Believe or Die (29 page)

Richard gaped. How had she known his name? Did it matter?

They talked through the night. Occasionally, Mead would rant about the grove then collapse angrily back by the fire. Bess said nothing and sipped from her cup. When he was done, she made a strange sign with her fingers and fixed him with a piercing glare. A rattle, studded in tiny golden bells, appeared from her cloak and she gently waved it to and fro in front of his eyes.

“You will never regain your mind until you are free of Wil Pitkin. The poison within you and he is too deep.”

“He is dead. How then can I be rid of him?” “There are the dead, and there are the undead. The circle of life and death must be closed or it goes on forever.”

Mead tried to think this through but failed. His mind was clouded by the brandy … or was it brandy?”

He awoke at dawn alone.

Three days later, Michael the Jew came to Ruislip.

“Come, we must sleep,” advised Mead. “Tomorrow, having broken our fast, we will go together and find this wise man you seek. You know of course that he may be long gone. There are those that say only God may truly heal the sick. Surgeon-barbers are permitted but doctors of medicine, real physicians I am meaning, they have to tread a very careful path.”

“You speak truly I know,” nodded Michael, “Yet I believe he and his hospital, however small, may yet exist.”

“I know of no hospital in these parts Master Jew,” said Richard shaking his head.

“You may not know it as such. It was once the abode of a secretive order of monks I believe.”

“Monks now is it!” exclaimed Mead. “Then brother it grieves me to tell you that I hold out even less hope for your quest. Not since the days of old King Henry have monks held any property that I know of. When he did away with the monasteries, he did a thorough piece of work. I believe that Papist bastard James allowed some friars and such to begin their work again, but the current regime will tolerate none such.”

“I have been told that the man I seek is commonly believed to be running an asylum for the mad and he practises his skills under that disguise.”

“Hah! There seem to be an ever-increasing number of such establishments in this sorry land of mine. Those who think differently from the powers that be are either evil, in which case they must clearly die, or bewildered, in which case they must be locked up. Have you no fear of lunatics Michael?”

“No, unless of course they are wielding an axe in my direction.”

“Well then, come the morrow, we will see if we can locate this wiseman if he still lives, and with the grace of God, your quest will be successfully concluded.”

“Alas only partially. Having gained the knowledge I must then return to my people and put it to good use.”

“One struggle at a time Michael, one struggle at a time.”

Michael possessed a map of sorts, faded and hard to decipher now, but Richard was surprised to discover that his goal was no great distance. Indeed, it would be an easy ride of less than half a day if the weather was kind. But Michael was no horseman and he declined Mead’s offer of such a means of conveyance. So they set off on foot with Mead leading his mount and Michael hauling his reluctant but resigned donkey in tow. They followed the meandering and sometimes washed out track ways through the woodlands to the north of Ruislip. Michael became aware that Mead was taking a somewhat circuitous diversion around a particularly dark and forbidding piece of ancient looking forest but thought it best not to enquire as to why. Doubtless, Mead had a reason to do this. Richard had, but saw no point in bringing Mad Bess into the conversation. On then they trekked down into a valley noisy with wildfowl and then upwards through the meadows into the village of Harefield where Mead became sullenly silent and his eyes took on a hard aspect. Through the village and on, through more woodland until they came to a high and open heath that gave fine views of the surrounding vales and dales. Distant water glistened in the sunlight and this seemed to lighten Richard’s mood a little. An old inn, derelict now it appeared, stood at one edge of the heath; one of many closed by the Puritans some years earlier. Its sign, now barely readable under the peeling paint and rotting wood, swung gently in the breeze. The ‘Green Man’ it proclaimed. So, not only a den of vice and debauchery as the Major Generals would have it, but named after some Pagan deity. No wonder it was in ruins! Turning north-west, they began a descent towards the village of Rickmansworth, but Mead stopped abruptly and turned the map this way and that before letting out a satisfied ‘Hah!” and nodding to himself. Michael raised a quizzical eyebrow.

“This Sage you seek may be the holder of unparalleled wisdom my friend, but he is no mapmaker. Our path lies yonder, see there, the gap in the trees.”

“Is that truly a track? I fear it is mightily overgrown. Perhaps you are right, the man is long gone or deceased, and I have travelled in vain,” sighed Michael.

“Mayhaps. But do not say die just yet. Consider, such foliage would conceal your asylum well and thus secured from prying eyes, it may yet exist. Come, let us explore.”

They threaded their way through thick groves of trees and at length found themselves confronted by a veritable wall of seemingly impenetrable brambles, holly and dense young saplings. But the obstruction was an illusion, for the growths had been structured by management to grow thus, and after a while they discovered a narrow pathway through the foliage. The way was constricted and circuitous but it was a way nonetheless. Passing eventually through the barrier, they came upon a clearing perhaps two acres in size. It was extensively cultivated and various animals could be both seen and heard. In the centre of the open ground was a large, rambling house surrounded by well-tended kitchen gardens and an orchard. A figure or two, unusually well covered up, could be discerned around the estate and they looked up as Richard and Michael approached and then immediately disappeared from view.

Michael stopped and bade Mead to do the same.

“This is indeed my goal Master Mead. You must go no further.”

Richard was about to protest when he glimpsed a hooded figure amid the fruit trees that seemed to observe him with the utmost intensity before vanishing from view.

“Are these poor wretches suffering from the illness you alluded to but would not define?” he asked.

“I believe it to be so. It is a contagion that this country thought was long past and indeed so it is apart from an isolated case here and there.”

“Does this contagion have a name?”

“Not one I would have you know. If I am in the right of it, all here will soon be dead in any case so I must gather knowledge while I may. Please forgive me, but this is a secret that must remain so.”

“You fear panic?”

“Frightened people are capable of committing terrible deeds and all people fear disease. These poor souls are no threat to anyone as long as they remain isolated, but you yourself know only too well what superstition and ignorance can promote.”

“Very well. If that is your wish then I shall forget this place and its occupants and leave you to your studies. I wish you luck my Jewish friend and may your God look over you.”

They shook hands and Richard mounted up, then Michael took a firm grip on his donkey’s harness and urged the beast forward. The animal seemed even more reluctant than usual to proceed and its protestations echoed around the clearing. Mead leaned on his pommel and watched for a moment or two then turned his horse back towards the tree line.

As Michael neared the house, an elderly man emerged and they exchanged emotional greetings.

“I never thought you would come, it seems an age since we last exchanged letters,” said the ancient dabbing his eyes with a kerchief.

“It has been a long journey Sir, and the road has not always been easy.”

“No, of course. I cannot begin to imagine the travails you must have experienced to find me here. Come, you must be tired and in need of refreshment.”

“Actually, I was befriended by a Good Samaritan not far from here and so am in reasonable fettle.”

“A Good Samaritan in these parts, you amaze me Sirrah!”

“Nonetheless it is true, a troubled man I fear, but I digress. I am extremely anxious to begin my studies under your tutelage.”

“In good time my friend, let us get you settled first. Henry!” the old man called. “Henry where are you? Ah, here you are. Be a good fellow and tend to this Gentleman’s beast will you.”

Henry, a figure with his face and limbs swathed in some kind of bandaging, nodded without comment. The old man turned and began hobbling back into the house. Michael was about to follow when Henry raised a hand to bid him pause. He began to speak, his voice barely above a whisper and that hoarse and grating.

“Tell me Sir,” he croaked, “The man who accompanied you here, he who has just ridden away, may I ask his name?” “His name is Richard Mead. Know you him?”

Henry shook his head abruptly and hauled the donkey away. Michael shrugged and went inside. At the entrance to a barn, Henry paused and glanced back at the surrounding trees through which Mead had disappeared. He had lied to Michael. Once upon a time he had indeed known Richard Mead. Once they had rode together against the King’s men. Only back then he wasn’t known as ‘Henry’. He had been Corporal of Horse Nathaniel Bowman. That was before he contracted the disease that even now was tightening its terminal grip on him. That was before he became Henry the Leper.

Richard Mead rode slowly homewards through the countryside. His route was meandering and without any real direction, so too were his thoughts. At length his horse stopped of its own volition and began drinking from a pond. Mead awoke from his ponderings and realised with some surprise that his mount had taken him unbidden to the village green at Harefield. Since parting company with Michael, a deep gloom had descended upon him, an intense melancholy tinged with flashes of hatred. Once again he began calling his sanity into question and felt his grip on the world around him to be tenuous at best. He knew for sure now that his belief in God, ANY God, had faded away, and that alone declared him to be radically different from all around him whose faith in
some
kind of religion appeared to be unshakeable. Right or wrong played no part in their credos. It was worship or be damned. Believe or die! To Richard Mead nothing whatsoever now seemed to be right in the world, it was all a meaningless bedlam. With a heavy sigh, he nudged the horse away from the water and turned in the direction of Ruislip. Then, after only a matter of yards, he stopped, frowned in deep thought for several minutes then turned off at a tangent. He did not want to go home yet. Home? What was that exactly? He had no real ‘home’, only property. He had no wife, no children, no beliefs, no certainties, and probably now, no soul. Down the hill and out of the village ambled the horse, its rider’s despondency giving way first to a feeling of hopelessness and then to extreme bitterness. Cold, black anger seethed within him. How had it all come to this? Where had it all started? As if he didn’t know!

For reasons he could not fathom, Mead KNEW he must visit the graves of Mary Thornhill and Joanna Croft. Perhaps he might find some brief solace there among the dead. Perhaps God would forgive him. Perhaps something else would find him. Salvation or damnation. Did it matter anymore?

As he approached the church of St Giles in Tickenham, the bright, sunny day took on a distinct chill. Clouds that earlier had been of the purest white took on a menacing greyness and a harsh, unseasonable wind arose. He tied his mount to the wooden archway that led into the churchyard and propelled his aching limbs over the sward. Past graves old and new he wandered, some little more than a heap of soil, others engraved and ancient. He rounded the corner of the nave, looked up, and stopped abruptly. There, looking down at the graves of Mary and Joanna was a cloaked figure. Mead’s eyes narrowed and his hand strayed to his sword hilt. The figure tensed as it suddenly became aware of another presence, then it spun around instinctively drawing a long curved blade as it did so. Richard and the cloaked man paused open mouthed, both their blades half out of the scabbards.

For the first time in thirteen years, Richard Mead and Wil Pitkin looked into each other’s eyes.