The Crimson Ribbon (11 page)

Joseph holds my hand, and as we make our way towards St Paul’s he stops and puts his arms around me, squeezing me and laughing, almost lifting me off my feet. There are sideways looks from passers-by, but I care nothing for their judgement. I am enfolded, protected, by a secret, golden glow. For the first time in a long time, I feel truly wanted, truly safe.

Joseph insists he will walk me back to West St Paul’s but we stop by Pope’s Head Alley along the way. He has a new pamphlet to show me, one that he is proud of. I see he wants to share it with me, like a child flaunting a treasured new toy. I can indulge him this once. After all, this is what it means to care for someone.

Stukeley is seated at his desk in the shop, poring over papers by candlelight. He glances up as we enter through the street door. He sees me and frowns. I see his mouth open to protest, but then his eyes slide down to our linked hands and he falters. He does not greet us but bows his head over his papers, and says, ‘You have a visitor. Back door.’ He flaps his hand towards the room that houses the press.

‘Thank you, sir,’ Joseph says, and pulls me along behind him.

There is a door beneath the turn of the stairs that I have not noticed before. It is propped open and a lantern glows on the step. Joseph gives my hand a quick squeeze, then steps outside.

‘By God!’ I hear him cry. ‘I did not expect you till next week!’

There comes the sound of a good-natured welcome, of back-slapping and hand-shaking. I peep through the door and, in the gloom, I see a big man, his hand on Joseph’s shoulder. He wears a hat, pulled down low, and smokes a pipe. His coat is shabby and patched, and covered with the mud of the road.

‘Come inside,’ Joseph says, and I slip away from the door, resisting the urge to straighten my cap and pinch my cheeks to give them colour before I greet this stranger. I wonder how Joseph means to introduce me – as his acquaintance, his friend, his sweetheart? I flatter myself it will be the latter.

As they enter, I keep my eyes to the floor. I catch the scent of male sweat, stale liquor and tobacco.

‘Ruth,’ Joseph says. ‘Meet an old friend.’

I look up and find I am standing face to face with Isaac Tuttle.

Chapter 19

The last of the daylight fades and a low mist creeps over the water. The river is busy. It is always busy, even at this late hour. The tides are not controlled by the curfew and the tradesmen are at their whim. The tide is low and cargo-laden barges make their way slowly downstream, lantern-hung wherries darting between them like fireflies. The lighted windows of Southwark glimmer on the south bank. Shouts and cheers echo across the water from the bear pits. Lights, too, in the houses on the bridge. The smells of cooking drift from open windows, mingling with the fishy, unclean scent of the Thames.

My chest burns from running, so I climb down the river steps and slump to the ground by the water’s edge, amid the slimy silt. A few feet away, rats tear at the carcass of a dead dog. It is bloated and fleshy and stinks of decay.

I am as dead as that dog. Isaac Tuttle will do his worst. I saw the hatred in his eyes. He will not stop until he has seen me hang.

At first, he is as shocked as I. He reels with disbelief. The two of us are mute, while time stands still. My mind whirls away from that room, from Joseph and the gladness of the day, and I am back there again, on the banks of the Ouse, watching the last laboured breaths of my mother’s broken body.

Joseph’s voice pulls me back. ‘Ruth?’

Isaac smiles, a terrible, triumphant smile. And then I run.

I sit here in the mud and the grime. Joseph has not come after me and I’m certain that I will not see him again. Once Isaac has told his tales, once he has spread his lies, the love I saw in Joseph will die. He will not want me so tainted. He will not think me so perfect then.

It is the injustice that hurts most. My mother was innocent. I am innocent. But the world will not believe it. I know that much. The world will believe Isaac Tuttle. The world is ready to credit a man like him. He puts the fear of the Devil into people and they believe him, as he believes his own lies. In this world a man’s word holds more weight than a woman’s. Joseph will trust his friend, just as the townsfolk of Ely were ready to trust.

It is borne of fear – fear that has been bred by the long years of hardship and hunger, by living daily with the threat of war, of never knowing when the fight might reach your own door. Fear makes folk so keen to believe in the evils of this world. How can they not, when they see evil at work all around them? They are looking for someone to blame for the things they suffer. It is the same fear that hangs witches by the dozen in the eastern counties. The same fear that tore my life apart, and will do so again.

I lose track of time. I sit and watch the rats fighting over the flesh of the poor drowned dog. I could do Isaac’s job for him. I could sit here and wait for the turning of the tide, wait for the icy grey waters to carry me off to the sea, back to where I belong, in the marshes with the Fen spirits. Or I could climb up onto the bridge and jump. Plunge myself into the city’s lifeblood and let it take my own. I am alone. There is no one to watch my end. It would be easier, quicker.

A ferryman passes by, close to the bank. His boat is empty and he whistles a bawdy tune to himself. A wind gathers and I shiver as the dampness seeps in. I listen to the lapping water, the sound of revellers at some nearby tavern, the scratch and scurry of river rats. Nothing is constant in this world. Nothing except the beating of my heart. And one day even that will end. I decide today is not that day. As the water washes the shore, it speaks to me. There is life even here, and I hear it echoing within me, and I know I am not yet beaten.

But I must vanish. I will leave tonight. It is my fate to be alone. Although the thought of leaving cuts like a dagger, I know it must be done. I will creep back to West St Paul’s one last time, collect the few coins that are stowed under my mattress and then I will be gone. I will go to where the sky is not always covered with smoke and fog. Somewhere I can see the moon and the stars. Somewhere Isaac Tuttle cannot find me.

Candles are still burning at the windows when I get back to West St Paul’s.

Charlotte is in the kitchen, ladling strong-scented caudle into cups. Her face is pinched and her hair sticks out from under her cap like straw.

‘Where’ve you been? Mistress is asking for you.’ She pushes a cup into my hand. ‘Take this up to her now.’ Her eyes widen as she notices my skirts, blackened with river slime. ‘Lord! You’re filthy!’

I find Lizzie pacing her room in her nightgown, holding a sheaf of papers, a wild look about her. She sees me and wrinkles her nose.

‘What on God’s earth – Where have you been? I did not give you leave to abandon me the whole night long.’

I offer her the cup, but she waves it away. ‘How dare you go about the place all dirty and stinking? What will people think? I told you to be back here before dark. Charlotte had to help me undress and you know how she fumbles and pulls at my hair. You know how I hate it!’

She slams the papers down on the bed; they waterfall to the floor.

‘Why were you not here when I needed you?’ She slumps onto the bed, covers her face with her hands and starts to cry. Despite her years, she looks like a child.

The ties that bind my heart to hers begin to tug. I sit down next to her.

‘Oh, Ruth, what am I to do?’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Pastor Kiffin and I have quarrelled,’ she whispers, as though she is afraid the others will hear. ‘Such bitter words, Ruth, such hurt.’

‘What about?’

‘This!’ She kicks at the papers scattered on the boards. I see they are copies of her pamphlet. ‘This stupid thing.’

I pick one up. ‘But this is your work. Your own words.’

‘Stupid!’ she cries. ‘Unthinking, he said. Blasphemous. Oh, Ruth, I have displeased him so.’

‘But you’re proud of it, are you not? There is worth in it, so I hear.’

‘What do you know? William says it is full of pride and conceit and not God’s word at all. He said it demeans a woman of such high standing within his congregation. He said only a woman of low morals would proclaim themselves in such a way. He says I bring shame upon his church. The Devil’s work, he called it. The Devil’s work!’

She begins to sob again. ‘How can he think such things of me, when I believed in him?’

I put my arms around her and she leans against me, her head on my breast. She does not seem to care now about the riverbank stench coming off me. The cloud of her hair tickles my face. I hold her and feel the shudder of her body.

What would my mother say?

‘You meant only to do good,’ I offer. ‘Pastor Kiffin will surely see that in time.’

‘He spoke such poison. He was so fierce. He is so angry with me.’

‘His anger will fade, as anger must.’

‘I meant only to spread God’s word, His love.’

‘Then your intention is good. If your intention is good, then surely good will come of it, in the end.’

She sniffs and looks up at me. ‘Do you think so?’

‘I know so,’ I say, even though I do not believe it.

‘Then what am I to do? How will I mend it?’

‘You must go on as before. You must hold fast.’

‘How so?’

‘Show Pastor Kiffin that you feel no guilt, no remorse, because you have done no wrong. You must go back and face him, with your own conscience clear. God will see into your heart and do the rest.’

She takes hold of my hand and looks into my eyes. ‘You are right. I have done nothing wrong. My heart tells me so. Yes, I shall go to worship tomorrow, just as I always do, and I shall show him that my heart is pure before the Lord. Then he will see. And you will come with me, Ruth. I will have courage, with you by my side. You see how it is? I cannot do without you . . .’

Later I lie in my bed and stare at the cracks in the ceiling until dawn breaks. I know I should run. I should bundle up what remains of my possessions, creep down the stairs and vanish into the night, like Lizzie’s mother before me. It is the only chance I have of life. But I think of Lizzie, calm now and asleep in her bed below. I think of how the touch of her head upon my chest filled me with such tenderness, such sweet sympathy, her tears drawing out my own. And I think of the look in her eyes when she spoke of her need for me, her belief in me. How it swells my heart and fills me with such glorious feelings. I always thought it was my love for her that kept me here, but I find instead it is her need for me that has that power. To be needed is sweet indeed.

My body will not move. My limbs will not do as I bid them. The coverlet binds me like a winding sheet. I stay because she needs me. I stay because I cannot go.

Chapter 20

As we make our way to Devonshire Square, the city seems made of a thousand eyes. In traders and churchgoers alike, I see suspicion and disgust, the falsehoods of Isaac Tuttle. He is there in the turn of a head, the tip of a hat, the yell of a hawker. The church bells call out my name, sounding his lies. He is there, even as we reach the chapel, and the faces of our people are stone, turned to gargoyles by what they may know.

About thirty men and women are gathered inside, and as we enter, they fall silent. Can Isaac’s word have spread so fast? My breath is tight, my body prickling with fear. Every moment I expect the call of my name, a rough hand upon my arm.

William Kiffin stands at the far end of the room, in earnest discussion with two men. He looks up and sees Lizzie. His mouth is a grim line, his eyes impenetrable.

Lizzie holds her head high and walks between the benches towards him. I realise I have done a wrong thing. I have let her come here unawares. I thought I was protecting her, protecting myself, but now she will hear lies from Kiffin, not the truth from me. She will think I have deceived her. By hiding the truth, I have condemned myself.

‘Good day to you, sirs,’ she says, and holds out her hand, expecting Kiffin to take it. He does not. There is no warm smile today, no kindness in his gaze.

‘Mistress Poole,’ he says. His eyes slide to the floor. ‘I must speak with you, if you please.’ He indicates a low doorway to the side of the room.

Lizzie’s hand hangs there and, as she realises he will not take it, she falters. It is fleeting, but I see it. I have an unpleasant taste in my mouth, bitter and caustic, like poison.

‘Of course,’ she says.

I follow her into the room.

It is a small antechamber, lit by a casement high in the wall. Through it I can see only soot-stained brick – no air, no sky. There is a battered old desk and a chair but no fireplace. The desk is covered with books and papers, all neatly ordered. There is ink and a quill, and sealing wax, lined up ready for use.

Kiffin closes the door. When he speaks, his voice is brittle. ‘Mistress Poole, I must tell you that you, and members of your household, are no longer welcome here.’

‘What?’

‘There have been allegations of a most serious nature. I’m sure you understand that, as pastor of this congregation, I cannot allow—’

‘I know you are angry with me, but I can explain.’

‘I am not angry.’

She steps towards him and puts her hand on his arm. ‘You will forgive our little quarrel when you understand.’

He pulls away from her and turns his back. ‘Elizabeth, this has nothing to do with that.’

She frowns. ‘What, then?’

‘There are those among the congregation who have made claims against you.’

I think of the men, red-faced and angry, and the disapproving stares of the womenfolk.

‘What claims?’

‘Just know that you are no longer welcome here.’

‘What claims?’ Lizzie demands.

Kiffin turns to face her and his eyes are thunderous. He uses his pulpit voice. ‘You are accused of committing grievous sins, both spiritually and bodily. You have let the Devil into your house and your heart. In short, madam, there are those who would have you tried for a whore and a witch.’

Witch. My breath catches at the word. Not her. He cannot mean her. Surely he means me.

‘I don’t understand,’ she says.

‘Elizabeth, you are found out.’

She laughs at the idiocy of it. ‘And you believe this?’

‘They have evidence.’

‘What evidence?’

‘You have been seen with men. Many men, so I am told.’

‘You know that is not true.’

‘They say that you conjure spells and put the Devil into men. Drive them mad. Make them do things . . . sinful things . . .’

‘How can you speak such nonsense?’

Kiffin pauses. ‘I have seen what you are capable of,’ he says bitterly.

I should speak out. I should try to right this wrong. But fear binds my tongue.

Again Lizzie tries to go to him, tries to touch him. ‘William, surely you cannot believe this.’

‘What am I to think?’ he says. ‘When you have proved yourself so wanton.’

He goes to the desk and picks up a paper. It is a copy of Lizzie’s pamphlet. ‘You say you know God. You say He speaks to you.’ He unfolds the pamphlet and jabs his finger at the page. ‘Here, you say God has shown you how the world should be, and here . . .’ again he points ‘. . . you speak of love. You speak of the love between a man and a woman as if it were some base thing. You say women should be free as the angels in Heaven and not be tied down by a marriage contract. You say they are equal to men, and should give their love, and their bodies to whom they choose. These are not God’s words, Elizabeth, they are your own, and they come from a darkness in you.’

He is angry now, the glorious passion I’ve seen in him when he preaches replaced by fury.

‘I meant only to spread God’s love,’ Lizzie says.

‘This is not God’s love. This is carnal love you speak of. You are an unmarried woman. To write of such things . . .’

Still Lizzie does not quake. ‘Will you not stand by me in this? Have I not been the most devoted of your followers?’

‘I thought so, but now I see I have been deceived. I must act in accordance with the wishes of Our Lord and my church.’

‘Will you not refute these claims?’

‘Madam, it is my true duty to protect my flock from any kind of scandal or devilishness. For a man in my position . . .’

‘You can stop this, William. One word from you would silence them, such is your power over these people. Will you not refute?’

‘No, madam, I will not.’

She stands tall and proud but I see the flush in her cheeks, hear the tremor in her voice. ‘Why have you turned against me?’

‘They are angry. They talk of bringing in the magistrate. They demand that I send you away. It is my duty. If I do not, I will have a mutiny on my hands.’

‘You know there is no truth in this, but you will choose them over me. To keep the peace, to keep your power, you will condemn me.’ Lizzie’s lip quivers as she speaks.

‘You doubt me,’ Kiffin says, ‘but my people do not. It is you they doubt.’

For a moment they stand face to face, both unbending.

‘I see you are set,’ Lizzie says, ‘and I will not beg forgiveness for something I have not done. But Our Lord knows the truth of it. You know the truth of it, though you will not admit it. You will answer for the wrong you have done me.’

She moves towards the door. I think she has forgotten me, so I step after her. As I pass Kiffin, he catches my arm. ‘If you stay with her you will be tainted,’ he says. ‘It is not too late for you.’

Oh, how mistaken he is.