by Anya Seton
"Aye—indeed—" cried Emmanuel slapping his thighs. "We'll all see ye to the marriage bed—as we did in the old days—there's a song I've a mind to sing that'll fit the occasion.
"O lay her 'twixt the fair white sheets,
Come my bully boy!
Uncover then her fair white t—"
"Husband!" screamed Lucy, drowning him out. "Before God in his mercy, I don't know what's got into you!"
"A mort of fine bride-ale and sack's got into me," said Emmanuel somewhat sheepishly. "But I see no harm at a wedding. "Well, let be—no song then, but I shall insist on one old custom. I'll kiss the bride."
And he did, a wet-mouthed smack that Elizabeth endured gladly. She liked her Uncle Emmanuel. Everyone followed suit, Winthrop kissed her on the forehead, Lucy gave a peck at her cheek. Priscilla and the children kissed her heartily, and Martha clung to her a moment, whispering, "Bess dear, I'm sure you'll be happy, Harry's so handsome!"
So Elizabeth and Harry went up to the garden chamber at the Downings'. Later they found again some of the rapture they had known in St. James's Park, and by morning they were sure that the violence of their passion was proof of unique and undying love. And yet it was not quite the same as on that golden Palm Sunday a month ago. By Tuesday, when Elizabeth and Harry mounted the Winthrop saddle horses to set out for Suffolk, she had already learned that while Harry was an accomplished lover, he had not the slightest interest in being a husband, and that routine, economy or forethought bored him to exasperation which he drowned in drink whenever he could escape his father's eye.
"You will stay at Groton until I summon you," said Winthrop from the steps as the young couple left the Downings'. "Henry, I shall occupy myself with the preliminaries of your return to Barbadoes—and" he added dryly, "settle those of your debts for which I can possibly eke out the money."
"Thank you, sir," said Harry, while he smoothed his horse's mane. "It's very good of you."
There were a great many aspects of the return to Barbadoes which he had not mentioned to his father, but with Thanet's brother, Sir William Tufton, as Governor, life there might after all be pleasant enough, and it would be fun to show Elizabeth off to the other planters. He had described the Island in terms that dazzled her—lazing in the sun on long white beaches, blue skies, and bluer waters warm as milk to bathe in, rum mixed with the juice of a huge nut to drink, and 110 work that one need ever do—the slaves and servants did it all.
"It would seem heavenly," she agreed. "But, Harry, what of the tobacco plantation? Surely it must be overseen, and the crops tended, garnered, and then sent back to England—accounts kept too?"
"Oh..." said Harry shrugging. "Don't trouble yourself about that, sweetheart; it all gets done somehow."
Elizabeth remembered the poor wisps of tobacco Harry had sent home, but she was still far too much in love to question.
They rode happily together into the City at Ludgate, then up past St. Paul's to the broad Chepe, where despite the little market stalls there was more room for traffic than on bustling streets nearer the Thames. They passed the beautiful block of fifteenth century buildings called Goldsmiths' Row and Harry glanced at them but it was not here that the goldsmith he sought resided, though here still lived the more fashionable ones. Emmanuel Downing had given him the name of a man in Lombard Street, when Harry had consulted his uncle privately, this being a matter not to be called to John Winthrop's attention.
Elizabeth looked up in surprise when Harry suddenly dismounted before an imposing shop in Lombard Street. She had been giving all her mind to the management of her horse, which shied at dogs and running children. She had had no chance to ride except at Groton, but she was fearless, and loved animals, so that her horse had begun to obey her. "What's ado here?" she asked Harry, smiling as he gave her his hand to help her dismount. "Why, it's a goldsmith's!" she cried as she saw the characteristic arms over the door.
"It is, my love," said Harry twinkling, and looking very pleased with himself. "I'm going to buy you a gift."
"How kind, but darling, we've no money."
Harry laughing swept her in through an elegantly carved door to a spacious dark room lined with padlocked coffers. Behind a velvet-covered counter a sleepy apprentice was spitting on and polishing a large silver spoon. Harry addressed him grandly. "Send for Mr. Robert Feake, your master. Say it is Henry Winthrop, Esquire, nephew to Mr. Emmanuel Downing, who wishes him!"
The apprentice grunted and disappeared, while Harry turned triumphantly to Elizabeth. "Ah, but I HAVE money, my love. Look at this!"
He opened a little belt purse and showed her a gold sovereign. "Thanet gave it to me on our bridal eve, he said we should spend it as we pleased."
Elizabeth was delighted, yet during the last days she had learned new prudence, and though she gave Harry a grateful kiss, she said, "But only spend a little on my gift, we'll save some, won't we—'tis all we have for pocket money, you know!" John Winthrop had seen that they were provided with the exact sum necessary to secure one night's lodging en route, but burdened as he was with Harry's debts had given nothing else, nor did he wish Harry to have the wherewithal for visits to the taverns at Hadleigh. His written instructions to Margaret had specified that she should labor to keep Harry close on the Manor at all times.
When Robert Feake, the goldsmith, came into the shop bowing and smiling a tight mirthless smile, they had decided to use but a crown for the gift. Harry, though generous, had at once seen the force of her argument. He then proceeded to ask the impossible of Mr. Feake, demanding for this sum a brooch of gold and diamonds. "You are an excellent man, sir—" added Harry with his most charming smile. "A pillar of our reformed Faith, Mr. Downing tells me, you will not I'm sure strike too hard a bargain as our enemies, who call us Puritans, say some do."
Robert Feake bowed again; his right eyelid twitched almost as though he were winking. "I will do what I can, sir." He coughed and opening a coffer which stood under the counter brought up a velvet-lined tray of cheap brooches.
Elizabeth had stared in momentary surprise when the eyelid began to twitch, and she saw a thin young man of medium height. His pale eyebrows were drawn to a habitual nervous frown. His flaxen strands of hair were so scanty that the scalp showed through. He was dressed in sober gray, and she thought him insignificant, except for the long delicate white fingers, almost womanish, which looked as though they would be skilled in the intricacies of his craft. Harry and Elizabeth leaned together over the tray, and both ignoring the well-fashioned silver pieces, pounced on a gaudy mixture of twisted yellow metal and rock crystals. "There!" cried Harry. "Almost exactly what I wanted. How much do you ask?"
Robert Feake coughed again. "You may have it for a crown," he said slowly, "but it is not real gold, you know, and those are but Scottish diamonds—Edinburgh pebbles we call them. In fact, sir, I'm bound to tell you the whole brooch is of inferior workmanship, and none of my craft I assure you."
"Oh, but I like it!" cried Elizabeth, thinking what a fuss-budget the man was, longing to possess such a showy piece of jewelry and delighted that they could afford it.
Her voice had been warm, vibrant and subtly caressing as it always was when things pleased her, and it was then that the goldsmith really looked at her; at the rosy face, the beautiful hazel eyes, the dark curls thick beneath the black hood. She gave him the feeling of abounding health and vigor. He felt a curious flutter beneath his gray doublet, glanced quickly at Harry's jaunty good looks, and said carefully, "If I might suggest, miss—"
"Madam," interrupted Elizabeth, laughing with pride. "Mr. Henry Winthrop is my husband."
"Ah, yes, forgive me—Madam—" said Robert, conscious of dismay that went far deeper than this trivial encounter. Was she laughing at him? Jeering covertly? Yes, both these people were. The recent depression, laced with formless fears, settled over him again. He had been about to suggest other brooches of sound workmanship, had for a moment even thought of sacrificing all profit on a delicate silver a
nd moonstone brooch which would suit her. But now he wished only to be rid of them. "This, then, is what you want," he said plucking out their choice from the case. Harry pinned the brooch to the girl's white collar and flung the crown on the counter, since the goldsmith made no move to take it. The young people went out laughing.
Robert Feake sank down on the great carved chair, which had belonged to his father—Master-Goldsmith James Feake—and Robert rested his head on his hands. The happy echo of Elizabeth's laughter rippled afar off through a mist of futility and hopelessness. A state that had bedeviled him at times since his parents died. I must get away, he thought vaguely, London air is unhealthy for me. He thought of Wighton, his boyhood home in Norfolk but there was nobody close to him there now. They all had died. The old house stank of death. Of death and madness, for it was at Wighton they now kept the old, old woman, his Aunt Mary, who had been a lunatic since long before he was born. He would never return to Norfolk. He glanced at his Bible which lay on the shelf near the coffers. His long delicate hand groped out towards it, then dropped flaccid on the chair arm. His chin sank on his chest.
No customers came in and Robert sat on silently in the shop while the morning passed. Ralph, the apprentice, came back and, throwing his master an uneasy glance, began the vigorous polishing of a silver tankard. Master was in the dumps again; it had been like this before two years agone, and worse, when Master took to talking to himself, and staring into corners like the devil was hiding there.
And sleepwalking! Give you the creeps, Master would, during that time; in especial one night when Ralph had awakened in the loft to find Master bending over his pallet with his eyes closed and jabbering and weeping. Ralph had shoved, yelled and run out of the house the whole length of Lombard Street before he found the courage to go back, and there was Master quiet again and in his own bed.
But this behavior had passed, and since then you couldn't call Mr. Feake a bad master. Hardly one at all, thought the apprentice with contempt. Soft, and wouldn't say "Bo" to a goose, most of the time never noticing what a lad was up to, or what hours he kept, never on his toes to snatch an order for plate or a jewel from that sly thieving goldsmith next door. And never a bit o' fun or lollygagging with the lasses, not Master, for all he was only twenty-seven. It's dull here, thought Ralph, whistling "The Merry Month of May" between his teeth. I'll be glad when my time's up.
And still Robert sat on staring at the floor until two panting messengers arrived at once bearing letters. One letter had been sent from Germany, and the boy brought it from a newly docked ship. It was from Robert's sister, Alice Dixon, whose husband had moved to Germany on business. Robert glanced through it listlessly, skipping Alice's accounts of little Judith and Tobias Feake, orphaned children of Robert's brother James, whom the childless Dixons had adopted as their own. Robert was not now interested in his small niece and nephew, though at times he sent them gifts. He let Alice's pages slide to the floor and opened the letter delivered by the other messenger. It was from John Winthrop and Emmanuel Downing. As he gathered its purport, his apathy lifted. He carried the letter to the shop window, reading the cautious phrases again with full attention. "Nay, nay—" he said aloud, while the apprentice looked up nervously. "'Tis too fantastic, too risky—at least I will never be party to such a plan." But after a while he put the letter in his doublet and began to pace the floor. The recurrent image of Elizabeth rescued him at last from an agony of indecision.
She would not dare laugh at a man whom her uncle and father-in-law consulted, whom they had actually sent for. He put on his wide black hat and cloak, said to the apprentice, "I have an errand off Fleet Street," and walked out the door, thinking of Elizabeth, and amazed at his own audacity in wondering if he would ever see her again.
Harry and Elizabeth had no thoughts at all for the goldsmith, as they rode merrily on through the heart of the City to Aldgate and the Colchester Road. Just outside the walls, Harry suddenly stopped before a tavern. "Oh, love," protested Elizabeth, really disconcerted, "surely not more ale already, my head's still buzzing from Uncle Downing's stirrup cup!"
"I'll drink when I please," Harry retorted, though quite amiably. "You needn't. But I've another reason for stopping here." lie raised his voice and shouted, "Peyto!"
At once the little gypsy trotted from the tavern courtyard and laid his forehead on Harry's hand. "Here I be, Master!"
"Well, bring me out a tankard, then come on. You've some kind of mount?"
"To be sure, Master." Peyto's eyelids drooped over his black eyes, he grinned slyly, and led from the courtyard a plump, dark, well-saddled donkey. Harry laughed. "I know better than to ask where it came from! But what would you tell me?"
"That I found the poor little beastie a-straying and a-starving on the heath, Master, and that I knew at once 'twas meant for Peyto, as shown in my tarot cards."
Harry shrugged again, chuckling. "I've missed you, you Egyptian jackanapes." Peyto had been dismissed as soon as John Winthrop took over direction of the Fones household after Thomas's death. Winthrop had said that Harry could do without a manservant until his debts were paid, and that in any case this particular servant was impossible.
"He'll liven up the Manor," said Harry, grinning at Elizabeth over his tankard. She did not doubt that, but she knew another moment of disquiet. Should Harry so flout his father's wishes? Would not the introduction of this unprincipled little knave at Groton end by distressing Margaret? But she said nothing, for she was fond of Peyto and knew now that he had virtually saved Harry's life in Barbadoes. Soon the three of them were trotting between the flowery hedgerows of enclosures. Cuckoos called from thickets, the air was warm and scented, and presently they all sang a rollicking catch in imitation of the cuckoos. They laughed a great deal, Peyto contributing his queer throaty chuckle, and Elizabeth put aside her qualms. She entirely forgot them that night in Harry's arms at a Witham inn.
On the morning that the bridal couple set out for Suffolk, a solemn group of five men were gathered around a table in Emmanuel Downing's private parlor in his mansion off Fleet Street. They had had wine and pasties earlier but now the servants had cleared up and gone and the men sat tensely waiting, while they eyed a long silk-wrapped roll in Matthew Cradock's hand. Emmanuel Downing and John Winthrop, Sir Richard Saltonstall and Matthew Cradock were all men in their forties, but their fifth member, Isaac Johnson, was a fresh-faced eager young man of twenty-eight who looked younger. And it was he who burst out to Cradock, "You've really brought it, sir? That is the charter, isn't it? Oh, how I long to see it."
Cradock smiled, "And so you shall, sir. Not only see it ... but—" He paused, his shrewd little eyes slid over the faces of those around the table while he weighed each expression carefully. Downing, he was sure of—a hearty man who would give backing without question, up to a point. Sir Richard, plump, blond and elegant, would be moved by both his sympathies and self-interest—and it was gratifying to have secured a well-to-do knight to head the company list. Mr. Isaac Johnson, a very wealthy man, was already heart and soul in the project, as was his wife Arbella's Lincolnshire family, and especially her brother, the Puritan Theophilus, Earl of Lincoln.
But this Mr. Winthrop, thought Matthew Cradock, was still something of an enigma. Winthrop sat a trifle apart from the others, spoke little, and appeared to brood, though his eyes also were fixed on the silk covered roll from which Cradock with a flourish extracted a large parchment embellished by the King's seal. He spread the parchment on the table.
"Here!" he cried. "The King's own patent for the Massachusetts Bay Company. And I might say, gentlemen, that few know it to be in my possession."
"But you're Governor of the Company!" cried Johnson. "Have you not the right to it?"
"To be sure," said Cradock, shrugging. "I dare say—but in any case 'twere better that His Majesty forget its whereabouts at present, and indeed forgot its very existence. It was miracle enough that we got it."
They all nodded, while Winthrop said quiet
ly, "The hand of God." In the same week, scarcely over a month ago, in which the King had permanently dissolved Parliament he had also signed a charter incorporating the Company of the Massachusetts Bay in New England and granting it all territory between the Piscataqua River and Plymouth colony, and westward to the Pacific Ocean. Nobody was at all sure why Charles had thus favored the Puritan sect he detested, and Emmanuel spoke thoughtfully after a moment.
"He meant then to get rid of those who do not think as he does, lure them to drowning or death in the wilderness? Or mayhap 'twas but one of his whims."
"I think not," said Cradock, shaking his head. "I fear he means to keep that grasping lustful hand of his on New England should any prosper there, and milk us of all that comes from it, as he is milking us at home."
There was a silence, then John Winthrop stirred, raised his eyebrows and said in his low vibrant voice, "It would seem providential that the charter is so accessible." He touched it with his thin blunt forefinger. "It might even seem desirable that it were not accessible in England later."
The others did not at once grasp Winthrop's meaning, but Cradock looked at him with hearty approval. "I see that you're a man of my own kidney, sir! This very thought was mine too."
Isaac jumped up, his blue eyes shining. "You mean to take it with us! Then indeed we'd be safe from His Majesty and the Lord Bishops. We could rule ourselves as we please, our lives, our lands, our spiritual welfare!"
"Soft, soft, young sir—" said Winthrop, with a faint smile. "Except for the struggling little toehold at Naumkeag, there is no real plantation yet on Massachusetts Bay, nor means of making one. And if there were such a plantation it could not—as I see it—be ruled by anyone's pleasure. Only by God's word in the Scriptures, and by the terms of this patent, and by English common law."