The Crimson Ribbon (10 page)

I bristle with indignation. ‘But she has done nothing wrong. How can you say these things?’

‘I’m just telling you what I’ve heard.’

‘But Stukeley knows her well. How can he believe it?’

‘He is being careful.’

‘I thought he was a friend.’

‘He has his reputation and his business to think of.’

‘And you? Do you believe it?’

‘All I see is that she has you beguiled.’

I am furious now, the anger giving me strength. ‘How dare you talk to me of sinning? You of all people, with your secrets.’

‘Please, Ruth, don’t—’

‘I’m such a fool that I had begun to think better of you, but now I see I was right about you from the start. You are the one who cannot be trusted. Elizabeth Poole is the best person I know. I will not stay here to listen to this from you, when you don’t even know her.’

‘How can I know her, when you keep her so much to yourself?’

I pull my shawl tight around me and am out of the door before I can hear another word. I still clutch the paper with my name printed upon it. I have smudged the letters in my haste, where the ink is not yet dry. The beautiful thing is ruined. When I reach Cheapside, I scrunch it up into a tight little ball and toss it into the street drain. I push away tears with the back of my hand as I walk, keeping my head down so no one will see my face. I feel the old conviction that I am watched. There are eyes everywhere in this city.

I walk a long tangled route back to St Paul’s, and by the time I reach home, I am calmer. I am resolved. I will not mention what I have heard to Lizzie, or to anyone. I’m angry with Joseph for believing gossip, but I see no reason to cause Lizzie any worry – at least, not yet. Perhaps he is mistaken, or perhaps Stukeley is deceived. Perhaps it is a different Mistress Poole whose name has been blackened. Whatever the case, I’m determined to protect Lizzie as she has protected me. I will do nothing to disrupt the haven I have built for myself.

When I get back to the house, Lizzie is with William Kiffin in the parlour. There, I think. What more proof does the world need? A godly woman, deep in debate with her pastor. How can anyone doubt her?

It is only later that evening, when Margaret remarks on my dirty face, that I remember Lizzie’s papers. I left them with Joseph. I cannot go back for them now. I will have to tell her they are lost. But not yet, not tonight. Tonight I cannot bear the disappointed look she will give me. Looking at my image in the bottom of a shining copper pot, I see two dark smudges under my eyes, where ink has come away from my hands as I dried my tears. ‘Soot,’ I tell Margaret, but I know she doesn’t believe me.

Chapter 17

I spend the next few days worrying about the missing papers, but I dare not admit the truth to Lizzie. I know this dallying will only make my fate worse, when it comes, but I am scared that the careless loss of Lizzie’s precious words will be one folly too many. I am scared that she will send me away. What will I do if I am cast out? I have no money, save the few pennies left in my purse, and nowhere to go. I have no acquaintance in London, except the Cromwells, and nothing could induce me to try their charity now. So I stay silent and pray for a miracle. And a few days later it comes, with banging on the kitchen door after dark, unshaven, ink-stained and reeking of the alehouse.

Master Poole is at his account books in the parlour, and we women are gathered before the kitchen hearth. When Margaret answers the door to Joseph, with a smile of recognition, I glare a warning at her. She has been at the ale herself today, but she is not too far gone to read my meaning and says nothing.

‘I’m come from Master Stukeley’s, with a delivery for Mistress Poole,’ Joseph says.

Lizzie looks up from her sewing. ‘Let him inside, Margaret.’

Joseph crosses to the hearth and hands a bundle of papers to Lizzie. He does not look at me. It is odd to see him here. He looks different somehow, out of place. My heart is suddenly leaping in my chest.

He gives her a polite little bow. ‘Your pamphlets, madam.’

Lizzie unties the package and flicks through the pages. ‘You are Stukeley’s man, are you not?’

‘Yes, madam.’

‘And did you print these?’

‘Yes, madam.’

She peels a pamphlet from the pile and holds it up to the firelight. ‘They are well done,’ she says.

‘Thank you.’

I risk a glance at Joseph and find that his eyes are already on mine. He understands what is at stake. He has done this to save me.

‘Margaret, fetch him a drink,’ Lizzie says. ‘Will you sit awhile, Mister . . .’

‘Oakes. Joseph Oakes.’

‘Please sit, Mister Oakes. I have some questions for you.’

Margaret does as she is told and scoops a good measure of the hot caudle she brews nightly in the pot on the fire. Joseph seats himself on a low stool, his long legs spider-like. He cradles the cup.

Lizzie introduces Charlotte, who simpers and bats her eyelids, and Margaret. ‘And Ruth, of course, you know,’ she says.

I do not trust myself to greet Joseph. I’m grateful to him, of course, but fearful that one ill-chosen word might give away the betrayal of my promise to Lizzie. Seeing him here is part comfort, part torture. I am like a child who has stolen delicious fancies from the master’s table, but knows a price must be paid when her thievery is found out.

Lizzie and Joseph discuss the pamphlet. They talk about the settings and the bleed of the paper he has chosen; they talk of where she will distribute it; they talk of its subject. I have not read it – Lizzie has not yet chosen to share her words with me – but I gather it is a religious work, similar to those produced by Kiffin. Lizzie means it to reach the poor of the parish.

I listen to her talking with great passion of her thoughts and wishes. How close she came to losing it, I think, and now she will never know. Joseph is easily her match in conversation and, as I watch them, I am jealous. I understand little of these things. I am not a dolt, but sometimes it’s hard to find the right words when I need them most. Besides, this world of politics and the press is a mystery to me. It does not take long for the talk to turn to the war, as it seems it always does.

‘You know they are saying that he should be captured, held prisoner and forced into agreement. There is no other way,’ Joseph says.

‘The King? To be held like a commoner?’ Lizzie is shocked.

‘The army believes there’s little option, for his word cannot be trusted.’

‘Will they put him in the Tower with the thieves and the traitors?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Of course the King must be tamed, and the threat of popery must be stamped from the Court – I believe that with all my heart – but surely there is still hope that he is a reasonable man. He may be brought to govern
with
Parliament.’

‘Many say the time for that is long past. He has proved himself unreliable. But there are some in the army who still want to try – Cromwell for one, and Fairfax. But he must be captured first, to force him to an agreement, and who has the guts to try that?’

That is so like my old master, I think. Always looking for the good in a person, even a wayward king.

Lizzie shakes her head. ‘And what do
you
think, Mister Oakes? You come armed with the opinions of a hundred newsbooks, but which are your own?’

‘I believe that the bloodshed we have endured these last few years is not truly God’s way. The horrors of the battlefield do not lead to salvation. The King is a traitor, madam, who has turned against his own people. He must be made to account for that, but the deaths of honest men and women are not the means.’

‘Amen to that. But what then? What would you have the army do?’

‘Debate is the way forward now, and agreement within the army, without more war.’

‘You are a passionate man, I can see. I understand your reluctance to draw innocent blood, but tell me, why is it that you are not moved to fight? You are of age. You are fit and well. Why not the army?’

Joseph pauses and drains his cup. ‘I prefer to work for freedom in other ways.’

‘With comedic pamphlets and superstitious stories?’

‘With respect, madam, the press can work just as hard as a sword. I know you believe that too. The paper you hold in your hand makes that clear as day. And why should a man be expected to go to battle just because he is a man? There is no such expectation of women.’

‘Mister Lilburne fights in the New Model Army and writes his Levelling pamphlets too. Or are you saying that women should fight? I do not see Mistress Lilburne drawing a sword and rushing to the fray. No, she stays at home to keep her house and children, because that is what is expected of her. Just as it is expected of a man to fight for a cause, if they believe in it strongly enough.’

Lilburne. I know the name: he is an army radical, the author of the pamphlet that Joseph carried with him from Cambridge to London. A name I’ve heard on the tongues of the news-sellers in the churchyard.

‘There are other things a woman might do,’ Joseph continues.

‘Such as?’

‘She has a voice. She may not be able to preach from the pulpit or stand up in the Commons and debate with the Members. She may not be asked to pick up a sword and drive it through the heart of her enemy, although God knows many enough have been forced to do so, but she may still have a voice.’

‘How so?’

‘With these.’ Joseph takes up a pamphlet and brandishes it. ‘And this.’ He points a grubby finger at his own lips. ‘Mistress Lilburne has a hand in her husband’s words. I see a woman’s sensibility in his arguments. And you, Mistress Poole, why spend your time and your pennies on such things if you don’t believe you can make a difference?’

Lizzie feeds him a slow smile. ‘You like your women strong, I think.’

‘I like a woman who knows her own mind and has strength, even if she does not always show it.’ He shoots a glance at me and I feel a blush rise as I look away.

‘Well, we can all agree with you there at least.’

Charlotte, who has been listening avidly, nods. She is red-cheeked, captivated by the exchange. She cannot take her eyes off Joseph.

‘A woman must be good too, don’t you think?’ Lizzie goes on.

‘Of course. But that’s no different for a man. There is little difference in the qualities that make up a good person, regardless of their sex, or their status in life.’

Lizzie muses for a second. Her eyes glitter. She is at her most beautiful when she is fired up. ‘You are a good Protestant, are you not, Mister Oakes?’ she says.

‘That I am, by God’s grace.’

‘Then you believe in God’s chosen people, in those who are elect?’

‘I do.’

‘And does it not follow that there are others who are damned? Those who will never truly know God’s grace, no matter how godly they may appear.’

‘So we are told.’

‘And should we not all work to find His grace within us, before judging others?’

‘Yes.’

‘And, having found it, should we then declare ourselves, man or woman, in this battle against the Antichrist?’

‘Of course.’

‘Do you believe this is a duty, to speak one’s mind, to tell the world of what you know?’

‘I believe that it’s a man’s duty to follow his conscience. To seek out good from evil and to help others see truth where they find it.’

‘What about man’s baser instincts? What about greed and envy? What about lust?’

‘These things are sent to test us, I suppose.’

Lizzie leans forward, her eyes flashing in the firelight. ‘And do you find yourself tested, Mister Oakes?’

Joseph shifts in his seat, leaning back and away from her. ‘That is a matter for me and my conscience alone.’

She has pushed him too far, I think. They are at a stalemate. But then his lips twitch in amusement and he holds her gaze for just a second too long. I see it. I see something pass between them. It is beyond my understanding. All I know is that a cold, sliding feeling has entered my heart.

But then Joseph stands. ‘I must thank you for your hospitality, madam.’

Lizzie bows her head.

‘And I have a favour to ask. I would like your permission to call upon Ruth two days hence, on May Day, providing that your household will observe the holiday.’

No one is expecting this, least of all me. Lizzie frowns, just for a second, before she gathers herself.

‘I’d like to walk out with her,’ Joseph goes on. ‘A picnic, perhaps, as is tradition.’

I feel my face flush and I stare at the sewing in my lap. Beside me, Charlotte is making little puffs of indignation.

‘I know little of you, Mister Oakes,’ Lizzie says.

Joseph places his hand over his heart. ‘You know I am Stukeley’s man. You know where I live and work. You can trust me to look after Ruth.’

Lizzie does not even glance at me. I am not consulted.

‘Well, it’s true that I do not need Ruth on May Day. We do not observe the old holidays here and I will spend the day in devotion at Devonshire Square with Pastor Kiffin. You may take her when she has performed her morning duties.’

‘Thank you, madam. You are generous.’

She offers her hand to him as if expecting him to press his lips to it. Instead he takes it in a handshake and this seems to please her. Their eyes lock and they exchange a nod, as if they have just bartered at one of the bookstalls in the churchyard.

Chapter 18

May Day dawns bright and mild. As I dress Lizzie’s hair, ready for her appointment at Devonshire Square, she snaps at me and snatches the comb, claiming that I am hurting her.

‘You are thinking of your outing, I suppose,’ she says, bottom lip pouting. ‘Thinking of your young man.’

‘He is not my young man.’

She hands back the comb to me. ‘Be more careful.’

I brush her hair, then begin to plait it and pin it up, ready for her cap.

‘Pagan nonsense. No doubt you will wear your best dress, and tie ribbons in your hair, and go along with all the other simple country maids, hoping to come home with a husband.’

Her words wound. If she is so piqued, why has she bade me go?

Joseph is waiting for me in the kitchen. Margaret clucks around him while she carves great hunks of cheese and bread to make a picnic. She has plied him with her best beer and he compliments the brew. She is pink-cheeked with pride. I notice her trying to hide her gnarled naked feet beneath her skirts.

My body prickles with queasy anticipation. I am plagued by sickliness these last two days and cannot make sense of it. It seems this is what Joseph makes me feel. I am not afraid of him, as I was when we first met at the Devil Inn. I’m sure now that he means me no harm. But I am afraid of what this day may bring.

Last night I visited the river to cast my wish that nothing would change. I want my life to stay as it is. It is not so much that I am happy. God knows I have not felt joy this long year past, but here, at West St Paul’s, at least I am safe. And with Lizzie I have the chance of joy, even in the smallest snatches. It is better than nothing. I do not want anything to change this. I do not want anything to take me away from her. I do not trust Joseph to leave me be. And I find that the more I see of him, the less I am able to trust myself.

Joseph and I walk northwards, towards Bishopsgate. Today there is a mood abroad that alters the busy London streets. According to Parliament and the Church, it is just another day, the May Day holiday having been cancelled a few years before, but here, as in the countryside, people seem determined still to mark it. It is as if something of the holiday mood is buried so deep that, despite the lack of maypoles and dancing, people will not, cannot, give it up.

Already there is a gathering of apprentices on Cheapside, at the spot where the great maypole once stood. They hand out pamphlets calling for their rightful holidays and rest days. Joseph takes one in return for a penny. There is laughter and back-slapping, and pewter tankards flash in the sunlight. There is a guilty delight about them, drinking so much, so early in the day, like schoolboys playing truant. As we pass Smithfield, the fishwives call out their wares to the accompaniment of a fiddle playing an old maying tune that echoes in my memory and stirs my heart. Hawkers smile and doff their hats to each other in a display of neighbourliness that is usually absent. Joseph and I are not the only couple to be out for the day: a great number of people are dressed in their good clothes and making for the gateposts. Parliament might pass laws and edicts but it cannot erase the past. It cannot change what has gone before, for generation after generation, with its pieces of paper. Even in this most modern of cities, some of the old ways still hold sway.

We reach the gate and take the north road to Ware. Suddenly it strikes me that I have not been outside the city for a full year, and I feel superstitious about going beyond the walls and into the countryside. I am surprised at myself. Just a year ago, I was terrified by the great city and its people. For months I have gazed up to the smoke-hazed sky and longed for the deep blue of the Fens, and clouds like the exhalations of angels. I have pined for the smell of green things growing, craved to slip my bare feet into dew-glistened grass at dawn and catch the scent of salt on the wind. But here I am, squirming as we broach the gates and follow the broad, dusty road that brought us here. Joseph falls silent as we do this and I know he is thinking the same thing.

Before long, we turn off the main road and take a track that leads to higher ground. Joseph points out landmarks and turns back to view the city as we rise above it. The May sun cannot burn off the haze that hangs over London, like a sea mist, but I can still see the great broken tower of St Paul’s, standing like a beacon at the city’s heart. It comforts me to see it and know that I can never be lost while I have it in my sights. To the west, along the river, I glimpse a glitter of gold, as sunlight catches the windows and flagpoles of Westminster Palace and the Abbey. To the east are the plague pits of Spittle Fields, diggers at work again after the lull of the fierce winter. The summer months will always bring plague but I pray that this year will not be as bad as the last.

We walk for most of the morning, turning northwards along a narrow track that crosses fields and skirts a wild, dense wood. Here and there we pass farm labourers, hoeing the fields for sowing. They straighten up to watch us pass, glad no doubt of the excuse for a rest. It is good to smell the earth again, to feel the cushion of moss beneath my feet, to hear birdsong instead of raised voices. I want to keep walking all day, but I begin to ache with hunger and exertion so we find a place to sit, where we can lean against the trunk of a tree and look back towards the grey smoke of London. In the meadow before us, the grass is grown long, strewn with buttercups and cowslips. I stretch my legs and spread my skirts to hide my ankles. I lean back on my hands and tilt my face towards the sun. The warmth feels so good on my skin. How I long to tear off my cap and let my hair spill down my back like a girl. How I long to take off my boots and race barefoot across the grass.

So I do. It feels dry and warm on my feet and the sun beats down on my bare head. I run and I am laughing. Joseph calls after me but I ignore him. He strips off his own boots and chases after me, making great whoops.

I sprint all the way across the meadow until I have to stop for breath, and then I stand and turn my face up to the sun, spellbound by the light dancing on my closed eyelids.

As Joseph reaches me, I turn from him. We run, laughing like children, and he tries to catch hold of me, but I will not let him.

Margaret has done herself proud. The bread is fresh and the cheese is the good sort, flavoured with cloves, that she usually saves for Master Poole. There are two fat slices of honey cake, sweet, tasting of summer, and a flask of ale.

We are quiet as we eat. I think of the last time we were alone, of our quarrel in Stukeley’s shop and the gossip that caused the fight. I will not be the one to smooth over that hurt. Despite Joseph’s kindness over Lizzie’s papers, despite his lightness today, I am still a little angry with him for the things he said then.

‘Was Mistress Poole pleased with the pamphlet?’ he asks.

Sometimes, I think, it is as if he reads my mind. ‘Yes,’ I say.

‘She has some fine ideas. A little muddled, perhaps, but there is good intent.’

‘Do you believe me now? You see that she is genuine?’

‘It’s not for me to judge. She’s difficult to read.’

‘There is nothing untruthful about her, if that’s what you mean.’

‘All I see is how she presents herself, what she puts down on the page. I don’t know about anything else.’

‘But she is so devout.’

Joseph laughs then. ‘Oh, I don’t doubt that. She is the most devoted of Kiffin’s circle, I’m sure.’ He takes off his jerkin and folds it into a pillow, then lies back with his head upon it. I notice that the sun has already coloured his skin.

‘Her ideas have some worth, I’ll admit that,’ he goes on. ‘Peel away the godliness and there is a political mind at work. A keen mind at that. Whether she knows it or not, I can’t say, but I’ve a feeling she probably knows exactly what she’s doing. She is . . . interesting.’

‘She is good. I know it. Goodness shines from her.’

I check myself. I recall the flicker of understanding I saw pass between the two of them, and Lizzie’s contrary mood this morning. Suddenly my heart constricts. Perhaps it is better if he does not think so well of her. I think of her pure white skin, the burnish of her hair, and the plumpness of her breasts. I cannot compete with her. Until now, I did not know that I wanted to compete.

‘I know you’re loyal to her,’ Joseph says, ‘and that’s to be admired. But I’ve seen God’s goodness, how it can work through a person, and I don’t see it in your mistress.’

He closes his eyes and is silent for a few moments. He has washed the ink stains from his hands and face as best he can, but they are so deeply ingrained now that they cannot be scrubbed away. He has the shadow of them streaked across his cheek. It makes me smile.

‘Sometimes I wonder how life might be if all this was over,’ he says. ‘If there was no war, no fight.’

‘What would you do?’ I ask.

‘Go back to the land. My own land. That is what we’re fighting for, after all.’

‘Do you think you will get it?’

He sighs. ‘One day. Not here, somewhere else. I’m still a farmer at heart and a man must follow his destiny.’

‘Will you go home?’

‘Back to the Fens?’

‘Yes.’

He shakes his head. ‘I cannot go back. I must go forward. Besides, there is better land elsewhere.’

‘Where, then?’

‘Some little corner, tucked away from the rest of the world. Somewhere a man might be free. Perhaps America.’

He breathes the word as though he is embarrassed to say it, as though even the thought of abandoning England is sacrilegious. It is as though the New World holds some kind of secret power over men. I have heard others use the same tone of awe and hope, tinged with guilt, when talking of it. A place where there is land for the taking, where a man may begin again, may live as he pleases. It sounds a dreamlike thing, a place that captures many an imagination. My own Master Oliver would speak of it at times with a self-conscious wistfulness that was unusual in him. I see that wistfulness now in Joseph.

He turns onto his side and props himself on his elbow to look at me. ‘A small farm, a couple of fields, just enough to keep a family. Maybe some livestock in time. Pigs, or a cow. What do you think?’

‘If that is what you want,’ I say.

He plucks a clover leaf and twirls it between his fingers, staring at it as he says, ‘And you? Do you think of the future?’

I have. I do. And it does not include America. I think of endless days at West St Paul’s. I think of Lizzie’s hair splayed across her pillow when I wake her in the morning. I think of her hand squeezing mine as she pulls me through the throng in the churchyard, and I think of her lips, soft on my forehead as she bids me goodnight. ‘No,’ I lie.

‘Everyone has dreams,’ Joseph says. ‘I’ve told you mine. Won’t you repay me in kind?’

I shrug.

‘Sal tells me that every girl dreams of a husband, a house of her own, a brood of children about her feet.’

‘I am not every girl,’ I say resolutely.

‘No, you’re not.’ Joseph pulls himself up and comes to kneel beside me. He reaches out and softly touches my hand.

My heart quickens. This time I do not snatch my hand away. I realise that this is what I have been hoping for, and dreading. How can a person feel two such opposite things at the same time? I cannot think. I do not know what I want.

Gradually he intertwines his fingers with mine. ‘You are no fool.’ His voice is thick. ‘You must know how I . . .’

My mouth is dry and I cannot speak. My body leans towards his. It is as though I am not in control of it, this leaning in, this draw of my body towards his. His face is so close to mine I feel his breath on my cheek as he whispers, ‘Ruth, you and me—’ but his words are cut short as his lips meet mine.

His mouth is hot. He tastes of cloves. I put my hand up to his neck and feel the pulse there, swift, like my own. His rough stubble grazes my chin. But he is gentle, tentative, his mouth exploring mine a little at a time.

I close my eyes and try to give myself up to it, but all the time my mind is racing ahead, thinking of what a life with Joseph might mean, thinking of Lizzie, thinking that I cannot give her up.

I barely notice the walk back to London. Joseph holds my hand and talks about the great plans he has for the future. He tells me about the press that the twins, Benjamin and Charlie, are running in some dank, candlelit basement and how he works alongside them through the night, printing the works of London’s radical thinkers that no licensed press will print. This is how Lizzie’s pamphlet was done. He talks of the good men in the army, who fight for voting rights for all men, land for all men, and how, if the army grandees will listen, there is a chance of such things. And he talks again of life after the war, of settling, of a simpler way. He tells me stories of America, of bad men come good and fortunes made by a fresh start in that unspoiled land. His face has a new light to it. The darkness in him is gone, washed away by the sunshine. Washed away by a kiss.

When he turns his gaze upon me, I see myself reflected there. He looks at me with wonder, as if I am some extraordinary thing. There is tenderness of the sort I have not seen since my mother held me close and told me how much she cared for me. I am seduced by it. I want it, this love – if that is what it is. I yearn for it. I see it in Joseph’s eyes, there for the taking.

But if I take it, what will I lose? Lizzie is foremost in my mind. She will not permit this, and I cannot bear to leave her. I will not leave her. She is there like a shadow, a question to be answered, but I push the thought away and let myself enjoy the moment. I let myself be carried away by Joseph’s dreams. All those things I thought I would never have are made possible by his words: a home, freedom, a sanctuary from my memories. I deserve these things, I think. And I deserve to be desired, just for today. Just for now.

The sun is setting when we reach Bishopsgate. The road is busy with people returning before curfew. But London looks different. I do not see the muck and poverty of the streets. I see only the smiling faces, and the pretty children playing, and the sun’s last rays bouncing a honeyed light from windowpanes.