeffries. As the judge strode back to his coach, the captain yelled at his back: “Remember—the quality of mercy is not strained!”
Aventis took up the quote, which I recognized as the Bard’s:
It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven
Upon the place beneath. It is twice blest;
It blesseth him that gives and him that takes:
‘T is mightiest in the mightiest; it becomes
The throned monarch better than his crown:
His sceptre shows the force of temporal power,
The attribute to awe and majesty,
Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings;
But mercy is above this sceptred sway;
It is enthronèd in the hearts of kings,
It is an attribute to God himself.
“What balderdash!” huffed the judge, slamming his coach door shut. With a rush of rocks and dust, it was shortly out of our sight.
“What an unpleasant fellow,” said Jeffries.
“Unpoetical, too,” I added.
“How dare he mention the crown,” asked Carnatus, “when we are the ones who saved it!”
“You all speak true,” said Aventis, “but I, for one, would not wish to meet him in court.”
“Amen,” I cried, nearly making the sign of the Cross.
Our band had many adventures in 1675, but none perhaps so memorable
as the one regarding a tailor . . . and, oddly enough, his hat.
We were trotting back from London after a short stay with Moll. Much as I missed Frances, I had to confess—little Charles was more than a handful! He cried, he coughed, even caught the croup; and, when he wasn’t so occupied, spit up all over Moll. Could I be as patient as she nursing an infant for months? Not likely, I thought . . .
As our troop came up to Gad’s Hill (a place I had last enjoyed as the “guest” of Richard Cromwell), we searched from its height for easy pickings. Though it was noon and summer to boot, not even a single coach passed.
“A fine thing,” yawned Carnatus, smacking Gad on the nose as he flung back his arms. “The most dreaded prospect for outlaws and it is empty as my stomach!”
“Perhaps its reputation is why,” I said.
“Megs,” said Carnatus, “your logic bores with its soundness.”
“Wait!” Aventis cried.
With his sharp vision, he had spied a distant lone figure.
“Is it worth our effort?” I asked, leaning forward and squinting. The man coming into view looked quite threadbare and poor.
“Why not?” asked Jeffries, nosing his mount down the hill. “Perhaps he will be entertaining.”
“Yes, sir,” I sighed, trailing him along with the others. Another rule broken: we did not rob the downtrodden.
“Hullo!” Jeffries cried as he accosted the man. The rest of us joined him until he faced four horses abreast. “What is your name?”
“Jack, sir,” the man said, trembling. His black coat was touched with dirt in almost painterly swirls.
“What is your trade, Jack?” asked Jeffries.
“I-I am a tailor, sir.”
“Well, you needn’t fear,” said the captain. “Since your purse is no doubt light, you must adhere to the Tobyman’s Code.”
“I—”
“You must ply your trade for us!”
Carnatus, sensing his chance, vaulted from the saddle. Striding over to the small tailor, he cast off a huge boot and presented a black stockinged foot. “My good man, repair this rent, if you please. I cannot be viewed in this state!”
“Y-yes, sir,” said Jack, removing a needle and thread from his travel-worn case. “It will take but a moment.”
He managed to control his hands, threading a needle, then set to work at Carnatus’s calf. The steady rise and fall of his fingers lent a kind of order to our chaotic lives.
At last, he tied a knot, peered up, and looked relieved.
“Now, as to my shirt,” said Carnatus.
The rest of us laughed as he presented a sleeve: more like a riot of green-striped silk. Jack snipped off some stray threads and retied some tired ribbons.
“Capital!” cried Carnatus. “Jeffries, cannot we take him with us?”
“Sir,” said Jack to the captain, “To be sure, I am honored, but I do have a wife and small
ones . . .”
“Do not trouble yourself,” said Jeffries. “I’m a family man myself. You have paid the highwayman’s toll and may now be on your way.”
“Many thanks, sir. Uh . . . if you please, there’s just one other matter . . .”
“Yes?”
We four looked down at him, curious.
“Well, it’s just that no one’ll believe I met up with you gents. Could you, mayhap, provide some proof that we met?”
I raised my brows. What form could such “proof” take?
“Very well,” said Jeffries.
He took up his pistols, cocked them, then shot two holes in succession clean through the tailor’s wool hat.
“Thank you, sir, thank you!” cried Jack. “Now the gents in the tavern will know I was set upon.” He gave us a wink. “And, with a bit o’ luck, they’ll stand me an ale or two!”
A Queen in Distress
I knew it was bound to happen . . . it was only a matter of time.
Will these Stuarts ever learn? I wondered. First, James I’s hounding of Catholics led to the Gunpower Plot; then, the two Charles proceeded to marry Catholics. Now, the monarch’s brother, James, had just wed some Princess Mary—of course, Catholic! And what was even worse, James—a secret convert—was next in line for the throne. This might provide a conflict with his second future role: as head of the Anglican church!
I sat in our latest Heath hideout, putting my head in my hands as I pondered these multiple blunders.
“Why?” I moaned to my friends as we finished our breakfast. I could hear the jingle of halters as our horses grazed. “Why do all these Stuarts bow before the pope?”
“Because,” said Carnatus, “they ail from Mary, Queen of Scots. And, for Chrissake, she was a Catholic martyr!”
“Her death was for His sake,” reminded Aventis.
“Now everyone’s upset,” I said, “seeing plots in their dishes of coffee. Could you not feel the terror in London? Every moment, they expect Louis and an invading force!”
Aventis sighed loudly, which I strove to ignore.
“I am in receipt of a letter,” he said.
“Who from?” I asked. Was it something to do with Frances?
“Queen Catherine,” he said. “One of her priests approached me when we were last in town.”
“What does Her Majesty want?” I asked. Knowing that she’d been his lover did not lighten my tone.
“She is frightened,” said Aventis, looking concerned. “She fears that King Charles will soon seek to divorce her.”
“Why?” I asked. “He has been loyal this long.”
“Yes,” said Aventis. “but he desperately needs an heir.”
“A legitimate one?” asked Carnatus. “That may be hard to come by.”
“Nice husband,” I said to Aventis.
“Charles will not desert her,” he said, “but still, this is her fear.”
Why should we care? I wanted to ask but managed to hold my tongue.
“I grant you,” said Aventis, “she troubles herself with fancies. Still, she begs me to come to Whitehall.”
“To her bed, you mean,” I said.
Aventis turned to Jeffries, who looked sterner than Solomon. “Captain, may I have a word with Margaret?”
Jeffries looked as elated as if he’d just spotted a Cromwell. Still, he nodded, and I rose to join Aventis at a short remove from our friends.
“Ah, to be a wee birdy above them!” I heard Carnatus call.
My own mood was much darker.
“So,” I hissed, as we picked our way through rough scrub. “After all these years, you return to her. How I regret—” I began.
“Yes?” asked Aventis, his face pale and sad.
“How I regret lying with you! And giving life to your child! If these things had not been, I could be happy now. Yes, happy instead of tormented, thinking of you and the queen, and a daughter abandoned!”
Aventis bowed his head as his hat absorbed the sun’s rays.
“I can well understand you,” he said, “when it comes to Frances. But surely you know by now I feel nothing for Catherine but friendship! I have not loved her . . .” He paused. “. . . since the day I saw you unclothed upon this very Heath.”
“Even then?”
“Yes,” he said. “The moment I knew you were Margaret, you possessed my full heart.”
“Oh, Aventis,” I groaned. His words had softened my spirit, and, in a faltering move, I put my arms around him. If we had been spied from afar, it would have looked very odd: two black-clad outlaws locked in a firm embrace. Then, remembering Frances, I forced myself to step back. “Must you really attend the queen?”
“yes,” he said. “She has so few allies and is isolated at court. A nature such as hers cannot sanction dishonor.”
“Nor can yours,” I said.
He gave me a tight smile.
“How long will you be gone?” I asked.
“I cannot say,” he sighed. “As long as she needs me.”
“You are very kind,” I said, “but you u
ndervalue the strength of my sex, and most especially, that of a mother’s bond.”
He looked at me, puzzled.
“Now,” I said, drawing my sword and pointing it at his throat. “Tell me where Frances is hid or I will kill you this instant.”
A New Class of Outlaw
“Margaret, that is hardly necessary.”
Adventis remained so calm one might have thought I did not threaten him with a point as sure as death.
“Is it not?” I growled, tears staining my cheeks. “For eight long years, I have endured your silence. Well, I am done. I wish to see my child.”
“Our child,” he said. “If you will lower your blade, I shall tell you. In fact, you leave me no choice.”
With caution, I did so, but still kept my steel at his chest.
“Well?”
“She is in France,” he said. “More to the point, Lyon, eighty leagues south of Paris. She is at the Chapelle de la Trinité.”
“Which is—?”
“Housed within the Jesuit Collège.”
“You left her with priests?” I asked.
“Yes. The Jesuits are clever—the most learned of our faith. I met a few at the Abbey and thought they were up to the task. Of raising a child, I mean.”
“Indeed. And will they permit me to see her?”
“This is where we must stand united,” he said, stepping back from my sword. “If you go, I ask the following: One, you do not reveal who you are; and Two, you leave Frances there. Bringing her back to England, as tempting as it might be, will only lead to disaster. There is a very real danger she would be forced to become—”
“—a whore?” I finished. “Heed me: there are worse things for women.”
“I must believe you,” he said. “Of course, you could always—”
“Marry you?” I snapped. “Convert? No. I am as adamant now as ever.”
Aventis looked down sadly.
“I can only pray,” he sighed, “that one day you will see the true way.”