Believe or Die (28 page)

My God
, thought Mead,
am I looking at a Commonwealth? Am I becoming a budding Cromwell? Never!

One of the families he deemed suitable for ‘assistance’ could not have been more different from these other odious wretches. Puritans all, proud, clean and with that obsessive self-righteousness that Mead so detested. The husband and one son dead in the Wars leaving only grandfather and two lads in a house of six females of varying ages. The word ‘purgatory’ floated to the top of Mead’s mind. He wondered what Annie Trivett would have made of them. Or indeed, what they would have made of Annie? This last notion caused him to snigger out loud. Nevertheless, they were hard working, honest people. Therefore they would go on his list, albeit at the very bottom.

One afternoon in June, Doggett reappeared. He was leading a large, heavily laden wagon pulled by a stout pair of workhorses. Up on the coach of the wagon, with her head modestly covered, sat a young lady and alongside her were perched two, nervous, but clearly inquisitive young boys. A goat, protesting vehemently at being hitched to a wagon, completed the idyllically rustic picture. Doggett looked sheepishly at Mead from under the brim of a huge castor hat. Richard, hastily grabbing his own hat and cramming it over his unruly hair, could have sworn his old comrade was blushing.

Doggett, clearly in a state of some agitation, began fussing with the horse’s tack.

“Well Master Doggett. What have we here?” inquired Mead.

“My family Captain.”

“Your … ?”

“Well, my cousin’s really to speak the truth of it. Only Martha here was widowed at Roundway Down, leaving her and the young ‘uns on their own like. So I got to thinking that maybes if I was to ask her, we could make a go of it. That’s if you still want me here incourse Sir? It’s all legal and proper Captain!” Doggett exclaimed suddenly. “Preacher Allington seen to it!”

“Stay, stay, Peter! Calm yourself I pray! Of course my offer still stands and I am honoured to meet your family.”

Richard patted Doggett on the back and went across to the wagon. There, he swept off his hat and bowed “Mistress Doggett, your servant maam. Pray dismount and inspect your new home. Welcome to all and it is right glad I am to see you here.”

And so it came to pass that over a period of years, Richard Mead became a man of some ‘modest’ means. Despite flood and famine, his farm prospered under the firm and knowledgeable hand of Doggett whose fast-growing sons proved enthusiastic, if sometimes over playful workers. Martha revelled in her new status as virtual mistress of Northcote. The disagreeable ex-Ranters simply upped and left one day, having been made a discreet offer by Mead; an offer they found they were unable to refuse, it having been delivered at sword point, Mead utilising the fact that there was no listed legal owner for their cottage and promptly put the land out to rent. He did this through the offices of a fine London lawyer, a man who, though mightily expensive, proved to be possessed of both skill and tact. Over a period of months, Mead came to control, by one means or another, all the holdings in the immediate vicinity, forming his tenants into a mutually supporting community. Initial arrears were written off by means of work, loans arranged at very favourable rates, and gradually despair turned to hope, and hope eventually turned into a measure of prosperity. Yet times were still hard. Ruislip narrowly escaped an outbreak of plague that swept the South and the wettest summers for a decade destroyed crops and nearly reduced the parish to ruin and starvation. Gangs of thieves and deserters roamed the land looking for easy prey, but such got a bloody nose whenever they attempted to raid Ruislip. Two of Mead’s tenants were ex-soldiers, one Royalist, one Parliamentarian, and they were both staunch men who stood firm with Mead and Doggett when trouble visited their community. One particular and decisively bloody melee took place in and around ‘The Swan’- that same
Swan
where all the woe had begun all those years ago. As a consequence, outlaws began avoiding the area, encouraged to do so by the corpses dangling in gibbets around the parish boundary, and Mead was asked to take up a position of authority on the local council. But he had no interest in committees. He would advise and assist, he would be a good neighbour and, God help him, occasionally a Good Samaritan. But that was all.

There were many eligible women in the area, most being widows, and many set their cap at him but to no avail. He would dally with them, but had no wish for any commitment. This inflamed the Puritans who found his behaviour disgraceful and un-Godly. Mead cared not. His mental state at the end of the wars and their aftermath had metamorphosed into a smouldering melange of anger and disgust. He knew he was not a good Christian if indeed he counted himself as one at all. He most certainly was no Puritan. He had taken Parliament’s side initially for all the wrong reasons, primarily revenge. Yet as the war progressed he became convinced that he was indeed doing the right thing. And the Cause had been victorious; they had won! But what exactly had been won? What was the great achievement? Mead looked around at the miserable, joyless world that had resulted and he despised it. Ultimately, he had fought so that the people, represented by their Parliament, could live free and happy as Englishmen should. Well, they were not free and they were not happy. What then had been the point of it all? To simply exchange one form of tyranny and oppression for another? Dark thoughts began fermenting in his already raw state of mind.

Richard believed he had not been born to be a violent man; it was not his fundamental nature. Circumstances had turned him thus and now it was beyond his power to reverse the process. He simply could not settle, could not exist as a ‘peaceful’ man. The fracas at ‘The Swan’ had been brief and bloody. Mead had killed three men, villainous thugs all to be sure, but he never gave it a moments thought, still less did it cause even an instant of remorse. Indeed, if the truth be told, he had actually revelled in the deed. And there was more to the issue, he suspected that, far from abating, his penchant for almost instant retribution seemed to be increasing if that were indeed possible. Certainly, his tolerance for threats and fools seemed now to be virtually non-existent. On a visit to Uxbridge market one day he was accosted by a bunch of ner-do-wells, young gentlemen full of drink and bravado who seemed to think he should show them more respect than he had. They paid for their rudeness. Fortunately, none died. Mead was duly hauled before the courts and was only acquitted after the constable, a one-armed former Cavalier, spoke in his defence for reasons Richard never fully discerned. But the acquittal did nothing to mellow his feelings towards the world. Indeed, his contempt for mankind generally simply grew apace. Then the nightmares began. Richard had never for a moment forgotten Wil Pitkin, just as he had never forgotten Mary Thornhill’s death. He had not forgotten, and he had not forgiven. And thus the cancer of obsessive hatred had spread within him. And now he began dreaming of Pitkin prodding the growth to new heights. Pointless of course, Pitkin was dead, the Barbary Moors would have seen to that. Richard knew this beyond a doubt, but still the dreams persisted.

He took to visiting the graveyard of St Giles church in Tickenham. There both Mary Thornhill and Joanna Croft had been buried. The elders of Ruislip and Harefield had agreed that it should be so in an effort to diffuse the hostility between the two communities. Tickenham was neutral ground and the church there was considered likewise. Richard cleared Mary’s grave once a week and after a while forced himself to do the same for Joanna’s. This latter task caused a swirl, a veritable maelstrom of emotions within him. Every time he did it, he wound up sobbing and asking both the Lord’s and Joanna’s forgiveness. Then, every time he turned to trudge homeward, the emotional tumour would reassert itself and a voice in his mind would remind him that Pitkin started the fight that day, therefore Pitkin was responsible. Pitkin was to blame for it all! All the grief and woe of a decade or more! Pitkin! Often a darkness would seem to spread over the church and fields as he reached this mental conclusion. It was wont to do so at certain times of the year being a trick of the light through the towering and swaying trees all around. But it seemed to Richard that it was reflecting the darkness in his soul. Did he even have a soul anymore? After some weeks of this, as he wandered slowly back to Northcote along the overgrown banks of the River Pinn, he believed he had deduced the cause of his feelings. He was going insane.

Drink did not help, indeed, it made the dreams even worse. He stopped sleeping, deliberately at first, and then he found that he simply could not slumber. That made matters even worse. But who can you consult when you think you are losing your sanity? Physicians and quacks alike were all agreed in favour of locking people up in asylums or prisons if their mental state was in question. Anyone showing even a fraction of his current symptoms would be declared a lunatic in a nonce, his possessions seized, and his person incarcerated. Indeed, such was a highly profitable business since the Wars. Who then? A cider-induced trance suggested a solution. Staring sightlessly into the flames of his hearth fire, it came to him. The only recourse a madman had to seek advice was to take counsel from another madman. Or in this case, a madwoman.

On the road, if indeed ‘road’ was the correct term for the pitiful track that linked Ruislip to Harefield, there lay a deep wood. Most of the other woodland thereabouts was managed to some extent or other, having been coppiced and pollarded for many a generation. But not this. This was still
old
forest, primeval even in parts. Criminals on the run and travellers of all sorts gave this area a wide berth. They did so because this wood belonged to Mad Bess. Lurid tales abounded about Bess and churches of all denominations had tried to incite the locals into taking action against her. All failed miserably for this was not a ‘declared’ witch. No one had ever testified against her, no one dared, for she was a REAL witch. In fact, Bess was what had once been known as a hedge witch, a wisewoman, consulted by everyone on all manner of matters. The Church, any church, could not allow such behaviour. She knew which herbs did what and how to interpret the behaviour of animals. She could cure maladies that preachers had ranted were only treatable by God and she was only an old crone for heaven’s sake! And yet, and yet … no one would enter HER woods; no one except a madman.

For two nights, Richard Mead camped in the very centre of the dark and cold glades and encountered nothing but badgers and owls. Then on the third evening, just as darkness descended, he dozed briefly then was suddenly awoken. He felt, rather than heard a presence nearby. After a while, he thought he could detect a glow deep amid the mighty oaks to his north. A tinkling, light and playful echoed through the wood, and all the noises of the night creatures ceased, as if upon a command. Richard shivered and gulped down the contents of his jack of cider, brought to protect him from the falling damps that come with the dawn. He gathered up the sack of things he had hoped might please Bess and walked slowly towards the glow. But something was wrong. His head felt like it was full of wool. His legs were losing their feeling. His mouth had a strange metallic taste. Had he been poisoned? Images span around him, small bells seemed to be chiming and he felt the warmth of a fire, then all was darkness.

When he awoke, it was to find himself comfortably propped up against a mossy tree bole in front of a pleasing fire upon which bubbled a small bowl. Focusing beyond the glow, he noted a shape that appeared to be studying him intently. Richard tried to sit up but his head ached alarmingly and he slumped back with a groan.

“Foolish man!” chuckled the figure who then leaned forward, dipped a cup in the bowl, and handed Richard the brew. The liquid was sweet, yet it must have been powerful for it cleared his head in a moment.

“Are you … ?” he started.

“Am I Mad Bess? Some call me that. But that is not the question, why are you come to my realm, that is the issue.”

“I … did you poison me?”

“A draft to make you slumber, nothing more. I do not like intruders, I needed to know if you were carrying a rope, as many of your ignorant neighbours have attempted on occasion.” She seemed almost amused by the suggestion then suddenly became serious and levelled a bony finger at Mead. “This is a Holy place, and the spirits that still reside here do not take kindly to such as you invading their peace.”

“Holy place?” stammered Mead, who could see nothing beyond the firelight but an enormous ring of ancient trees. “But that is surely blasphemy is it not!”

“Hah!
Blasphemy
he says! Your God’s servants have committed more acts of evil than ever did the Old Ones who worshipped here long before your pitiful Christ child began his mawkish murmurings! Your God … ”

“That is why I am come here Mistress Bess. I do not believe I have a God anymore, though whether he has forsaken me or ‘tother way about I cannot say. I am not sure I even have a mind anymore!”

“Are you telling me you want help from the likes of me? Me, who your Puritan brethren would string up in a nonce?”

“They are no brethren of mine anymore than the Papists are. And yes, I seek your help before I take a pistol and blow out what little remains inside my head!”

Mad Bess sat silent for a moment or two then shifted around to set next to Richard.

“Get that brandy out of your sack and pour it in the pot,” she ordered.

“I see you have examined my baggage,” remarked Mead.

“Of course, I was looking for a rope as I told you. Did you seek to bribe me mayhaps?”

“I did I suppose.”

“Well, at least you speak honestly. Well, I can advise you, but you will not be liking that advice I am thinking. You must start by telling me all that troubles you and commence at the very beginning.”

“My name is … ”

“I KNOW who you are Richard Mead!” she hissed snatching up a cup and dipping it into the heady pot before them. “Now get on with the tale!”