The Winthrop Woman

by Anya Seton

  "Oh," said Harry. "That was it. My apologies, sirs, but—"

  "Ye don't recall—well 'tis no crime. Me—" said the red-haired one, "I'm Daniel Patrick, and him—" he pointed across the table, "is John Underhill, and you'd best mind us, me gossoon—since we're both captains in your father's company, and sworn to keep law 'n' order!" He burst out in a guffaw, and slapped Harry on the back.

  Harry choked on a gobbet of meat, then drank his ale with avid thirst. So these were the two men John Winthrop had hired to protect the colonists, and give them military training. He had heard Jack discuss them with his father. Both captains had seen much service in the Netherlands, and had married Dutch wives. They were both in the early thirties, and stalwart men by the look of them. Underhill he remembered had spent his early years at Kenilworth Castle, where his father had been steward to the great Earl of Leicester, Queen Elizabeth's favorite, but of Patrick he knew nothing, and was curious about the lilt and intonation in his voice. "Would you be from the north country, Captain Patrick?" he asked.

  Patrick responded with a twinkle. "That I would, young sir—but not the north of this one! The saints forbid—ooh—" he said clapping his hand over his mouth. "I forgot saints is a word I must NOT use. Don't ye be telling your father on me!"

  "You're Irish?" exclaimed Harry, beginning to laugh. "And a PAPIST!"

  "Papist no more! I've recanted long ago. And why wouldn't I, when the good monks who raised me kicked me out o' the monastery on me bum, one fine day—not but what I'm grateful to 'em. A devilish poor monk I'd a made, but I'm a fair soldier!" He chuckled and wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his buff coat. Harry laughed again, not sure how much of this was serious, but perfectly certain his father had no inkling of any Papist tinge in-filtering his company, and at this thought Harry started and said, "My God! The Arbella must have sailed!"

  "She has—" said Underhill, shrugging. "You gave the Governor the slip, eh? Your friend Mr. Pelham got on the Mayflower yesterday, much distressed he couldn't find you. But I said we'd do our best if you turned up, and now you have, we'd best be off to the Talbot. She's riding down Hampton water and the wind's shifting!"

  Before they left, Harry scrawled a note to Elizabeth, moved by compunction for the way he had spent these last nights, and he ended it with all his love and a row of crosses for kisses. He told Daniel Patrick about her too during the long evenings at sea, but this did not prevent him from flirting with the lasses on board, nor with Patrick's pretty Dutch wife Anneke who spoke little English but was plump and rosy as an apple. John Underhill's wife Helena was also on board, but she was fat and chiefly concerned with hopeless efforts to eradicate the Talbot's vermin and filth.

  Elizabeth received the note at Groton on the day after Margaret had been painfully delivered of a puny baby girl, who was baptized Ann on April 29. Despite Goody Hawes, the skilled London midwife, Margaret and the baby remained in danger for some days, and Elizabeth had her hands full helping the midwife with the nursing; and though she cried a little over the note, she had few thoughts for Harry, and it was impossible not to feel exasperated too.

  "You might know he'd manage to miss the ship," she said to Martha, shoving the note into her bosom. "Lord, I hope they've no taverns yet in the Massachusetts, not that Harry couldn't find spirits in a howling wilderness, or the bottom of the sea, if he wanted to. The Devil must guide him."

  "Don't say that, Bess," cried Martha sharply. "You talk sometimes, as though—as though you didn't love Harry—not the way I love Jack!"

  There was no answer to this, and Elizabeth, now that Jack was in London, had recovered her protective fondness for her sister. She merely smiled and went to her surgery where she was steeping a poultice for Margaret's caked breasts. Martha followed her uneasily and tried to help, but her fingers were clumsy and her mind elsewhere. Suddenly she said, "Bess, don't be vexed with me, but are you sure you're right in letting our folk celebrate May Day tomorrow? Our Uncle Winthrop would never permit it..."

  "No more he wouldn't," said Elizabeth dryly, crushing rowan berries to put in the bubbling flaxseed. "But our grandfather did, and I see no harm in it. 'Twill sweeten the malcontents on the Manor, and besides 'tis time we had some merriment. I'm sick of long faces."

  Martha brightened for a moment, looking trustfully at Elizabeth, then she shook her head. "But how can you want merriment, when your time is so near?" said Martha dolefully. She had been much frightened by Margaret's recent agonies and danger, and Elizabeth's own baby was due soon. "Oh, I wish Jack was here to tell us what to do."

  I'm very glad he isn't, Elizabeth thought. Nor was Forth at the Manor, he had gone on a long visit to Exeter. Thus it was—Margaret being too ill for consultation—that a delegation of Groton villagers had waited on Elizabeth as sole authority and requested permission to have dancing and May games on the Manor lawn as it was in old Squire Adam's day.

  Pond, the miller, was spokesman, and he had added, "Oi'll not conceal it from ye, Mistress—there be surliness an' grudgings in some quarters 'gainst Wintrups—they know ye mean to sell, 'n they don't fancy their homes 'n loivelihoods bandied about loike sacks o' corn. Thass the truth." There were murmurs of assent from the other men.

  Old Kembold, the thatcher, stepped forward and said angrily, "The Squoire've unsettled us, he hev—luring off our young men overseas to be ate by salvages—deserr-rting us ye maught say; wen toimes is bad enough here, there be some o' us who don't hould wi' all this sarmonizing 'n stinting the good ould ways—" His voice which had risen, stopped with a grunt because Pond had trodden on his foot.

  The miller said apologetically, "We don't mean fur to berate YOU, Mistress, it was just if we maught have a little ould May Fair, 'n a bit o' sport, loike we used to, them as grumbles'd forget..."

  "I don't see why not!" said Elizabeth hardily. "Do as you please." And she smiled at them. They shuffled out in a cloud of gratitude and compliments. "A foine young 'oman"—"even though breeding she's a comely poppet"—"Now if Marster Harry were squoire matters'ld stand different."

  Elizabeth heard some of this and was naturally elated. It was agreeable to be head of the Manor, even temporarily, and she was not worried about Jack's feelings when he found out. She could surely handle Jack, and as for Margaret, that poor lady was too miserable with milk-leg, sore breasts, and worry about the much-longed-for baby girl to give heed to Elizabeth's offhand information about "some Saturday games for the village."

  Elizabeth had not however envisioned quite what ensued.

  May Day dawned warm and shimmering. A steadfast sun drew up perfume from dew-spangled carnations and honeysuckle. It gilded the field of daffodils by the garden wall. Song thrushes warbled in the flowering hedgerows, robins chirped on the lawns amongst tiny pink daisies, and from the copse near the church a cuckoo called twelve times, which was good luck, thought Eliza beth as she awoke and counted. She turned and kissed Martha who slept with her, now that Harry was gone. "Wake up, sleepyhead—Listen, someone's singing!"

  The door flew open and disclosed Sally with a great branch of hawthorn.

  "Good morrow, Good morrow, good mistress

  I wish you a happy day

  Please to smell my garland

  Because 'tis the first of May"

  sang Sally in a shrill tuneless voice, thrusting the white and rosy blossoms under Elizabeth's nose. Sally set down the mugs of morning ale and pulled the bed curtains.

  "They making ready for the fair?" asked Elizabeth, drinking her ale. She felt extraordinarily well this morning, full of restless energy. I wish I could dance, she thought, but I can wash my face in the May dew, and she motioned for her red woolen chamber gown.

  "Thass roight," answered Sally, her squint-eyes sparkling. "Wat Vintener arst me to go with him, thot means he's to be me boy—Oh but we'll have a toime!" The girl giggled, but suddenly remembered something. "Oh ma'am—Vicar's below in the Hall, been waiting fur ye. He is in a taking!"

  Elizabeth muttered one of Harry's best oat
hs. She had forgotten their rector, Mr. Leigh, chiefly because between Sundays everyone did forget him. He was a pallid wispy man who had pleased John Winthrop with interminable and learned sermons, but otherwise kept to his parsonage. Elizabeth dressed and went to the Hall, where Mr. Leigh was pacing up and down the tiles, his black gown flapping, the falling bands of his white collar all askew.

  "Mistress Elizabeth!" he cried when he saw her. "Did you permit this monstrous ribaldry—do you know what they're DOING?"

  "I said they could have a May Fair."

  "My dear young lady, they've put up a MAYPOLE!" The word shuddered from his lips as though he announced that the flaming pits of hell had opened on the Manor lawn.

  "Oh—" said Elizabeth weakly. Of all heathenish rites Puritans considered Maypole dancing the worst, and Winthrop had once gravely explained to his family the lewd symbol involved.

  "Well, I can't stop them now," she said. "I'm sorry."

  "I forbid it," cried Mr. Leigh in a high quavering voice. "I won't have orgies in my parish, why they've got tons of strong ale, and mummers, and I think they're building a stage for—play-acting. They've gone mad, all of them except a few of my godly folk. You'd think us back in Papist days. Mr. Winthrop would—would—" He choked, and beat one hand against the other. "I forbid it!"

  Elizabeth was faintly sorry for him. "I wouldn't try, sir. They wouldn't heed you, and besides it might make real trouble. They're discontented as it is."

  The rector knew that this was true. Church attendance had fallen off sharply since Winthrop left, and Mr. Leigh's exhortations had met with taunts and insult. He threw her a look of thwarted anger, cried, "Surely God won't permit this outrage in my parish," and scurried out across the fields for the parsonage to muster what forces he could.

  Oh dear, thought Elizabeth, but she was determined to let nothing cloud the exciting day. And it was a day long remembered in Groton. A day of constant music from pipes, drums, gitterns and singers. A day of dancing. Goody Vintener had unearthed the gilded crown and long colored streamers for the Maypole—they had lain hidden in her attic for nearly thirty years—and everyone danced around the great painted oaken shaft, weaving and skipping the ribbons. They had morris dancers too, all fitted out with jingling bells; and the ballads of Robin Hood. There were booths with simple fairings, sweetmeats, buckles and rosettes. On the little stage a wandering juggler who had been found starving in Hadleigh gave a puppet show that had the Devil himself in it doing obscene and shocking things, but everyone roared and asked for it again—even Martha and the sedate Mary, who at first had tried to hide her eyes. Both girls had crept nervously out from the Manor House as the music started, and both had been too fascinated to leave.

  Something came over them all that day, something from the ancient soil which had known scenes like this before the Romans came, and through the centuries thereafter. Something burst through which had long been flattened. They were no longer sober godly folk who yearned for salvation, they grew wild as their ancestors before them with the spring-magic of the May. All but the rector, his wife and five of his faithful flock who huddled in the parsonage, shuddering at the debauched sounds they heard across the fields, and praying the Lord to strengthen them for righteous battle.

  Afternoon came and the glee grew louder. Elizabeth donated a butt of sack from the Manor. And the young swains brought a chair all decked with greens and flowering cherry, which they set upon the stage. "Now the Queen!" shouted old Kembold, hoarsely. He was well flown with ale and acted as master of ceremonies because he best remembered how it used to be. "We maun have a Queen o' the May!"

  This was greeted with huzzahs, and a babble of nominations. "Wait, men!" shouted Pond, the miller exuberantly, leaping to the stage. "Who best fur Queen but our own Bess? Bess Wintrup—the fairest wench in Groton!"

  "Moind your manners, Pond!" cried the Manor baker, shocked at this boozy disrespect, but Elizabeth was touched.

  "I thank you, goodman—" she called from her place near the Maypole, "But I could not. You all know why I cannot." Indeed, for some time she had been aware of a dull backache and nausea, which she ignored.

  They all cheered her, and God-blessed her, while other voices rose in favor of Peggy, or Thomasine, or Doll. Wat Vintener even yelled for Sally, who gobbled and blushed with pride.

  But Pond had his own ideas which sprang from confused gratitude and feudal loyalty. "If not Mistress Bess—" he shouted over the hubbub, "then her sister, Martha—she's fair enough, lads. Oi say we'll have little Mattie Fones!"

  "Oh no!" cried Martha in a panic, but the crowd roared approval. Two husky young farmers rushed forward and seized her; they carried her to the flowery throne and sat her on it. They put a crown of daisies on her head and loosened her hair until it flowed in a rippling chestnut mass down to her waist. And they kissed her, crying, "She's our queen, our nut-brown maiden! We will love her for aye!"

  Martha gasped and protested, but as they circled around and drank to her, gradually a look of shining wonder came into her eyes, and a smile to her lips. She glanced instinctively at Elizabeth who was laughing and clapping her hands, then at poor Mary Winthrop whom nobody had thought to choose. "Thank you—" she said breathlessly. "Thank you all. I'm so happy to be your queen."

  "Then dance with us, Your Majesty!" cried Pond, his moon face beaming. He raised his hand to help her off the stage. And Martha danced, danced with all of them whirling and floating like a wood sprite, her small face aglow under the daisy wreath.

  Elizabeth watched her in proud affection. This was the way Matt should always be, freed to a childlike gaiety. I have crushed out that miserable jealousy forever, Elizabeth thought with a resolution that seemed easy—I'll never feel it more. She accepted a mug of sack from old Kembold, drank a little and regretted it, for it sat uneasily on her stomach. She longed to lie down but could not bear to go.

  The shadows were lengthening on the lawn, and the light grew more green and golden. While Martha and many of the young people still danced, some couples slipped away to the shielding hedgerows, or behind the dovecote and stables. Two lads began wrestling under a walnut tree, others ringed themselves around two fighting cocks, and Kembold suddenly bethought him of a pastime of his youth. "A duel, a duel!" he shrilled happily, his grizzled locks flying. "Lad, fetch me little ould quarterstaff—" he commanded a grandson who rushed off. "Now who'll go me a round wi' the staves again?"

  "Oi will, ye ould whinnier," cried John Rice, the master shepherd, "and break thy pate as I ever did!"

  Kembold responded with a jeer. The stout oaken poles were brought. The thatcher and the shepherd fortified themselves with draughts of sack, the dancing stopped and the cockfighters joined the circle around the two old men, who began warily crashing and feinting with their long staves, until with increasing tempo they began to flail wildly.

  It was this moment that Mr. Leigh chose to come stalking around the edge of a booth shouting, "Halt! Halt! I command it! Stop this disgrace!" The rector had stumbled over an intertwined couple in the fields which added to the indignation some drinks of claret had finally spurred to action. His followers lurked nervously behind him. As the duelers did not hear him, he rushed up to Kembold and grabbed his arm. "Cease! 'Tis the Sabbath Eve!"

  The old thatcher turned with a roar of rage. "Ye dommed fule!" he screamed. "Oi was winning!" And he fetched the rector a great clout on the head with the quarterstaff. Mr. Leigh fell backwards on the turf, and was still.

  Dear God—thought Elizabeth as she hurried forward. WHY did he interfere—there was nothing wrong until he made it. She tried to bend down and examine the rector, but the Boxford barber forestalled her. "He'll be all roight, ma'am..." he said, feeling Leigh's head, "leastways he's not dead. See his lids flicker."

  The crowd, which had drawn around murmuring, heaved a long sigh. Kembold, wagging his head, muttered feebly, "He shouldna've touched me, he shouldna've—"

  "Ye're in trouble, ould man," said Pond very low. Of the
five men who had accompanied the vicar, two were missing. "They've gone for the constable."

  The thatcher gasped and his dirty face paled. "They'll hang me..." he whispered. He slumped on the lawn not far from his victim.

  "Naw, naw—" said the shepherd. "Vicar's opened his eyes.'

  The rector stirred, put his hand to his head and stammered "What happened?"

  "An accident," said Elizabeth firmly. "Lie there, while we get bandages from my surgery. Look after him, Mary and Martha—" she said to the girls. "And remember—" Elizabeth added in a carrying voice, "if anyone asks, it was an unfortunate accident."

  "God bless ye," said Kembold looking up at her with tears in his bleary eyes.

  "I must go in now," said Elizabeth aside to Martha. "I feel ill. But I think we should have a last song," she cried to Pond. "Can you all sing The Maytime Carol?" For she couldn't bear the lovely day to end like this in fear and confusion.

  They obeyed her, softly and tentatively at first, the youngest ones following those who knew the plaintive ancient melody.

  "How beautiful May and its morning came in!

  The songs of the maidens we heard them begin

  To sing the old ballads while cowslips they pull

  While the dew of the morning fills many pipes full..."

  When the constable came from Boxford, they were still singing and he found it hard to believe the horrified accounts he had been given of debauchery and murder, especially as the vicar was sitting up, and not dead at all, though somewhat addled in his wits.

  As for Elizabeth she hauled herself up the stairs in the Manor and went to Margaret's room, where Goody Hawes was rocking the whimpering baby. The midwife put up a warning finger and went to forestall Elizabeth at the door. "Mistress Winthrop sleeps—" she whispered, "Though 'tis a wonder with the racket there's been outside all day—Ah—?" She put the infant in its cradle and peered hard through the dimming light. "So, 'tis your turn now, is it, my dear? We'd best get ye to bed."