Believe or Die (2 page)

“Forgive me sir. I am keeping you from your bed,” replied Michael.

“No, not a bit of it. These days I sleep but little, sometimes not at all. I think I shall have another pot of ale and a pipe. Join me if you’ve a mind and we shall put the world to rights.”

“That would be pleasant. What aspect of the world’s woes shall we discus?”

“Well now. If it be not prying, how is it that a wandering Jew comes to be in these parts? You need not answer, it is merely an old man’s curiosity.”

“Curiosity is something we both share I’m thinking. But as to myself, I am seeking a physician, a man of great knowledge and immense humanity.”

“Are you ill Michael?”

“No, not I. This man, if indeed he still lives, has dedicated his life to the study and treatment of those poor unfortunates who suffer from a certain malady.”

“Will you speak of this malady?”

“I would rather not my friend. Please do not be offended. It is just that sometimes the fear of a thing, particularly an affliction, is often more dangerous than the thing itself.”

“Oh that it can be, indeed it can be so.”

“Do you wish me to leave?” asked Michael.

“Why should I wish such a thing?”

“Are you not afraid that I might infect you, bring a great pestilence upon your house?”

“Will you?”

“No, of course not! But such is a common charge often levelled at my race.”

“It is also said that you have horns, yet none can I perceive.”

“You are an unusually, indeed strangely tolerant man Richard Mead.”

“Hah!
tolerant
is not a word many would use about me. So then, you wish to learn from this master, is that the way of it? To what end?”

“Many years ago, many of my race, including my family lived in Spain. We lived in peace with our neighbours and we prospered. Then, little by little, the King, advised by the Church, came to blame us for all the ills that beset the Kingdom. A barn burns down – blame a Jew; an outbreak of the ague – obviously spread by Jews; the Royal coffers empty – clearly embezzled by Jews.”

“Papist bastards!” spat Mead

“Ah!” grinned Michael, “Your tolerance does not extend to the Catholic Church I find!”

“It does not. I doubt not that there might exist an honest papist somewhere, but too much blood has been spilled on account of Catholicism for me to abide their notions and arrogance. Continue.”

“Well then. Perhaps a century ago we were made to flee. We lost all our possessions, our wealth, and our homes. Many were those who were burned at the stake, falsely accused of Devil worship. My people were scattered to the winds as has happened to us so many times before in our troubled history. Some of us found what was thought at the time to be a haven, free from persecution, yet it was not so. The land was beset by a vile disease, which spread from the native peoples to mine. It is an ancient curse that many know of but none know how to treat. When I was old enough, I began to study diseases and their possible cures. I travelled far to learn what I could wherever I could and in doing so I came across an old monk …”

“A Jesuit?”

“No, a Benedictine. A wise and saintly man he was, and he possessed a book written not long since by one of your countrymen. And this is the man I seek. I must learn what I can of this cursed malady if he will instruct me in its nature. There are many who need help.”

“You travel around the world in search of this knowledge? You traverse countries that would string you up in a nonce? How long have you been travelling?”

“Three years.”

“Three years! This learned one you seek could be dead years since! He may even have been dead before you set out!”

“All this is true. Yet I must continue in my quest. Time is of no great import to me personally. All that matters is the possible goal that might exist at the end of the road.”

“And yet if you are successful, if indeed you are able to learn the wondrous secrets of this …” Mead paused in mid-flow as if realising something of relevance. He pointed his pipe at Michael in emphasis.

“There is another aspect to consider. Your physician may even have been hung as a witch, a warlock should I say. Great was the madness that swept this land concerning such things, aye, and just a few years ago was that! Believe me brother, I know whereof I speak!”

“I have considered this. Yet the thing must be done. And if I am successful, and the Almighty permits it, I will then travel home and do what I can for those afflicted.”

“If of course YOU aren’t hung as a warlock, nay, a JEWISH warlock along the way!”

Michael shrugged philosophically.

“As Jehovah wills it, so shall it be.”

“Why must you do this Michael? Why you? What compels you, what drives you so?”

“I have made an oath on it Richard Mead, a sacred oath. Do you understand what such a pledge means?”

Mead glared at him.

“Oh aye,” he sighed. “I know fully what THAT means may God forgive me!”

Without being aware of it, both men had risen from their chairs and had been gesticulating furiously. Both now subsided.

“Again you speak somewhat strangely Richard,” said Michael quietly. “Would it help to talk? I think myself a good listener.”

“Are you now to be my confessor master Jew?”

“Surely sir that is a role for a papist, those who you seem to disapprove of so vehemently. No, no confessor I. But I know that a sympathetic ear is often as good as any medicine.”

Mead prowled around the room for a moment or two, his brow deeply furrowed.

“It is a long tale and not a pretty one,” he finally said. “Are you not tired?”

“I am not too tired to listen to a troubled soul. And, just as I am no confessor, nor am I judge. I have no right to condemn any man.”

“I’ll remember you said that!” snorted Mead. “Well then, sit ye down and you shall hear of it.”

Richard’s father James was in an ill mood. He frowned at the meal before him and remained silent and withdrawn. Richard’s mother took the initiative.

“Elizabeth, you will say grace for us today.”

“Yes mother,” said the young child with a nervous glance at her father.

She recited the litany halting momentarily as, tongue poking out between her lips in concentration, she struggled to remember a word. Richard silently mouthed the word to her, winked, and the job was done. Supper over, father seemed to awaken a little but he was still clearly perturbed. By and by, Elizabeth was sent to her bed having been sternly reminded to say her prayers, ALL her prayers. Richard had a harness to repair before retiring. He took his leave of his parents and went to the stable. Then he discreetly crept back to eavesdrop. His father, though always a serious man, was uncommonly out of sorts today and Richard was anxious to know why. He also knew that his parents would not openly discuss awkward issues in front of him until a course of action had been decided upon, hence the subterfuge. He arrived under the window as his mother began her interrogation. A patient, God-fearing and hard working woman, she could not abide secrets, least of all from her husband.

“So then husband, will you tell me now what ails you? Your countenance this day is enough to curdle milk.”

Richard grinned. Only from mother would father tolerate such impertinence. He could hear his father pacing up and down.

“I am the King’s loyal servant,” father stated puffing vigorously on his pipe.

“And who could doubt it?” asked mother.

“Wife, I feel my loyalty is being sorely tested. I feel as if I am being pulled in two directions at once.”

“Hush James,” cautioned mother. “Keep your voice down. Your words might be misunderstood.”

“I have been to our church to speak with Christopher Pitkin. He is working therein for the preacher. What I have seen there disturbs me greatly. The altar table has been moved. It stands now at the east end of the church, no longer can we encircle it.”

“Why has this been done?”

“It is the order of Archbishop Laud.”

“The King’s spiritual advisor?”

“Just so. But there is more. Christopher has been building a fence, a ‘pale’ it is called. A year and more has he and his son William been at work on the task, constructing the thing bit by bit as a shepherd constructs his hurdles. Now he is assembling it in the church.”

“I have heard nothing of this. His wife, God rest her soul, said nothing before she passed on.”

“In secret has it been done. It is my belief she knew nothing of its building.”

“Why in secret? Chistopher Pitkin is a man of rare talent, a God-given talent truth be told when it comes to the fashioning of wood. Is he not proud of his labour’s outcome?”

“He is. But it is not the craftsmanship that is array, it is the purpose of this fence, this pale.”

“And what is that?”

“There are those who say it is to keep animals, dogs and such from the table, but I do not believe this to be so. Nay, it is to keep ordinary people away from the altar. It seems Archbishop Laud does not think us worthy to come to close to the Lord without his leave.”

“He cannot do this!”

“Oh but he does, and he does so in the King’s name. Not only this, idols and pictures of a richness such as I have never seen are being placed within our simple church. I tell you woman, this is but one step from popery!”

“The King is no papist.”

“No, perhaps not yet, but his wife is and I am thinking that it is His Majesty’s wish to bring us nearer to the Church of Rome.”

“Parliament will never allow it.”

“Hah!
Parliament
is it! Did the King not dissolve it when it displeased him by withholding money? Did Parliament prevent him raising Ship money, a disgraceful tax, from people such as we who live nowhere near the sea? No, Parliament will say nothing.”

“Then who will?”

“May the Lord forgive me, but I’m thinking that sooner or later, the people of this land must. With or without Parliament, the King must be made to see reason, he must listen, or the realm is lost. Even as we speak, Ireland is in flames with Protestant settlers being butchered at every turn. I tell you wife, this cannot go on.”

Richard considered his father’s words as he lay abed that night. There was an undeniable unrest in the land; it was palpable even to him in this quiet little hamlet they called home. He was quite a learned lad, for which he had his father’s discipline and his mother’s boundless common sense and love of reading to thank. She also seemed to come by uncannily accurate gossip at regular intervals. Thus he knew that over the sea whole countries were being ravaged in the name of religion. Could England come to such a pass? Surely not. Not since the days of Elizabeth and Mary had such hatred visited the realm. Ah but wait. Had not the papists tried to kill the King’s own father along with the whole of Parliament in the Gunpowder Plot? But why then would the King show favour to those who would have killed his own kin? It made no sense. He would visit the church of St Martin and see this ‘pale’ for himself, perhaps then things might become clearer.

The following day, his tasks largely done for the while, Richard took himself down to the village. On his way he passed a Puritan preacher haranguing a group of locals. Among the crowd he spied Wil Pitkin, son of and apprentice to, master carpenter Christopher Pitkin.

“What cheer Wil!” beamed Richard playfully clapping his friend on the shoulder. The two had been friends for as long as anyone could remember.
Find one and you’ll find ‘tother
the villagers said. Somewhat reluctantly, it seemed to Richard, Wil had detached himself from the throng and fell in step with his pal.

“Are you free from your toil?” asked Richard.

“For a while. Father is making a new batch of varnish and there is nought to be done until the first coat is dry.”

“Is this the fence you speak of?”

“Pale you dolt, it is called a pale.”

“May I see this wondrous work?”

“If you must,” shrugged Wil.

“By the Lord, you are glum today Wil Pitkin,” sighed Richard. “What’s to do? Has the lovely Joanna found another, more decent beau?”

“She has not. Where would she find a better man than I in these parts pray tell?”

“Well then, what ails you, you misery?”

‘Come and perhaps you will understand.”

They traversed the crossroad and entered the church through a side door.

“Will the preacher not mind?”

“He’s away visiting old Hanna, her with the broken leg. Now, look you here.”

Gradually, Richard’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom. Although he worshipped every Sabbath, lately, and only with his father’s grudging permission, he had been attending a meeting house in Harefield instead of his own parish church. Harefield’s chapel was plain and somewhat dour. Mary Thorhill, who worshipped there however, was not.

As he focused on his surroundings, he realised that a considerable transformation had come over his local parish church. It was an old building, part Saxon and part Norman, strongly built in stone and with a high square bell tower. There were some stained glass windows, small and not elaborate, yet well made and attractive when clean. A parting of the clouds outside caused rays of light to enter these same windows and illuminate the interior bringing newly painted frescos and gilded statues almost to life. Now too it became clear that the altar had indeed been moved and in addition was covered by a huge and vibrantly coloured cloth of white and gold. On it were placed cups and chalices of silver and gold and over all towered an enormous and brand new cross of gold upon which hung an effigy of Christ carved in what appeared to be ivory. Richard’s jaw dropped. Never had he seen such a display of wealth. And here? Here in his little village? He took an involuntary step forward towards the splendour but Wil caught his arm.

“Nay brother, you can go no further. See, there before the altar are the pews for people of note. All others must now sit behind. And what divides the two? Look you!” said Wil pointing angrily. “When complete, yonder pale will separate the altar and the ‘worthy’ from the likes of you and I. No longer are all equal in the eyes of the Lord, not in this realm anyway!”