by Amy Wolof
“I suppose some essentials. Nothing too fancy, mind you.”
Moll smiled, then rummaged through her large closet and threw some clothes on the bed.
“What is all that?” I asked.
I was frankly unable to name at least half of the items.
“I think you might find,” she said, “that women’s fashions have changed.”
“What is that?” I asked, pointing.
“Oh, that is a corset.”
“Looks like a torture device! And that?”
“A bustle.”
I picked up the molded roll.
“How completely absurd!”
Moll laughed as I picked out the plainest of pieces. When I was done, I sported a smart chintz bodice, some horrific thing called “stays,” absurd pointed shoes, and enough cleavage to bring pleasure to Charles Stuart!
“Is it really required,” I asked, “to expose oneself like a whore?”
“Oh, Margaret!” Moll chuckled, “you have been in breeches too long. You are now at the height of fashion.”
“I would rather be at its depths.”
“Careful,” said Moll, “not to secure a proposal of marriage.”
“Oh God,” I groaned, “I have had too many already!”
She raised her brows but did not pursue the matter. Instead, she straightened my skirts like a worried mother hen.
“Have a care now,” she said, “even in this raiment. You must not forget for a minute that you are a wanted ‘man.’”
“But not a wanted Margaret.”
She nodded grudgingly as she put up my hair. I sought vainly to breathe in those devilishly tight stays!
“How do I look?” I asked, afraid to consult her wall mirror.
“Like London’s prettiest woman,” she said, “of thirty or thereabouts.”
This made me laugh.
“You flatter me,” I said, “for I am forty-two. But since such praise is rare—especially for one like me—I will take yours gladly.”
Placing a last comb on my head, Moll acted as lookout as we both swept downstairs. Happily, little Charles was not in sight.
Moll continued to fret she helped me into her coat, then ushered me out the door.
“Do not tarry,” she cautioned. “If a man threatens your honor—”
“He will not live long,” I said.
Once I reached the street, that which struck me the most was the blast of cold. Of course, I expected a chill in February, but not one so harsh it froze my blood! Did this mean another Frost Fair was coming?
Glad of my warm coat, I tried to think of where I might go. Carnatus’s favorite, The Ram? In truth, I was not hungry. Somewhere close, I decided, and strove to reach the corner while trying to walk like a woman. After years solely as Megs, it proved to be more challenging than my career as a smuggler! By the time I arrived at a coffeehouse, my feet in their new shoes were smarting. Though I knew that such establishments were forbidden to women, I took heart at the name of the owner carved above the door: Mistress Mary Barlow. Summoning all of my daring, I pushed my way inside and confronted an older woman whom I took to be her.
“Sorry, mistress,” she said, shaking her white cap at me, “this place is fer gentlemen only.”
“I understand,” I said, never taking my eye from hers. “But surely a lady like you might show pity to your own sex?”
With a wink, I proffered a guinea, which she seized.
“Ah,” she said. “I daresay yer right. After all, we are ladies.”
I stifled a laugh.
“This way, if you please.”
She led me to a table ringed with fetid tobacco smoke.
“Don’t mind the gents,” she said, then walked off to return with a dish of coffee. “They loves their pipes, they does.”
I coughed and rubbed my eyes.
“It does not bother me,” I lied.
At least the clouds of smoke served to disguise my presence. God’s blood, I thought, this place must smell like Virginia! Covering my nose, I focused on the brew, which I found uncommonly bitter. I thought of spooning in sugar but stopped before I did. How much misery, I thought—even death—had gone into that small white bowl? How many enslaved from Africa and taken to the West Indies had given their lives to the cause of England’s sweet tooth? No, I thought, for a minute, you can sip from the cup of bitterness. Unlike those poor souls abroad whose own spilled over forever . . .
In this solemn mood, I listened in to two men who, from what I could see, sported wigs longer than Charles’s.
“I tell you it is fact!” one insisted from his table. “I have it in confidence from the queen’s dresser, who also sews for her majesty, that the king is in grievous health.”
At this, I turned my head. We had not heard such at Jeffries’s.
“Aye,” the man continued, taking a pinch of snuff, “she said he convulsed in a fit only four days past. Says he’s been cupped, bled, and purged, all to no end.”
His friend shook his head.
“Do ya think he’s been poisoned?” he asked.
“Who could doubt it?” said the first man, to his friend as well as the room. “With James being the heir, and him a bloody Papist—he’ll be the next to go.”
At this, I shoved away my dish and rose.
“Thanks,” I muttered to Mistress Barlow on my way out the door.
“My pleasure!” she cried. “Whenever ye have a spare guinea, ye are more than welcome.”
Of course.
I cursed my dam’d pointed shoes all the way back to Jeffries.
“Ah,” said everyone in the sitting room. Aventis, wide-eyed, looked both pleased and shocked when I threw off my coat.
“Who is that?” Charles asked his mama.
“A friend,” said Moll. “I say, Mistress . . . Tanner, you do not look well. Perhaps you should rest awhile.”
“Are you all right, Me-Mistress?” asked Aventis, getting up to take hold of my elbow. “Best follow Moll’s counsel.”
“I am fine,” I said sharply. “But I have found who is not.”
Those sitting stared up at me.
“Out with it!” cried Carnatus. “Isn’t it just like a woman to keep us all in suspense?”
“You will pay for that,” I muttered. “I have just heard that the king is gravely ill. I believe he is on his deathbed.”
“Good God!” cried Jeffries.
Though Charles had shown him no loyalty, the captain had not returned the favor.
“Are you sure?” asked Aventis. I could see he was trying to focus strictly on my eyes.
“As much as I can be,” I said. “The news came straight from Whitehall.”
“Gad!” roared Carnatus. “Raise your lazy carcass and use it to get us a paper!”
“Yes, sir,” said Gad, barely pausing to fasten his coat before running into the cold.
Twenty minutes later, he had not returned.
“Where is that layabout?” raged Carnatus. “I swear, I will use my breeches’s ribbons to hang him by his heels!”
Aventis put out a calming hand as Gad—rather slowly—came in through the door.
“What took you?” his master asked. “And where is the dam’d paper?”
But I could see the answer on Gad’s tear-streaked cheeks.
“The king is dead,” I said softly.
Gad nodded, wiping his face.
“News is all over,” he said, “and papers ain’t got it yet. Heard it at th’ Ram.”
We all bowed our heads, even little Charles. I found it hard to fathom: after twenty-five years on the throne, the Merry Monarch was gone.
Aventis was the first to speak.
“The king is dead,” he said, giving us all a fierce look.
“Long live the king,” we mumbled.
Aventis left my side.
“I am worried about the queen,” he said. “She will fare well if James wears the crown, but if he is removed—”
“—she will be ex
iled,” finished Jeffries. “Well, good riddance. What England desperately needs is a Protestant in charge.”
“I beg to differ,” said Aventis, “but, you knew I would. What does it matter how James worships Our Lord? Provided he is good and just, all will surely be well.”
“You forget someone,” said Jeffries, standing. “And that would be the pope. James answers to Rome, which will wish to run England’s affairs. To make matters worse, he is the grandson of Bloody Mary.”
“Did not her son James,” asked Aventis, “lead the Anglican church?”
“Aye,” said Jeffries. “Yet you well know that where there’s a Stuart, there’s a Papist lurking within.”
Aventis sighed.
“I will never convince you, Charles. But surely you know that does not make you less my friend.”
Though the captain raised a glass, I felt a sense of unease. Why could not England’s troubles remain outside our door?
A Split Amongst Friends
During the next few months, Tragedy, taking the form of the Duke of Monmouth, intruded upon our lives. First, the newspapers claimed that he was sailing from Holland, boasting three small ships—and a cache of weapons. In June 1685, he issued a Declaration “. . . for the rights and vindication of the Protestant religion, vowing to protect England . . . from the invasion made upon them, and for delivering the Kingdom from the usurpation and tyranny of us by the name of James, Duke of York.”
So, the arrogant boy, now become an arrogant man, intended to seize the throne and depose his own uncle!
“He’s gathering men in Dorset,” Jeffries read from the Gazette. “And the worm has declared himself king at Axminster, Chard, and Ilminster. By God!” He pointed a finger at the broadsheet. “He has gone so far as to take the crown at Taunton!”
“Impudent brat!” said Carnatus. “His nurse should put him to bed.”
“He and his troops seem headed for Bristol,” I said, reading over the captain’s shoulder.
“Which they may well take,” he answered. “It says here that more southwesterners join him every day. There’s even some Scottish earl, Argyll, who has landed in England to aid him.”
“Never trust the Scots!” raged Carnatus.
Jeffries looked aggrieved as Aventis stood over his chair.
“I take it you are against the duke?” he asked.
“Hmmp,” said the captain. “I think him a dam’d fool. But he is also a Protestant, and that counts for a great deal.”
“Indeed,” said Aventis. “But are not we pledged as subjects to support the rightful heir?”
Jeffries’s dark eyes sparked.
“Not in this case,” he said.
I took a small step back.
“James Stuart’s a dam’d Catholic and does not bother to hide it. He has been surrounded by Papists—his mother, his wife, Catherine—his entire life. I have no doubt he will try to convert England. Which means another civil war, and that I cannot stomach.”
“You are not saying—?” I asked.
“Yes, Margaret, I am. I intend to join Monmouth.”
His words struck like a blow.
“But-but . . . Aventis . . .” I stammered, pointing to him as if he and Jeffries were strangers.
“It is all right,” said Aventis, giving my shoulder a pat. “Jeffries must follow his conscience. So must we all.”
“You mean—?”
“Yes. I must ride to join the king’s army.”
But this is madness!” I cried. “What if you face the captain? Will you put a shot through his heart?!”
“Never,” said Aventis.
“Nor will I ever harm you,” said Jeffries.
“I pledge the same,” said Carnatus. “I support our church, but even more, I support Jeffries.”
All three men turned to look at me.
What should I do? I wondered. Ride with the man I loved, the father of my child; or with my fellow churchmen, who had more than once saved my life?
“Whatever you decide,” said Jeffries, “you will not lose my love.”
“Nor mine,” said Aventis. “I will not attempt to sway you. Not on any account.” Our eyes met over the captain.
That evening, I watched my friends prepare for their separate journeys. I admit that as I did so, I drank glass after glass of Latour.
What to do? bounced through my brain, and, as to the wine, far from dulling my senses, it actually seemed to enhance them. If I followed my heart, I would go with Aventis; but if I listened to reason, I must ride with Jeffries. I shared his strong desire not to become a forced Catholic. There were so few Papists in England that if James forced a conversion, Protestants would revolt by the thousands. Dissent would spread like the Plague, and, as Jeffries had said, that meant another war. But . . . my wine-soaked head pleaded, Aventis. The man that I loved; had desired and bedded . . .
Groaning, I rested my head on a table. This was a choice as fraught as letting Frances go. Would I now do the same to her father? On the divan that night, I felt my head cascade with pain, and wondered that my moans did not wake the whole house. My decision must be swift, for my friends would leave at sunrise. Though I did not wish to sleep, the Latour thought otherwise, and I dreamed of battlefields heavy with men and cannon; Aventis and Jeffries across the lines, slaying each other with pistols.
The Great Rebellion
When dawn came, I dressed and strapped on my weapons. I strode into the kitchen to bid my farewells.
“You be good while I’m gone,” I told Charles. “Always obey your mama.”
“Yes, Mister Megs,” he said, thrusting out a hand to shake mine. “But where does Papa ride to? And why can’t Aventis go with him?”
I sighed. How to explain?
“Well, England is torn—again. Your papa fought the first time against that idiot Cromwell, and now he goes to join—” I wanted to say, “another one” “—King Charles’s son, the Duke of Monmouth. As always, this is about religion.”
“But papa says,” says Charles, “that religion is for the gullible. And that bishops are no more honest than tobymen robbing coaches.”
I laughed.
“Do not concern yourself,” I said. “Your papa will be home soon. I have a decided feeling that this fight will be brief.”
“God willing!” cried Moll, throwing her arms around me.
“Keep Charles safe while we’re gone,” I whispered, reluctantly drawing away.
“Ready, Megs?” a voice called.
“I am,” I said, going out the front door and swinging onto my horse.
I saw Jeffries and Carnatus to my right—Aventis to my left. With great reluctance, I took the right-hand path.
“Adieu,” I whispered to my love. I could hardly choke out the word.
Our company, whole for the moment, rode down the street in silence: then, at Mistress Barlow’s, three of us turned from Aventis.
Farewell, I said silently as I watched him recede. Our journeys would be the same, but oh, how different the loyalties! May God protect you, I thought, and keep you safe. Though my body ached to go with him, my conscience would not allow it.
I tried to dwell on Jeffries’s hat as he led us onto the Heath. Despite conflicts in the west, Hounslow was untouched. When we reached the Road to Bath, we took it with assurance, for to us, it was like home.
“How many leagues to Bristol?” I asked, just to break the silence.
“Some thirty-five,” said Jeffries, “though I suspect we will find a skirmish or two beforehand.”
I nodded. We passed through towns and villages which were strange to me: Slough, Maidenhead, Reading. After twenty leagues of hard riding, we stopped at last in Swindon. Handing over our mounts, we entered a small inn. There, Carnatus ordered a feast including four whole chickens. Once we had devoured them, we went upstairs to the usual lodging: a chamber with one bed. I admit this struck me hard, for there would be no Aventis by my side. Where is he? I wondered. Did he yet miss his friends, especially .
. . me?
With the sun’s ascent, we continued our trek west. After being confined indoors, I felt relief to see the deep green of farmland and the cloudless blue of the sky. Somerset, “the summer country,” was lovely, though rumors held it was largely lawless. At this, I had to laugh: any band that approached us was sure to wish that they had not!
Yet, there was no doubt that the fights we’d encounter here were sure to be more warlike. We witnessed one near Bristol, where James’s Life Guards faced off with a ragged troop of civilians! So, this was Monmouth’s “Army”? It seemed to consist mainly of farmers, artisans, and a Puritan or two. We watched as the Guards, assuming perfect formation, routed the “force” before them by merely raising their swords!
“God’s blood!” Jeffries cried to a rebel “captain.” “Why do you retreat from Bristol? Should you not be attempting to take it?”
“Sir,” the man saluted, “we have heard that Somerset, Duke of Beaufort, is in charge of that city.”
“You wage war by rumor?” asked Jeffries. He looked like he wanted to plunge himself into the nearby river.
“It is all we have, sir,” said the captain, his “uniform” a mirror of Goodbody’s. “Based on Feversham’s Guards here, we think there’s a large royal force about.”
“More guesses,” said Jeffries. “Perhaps if your side knew something, you would have a fighting chance.”
“Yes, sir.”
The rebel captain looked down, then took to his feet as the Guards commenced their fire.
“Shameful,” muttered Carnatus, adjusting his yellow surcoat. “A poor excuse for men!”
He charged right for the redcoats, wielding both sword and pistol to scatter them every which way.
“Ha!” he exclaimed. “Now we see what occurs when they face a real foe!”
Jeffries looked disgusted. Still, he and I joined the fray, doing our share of damage. This worked for a time, but once the Guards settled in, they did so with disciplined spirit. As we loped away from their lines, we were joined by pockets of “Monmouth’s Army”: threadbare farmers on foot, holding pikes and wearing wool caps.
Jeffries, the old Cavalier, surmised in an instant that further engagement was futile. Yet Carnatus went back to the fray, staging a solo charge which left some Guards on the grass.