Believe or Die (3 page)

Richard was still in awe of the sights before him. He drew nearer to the almost completed pale.

“It is magnificent!” he exclaimed running his hand along the superbly crafted woodwork.

“Think you so? It is designed to match yonder speaking perch,” said Wil indicating a huge new pulpit looming towards the pews of the ordinary folk in an attitude of such intimidation that Richard was quite taken aback.

“Come,” said Wil, “Let’s away.”

Outside once more they were passed by the puritan preacher they had seen earlier.

“Do you see brethren?” ranted the man in black, ‘Do you see where those in power would take us? To idolatry! To Papism!”

The two friends moved away and sat on a wall near the pond. Richard was confused by what he had seen. He’d always been taught that religion was a matter between a man and God. Preachers existed to facilitate worship, but the act itself should be kept simple else it must surely be distracted and thus diluted. Richard observed that Wil seemed even more troubled than he.

“Your father must be proud of his work, you too,” he ventured.

“Then why pray do I feel so uneasy?” frowned Wil. “It is my duty to do my father’s bidding yet now, since mother died, that cursed fence is all he lives for. The Lord alone knows what he would do if it was broke, it would break his heart.”

“I think it is wondrous. Perhaps that is how a church is supposed to look when funds permit.”

“Hah! Your father would disagree I’m thinking, particularly when his taxes are paying for the like!”

“Ah, I did not consider that. Wait though; are you saying that all churches are to be thus adorned? Why the cost would be … unthinkable!”

“Archbishop Laud says it shall be so, and he speaks for the King.”

“Then so must it be indeed then. We are the King’s men are we not?”

“There are those who question it. No, I mean not the rabble-rousers and troublemakers. I speak of decent, honourable men of consequence. They fear the King is being ill-advised and must be saved from himself if needs be.”

“Shssh now! Such talk leads on to other words, which in turn leads to charges of treason. If the King wills it, then there is an end to debate.”

“Perhaps not. I have heard that Parliament is refusing to grant the King funds to fight the Scots unless His Majesty places restrictions on Laud’s activities.”

“How can a King be refused? You have been reading those damned tracts again I find!”

“The country is heading for trouble Richard. I for one would not be happy to be told how to worship the Almighty, not if the manner of it went against my conscience.”

“Conscience is it? Is this the boy, now the young man, who has drunk, fought and caroused over half the county with me?”

“This is different. I tell you Richard, I am seriously considering where my allegiances lie.”

“You would not go against your father for shame! And he is a King’s man as is my father. Forget this foolishness Wil. Nothing will come of it, you mark my words, all this fuss will be resolved soon enough. We are Englishmen for heaven’s sake, we do not draw a sword over such issues!”

“I hope and trust you are in the right of it Richard. Yet if it does come to a quarrel, I fear we may both have to choose a side and draw that sword of which you speak.”

“Never in life brother!” scoffed Richard. “Anyway, I must away to my father’s stable or it will be the worse for me. The King himself could not save me from his wrath should I shirk my duties. I will see you anon Wil, and for the love of God, stop fretting about nothing!”

Wil watched his friend walking back across the field and shook his head. Richard was the King’s man right enough but what of Wil Pitkin? Where do my allegiances lie if I am truthful to myself he wondered? He withdrew a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket and read the tract yet again.

When men put themselves above the word of God and tread down the people they are sworn to protect, is it not time for an honest man to consult his conscience and reach for his sword?

Is it indeed worried Wil?

Events go from bad to worse; a momentum is gaining. The King attempts to introduce a new Prayer Book, part of his vision of one united Kingdom cemented together by a single method of worship. So convinced is King Charles that, being the King, he must obviously be in the right, any one attempting to suggest that he might be making a mistake is scornfully dismissed out of hand. Charles attempts, without any discussion or debate, to impose his new Prayer Book on the Scots as a first step. The Scots reject it utterly and violently. Charles is outraged. Do they not know he is ordained by God? An army is raised and despatched north to bring the Scots to heel. The result is a disaster, so much so that Charles is forced into making a deal to bring about a peace. Yet Charles has no intention of keeping to the terms of the truce. The Scots must be taught a lesson and to that end the King approaches Parliament for money to raise a new army. The very notion of this act is an anathema to him. Every other monarch in Europe could simply demand the necessary money; he has to ASK for it! But ask he does. And this is what a number of members of Parliament have been waiting for. The King’s request is refused unless certain conditions can be guaranteed. Led by Mr Pymm and his supporters, a list of conditions is presented to His Majesty. Without these conditions being met, no money will be forthcoming. Conditions? They have the effrontery to issue conditions to the King? Charles is appalled by the very idea. But if that alone was not enough, a study of these conditions rendered His Majesty incoherent with rage, his habitual stammer making him virtually speechless.

Primary amongst the list was a demand for an end to Charles’ policy of ‘High Church’, of the glitter and ceremony Archbishop Laud was so diligently introducing at the King’s behest. Next was a further demand, not a request, a DEMAND, that the King desists in his desire to introduce his new Book of Common Prayer. The King didn’t bother with reading further. The whole thing was intolerable. He was King; he did not have to take heed of anyone. Only he knew what was right for the Kingdom that much was plainly obvious. Then Charles makes a dangerous error of judgement. With the list of conditions crumpled up in his hand, he marches a company of soldiers from his palace in Whitehall to Parliament, his intention being to arrest Pymm and his followers and have them dragged to the Tower. But he is too late. Already warned by a sympathiser in Whitehall, Pymm and his companions have fled. Seething with frustration, the King orders Parliament to be dissolved and closed.

The King’s contempt for Parliament, and thus for the people themselves is now clearly apparent to all. England, and with it all of Britain began sliding down a very slippery slope. Many can see the anarchy looming ahead. None want it yet none seem able to stop it. People are beginning to take sides, some of their own volition; others find themselves being propelled into it by events outside of their control. Mobs supporting one side or the other take to the streets. Damage is done and people are hurt. The madness spreads. No longer confined to the cities and towns, vandalism and violence enter the shires and villages. Soon the anger, the frustration, the built up fear and suspicions spreads its tendrils into even the most docile of hamlets.

“Did you hear Dick? Did you hear about the
Black Horse
?” cried an excited Wil.

“I heard of a gang of ruffians breaking the heads of some loyal workers doing nobody any wrong if that’s what you mean.”

“Those ‘ruffians’ as you call them were God-fearing men trying to bring the misled back to the fold.”

“With cudgels? They were thugs bent on provoking the King’s loyal subjects and if they come back this way again they will learn that it is they who are misguided!”

“And how will that be done pray tell?”

“In the same manner that they started the issue, with a well-fashioned spade around their thick, cropped, Roundheads, that is how.”

The two glared at each other each reluctant to go further into debate yet unwilling to concede any point of issue.

“It is going to be King or Parliament Dick. Sooner or later, that and that alone is going to be the choice.”

“I believe you are right Wil. I never thought it would come to this. I still pray that this madness can yet be stopped.”

“How? We have a King who will not listen to his people, who would see us all in ruination rather than admit his errors. He must be made to see the folly of his ways and now, God help me, I believe that only force of arms can achieve this, it is our only recourse.”

“
Our
only recourse say you? You have had your mind addled by Puritans and fanatics, but hold, are they not the same thing, merely opposite sides of the same coin? Is there even a pinch of difference between what the Puritans preach and the rabble-rousers advocate?”

“And what of the King’s cronies? Royalist gangs are out abroad as well, nigh to murdering any honest man who dares to question the King’s edicts.”

“It is not our place to query His Majesty.”

“No, it is Parliament’s. And what did the King do when they attempted to question him? Question him on behalf of his loyal subjects? He did away with them! I tell you Dick, we, the people, we must do something!”

“Aye then, so we will. We will try and stop this insanity consuming our community. Think you on this. You did not elect those men to Parliament, those that you now feel so aggrieved for. No more did I have a say in the choosing of those who advise the King. We must try and reason with our friends and neighbours hereabouts and keep the pestilence of strife away. We are sliding down a slippery slope and only by helping each other may we arrest our descent. You must reason with the Roundhead and Puritan supporters, I must speak with the Loyalists and the tavern hotheads. We must constrain this lunacy before it is too late, we must make all see reason. Are you in agreement?”

“Aye, well, for the sake of our friendship, I will try. Nay, for the sake of all of us, I will truly try.”

But the time for reason had passed. The time for discussion and debate was gone.

Christopher Pitkin and his son finished their tankards. The elder man was flushed with pride and ale. Wil kept up a façade of equal jollity but inside he was churning, wondering if he would ever find the courage to tell his father what was on his mind.

“May the Lord forgive my vanity, but I must look on it one more time this night,” said Christopher.

Wil knew his father spoke of the pale and smiled indulgently.

“Do so then aged one,” he laughed, “I will see you at home directly.”

“Ah, you wish to call upon the lovely Joanna I’ll wager. Very well, but remember we must be up at cockcrow.”

“I’ll remember slave driver ”

They left The Swan and parted company at the crossroads, Christopher going to the church of St Martin, Wil to call on his intended.

Joanna’s mother permitted Wil to walk her to the pond, no further for they would then have been out of sight to the sharp-eyed widow. There they sat making vague, largely impossible plans for their future together, but mainly just enjoying each other’s company. The evening drew on and both knew that Joanna must now be escorted home. They rose from the wall upon which they’d been seated and stood holding hands their eyes locked upon each other. Then something, seen over Wil’s shoulder, distracted Joanna.

“Wil. Did you say your father was at the church?”

“Aye. He’ll be sitting there just looking at his work, like as not, he’ll be there a while.”

“What are all the torches for?”

“Torches?” puzzled Wil turning sharply around.

Sure enough, lights were to be seen, lights aplenty. Almost immediately shouting came to his ears.

“Get you home girl, NOW!” he cried propelling Joanna homewards while he himself set out at a run towards the church.

He burst through the door to find a mob ransacking and wrecking the church. Statues were being smashed, torches put to the drapes and tapestries. His father was desperately battling with three or more men who were attacking the pale with axes and billhooks. Wil threw himself at them and a furious melee ensued, combat made more surreal by the flickering light of the now burning hangings within the church. At length the ruffians fled leaving the bleeding and battered Pitkins on the floor. Momentarily unconscious, Wil came round to find St Martin’s ablaze and choked with acrid, impenetrable smoke. He grabbed his father and half carried, half dragged him out of the building. A hasty bucket chain was being organised, people were screaming, dogs barking. Christopher slipped down to lay propped against a wall spluttering and coughing, his lungs full of mucus and smoke. He waved Wil away impatiently to assist with the fire fighting, tears streaming down his face as he tried to take in what the mob had done. It took the best part of two hours to control the blaze; clearly the instigators had come armed with pitch to aid their torches. At length Wil stood in what was left of the centre aisle, wet, scorched and bloody, as the preacher scrabbled about in the ruins of his church. The man was sobbing quietly and coughing frequently as he tried to salvage something, ANYTHING, from the chaos. Wil heard a rasping sound behind him and turned to see his father, eyes wide open and mouth agape in dumbstruck horror. His son reached out to support him but was pushed aside. Christopher Pitkin walked on unsteady legs to where the pale had stood so proudly. He shook his head disbelievingly. There was nothing left, it had been smashed to matchwood then burned to cinders. He held his head in his hands and groaned. Wil moved once more towards him, unsure what to do or say. Then Christopher gasped. He held his left arm briefly then gasped again and both his hands went to his chest. Then, with a sudden intake of breath, he collapsed to the floor. Wil rushed to his side, held him, and tried to speak to him to gain some kind of response. But it was to no avail. Christopher Pitkin was dead, killed by those opponents of the King as surely as if they had run a sword through him. Only a few short hours ago, these had been the very people he had been considering siding with. And now?

Christopher Pitkin was buried two days later in the Churchyard of the still smouldering St Martin’s. Wil felt alternating waves of anger and numbness sweeping over him. Joanna tried her best to comfort him but what he really needed was to talk, and to talk to Richard Mead in particular. But Richard was away on an errand for his father, first to Reading and then to Beaconsfield on the return journey, and thus would know nothing of the tragic events that had transpired.