The Crimson Ribbon (12 page)

Chapter 21

Later that day a letter arrives. Although there is no seal, I know that it is from Kiffin. Lizzie takes it and asks for privacy. I expect indignation, fury, but no sound comes from her room and she does not call for me. For hours there is nothing but silence and the quickening in my chest. When I can bear it no longer I go to her with an offering of small beer and oatcakes as my excuse.

She sits on her bed, staring at nothing. The letter is nowhere to be seen. Her eyes are red-rimmed and I know she has been crying, the quiet crying that happens when a heart is broken and there is nothing to be done. I do not need to ask the questions that have burned inside me all afternoon. I can see that nothing has changed. Kiffin will not save her. She is named a whore and a witch. She is outcast. She is like me.

It is not until dusk, when I am tossing the dishwater out into the street drain, that I notice the woman. She is hovering in the shadows by the kitchen door like a cutpurse, wearing a dark cloak, the hood covering her face. It is only by the primrose yellow curls, escaping at her collar, and the flash of green and red skirts, that I recognise Sal.

She and the twins, Benjamin and Charlie, have often been in my thoughts since we met on Twelfth Night. Joseph speaks of all three with affection, as though they were siblings, but it is not he who keeps them alive in my mind – it is the memory of how I felt that night. Sal had seemed so brave, and so carefree. For a moment I had felt those things too. It seems a fleeting, unreal thing now, but I have sometimes wished to see them again, and to know Sal better.

I hiss her name, startling her.

‘Ruth – thank the Lord it’s you at last,’ she whispers. ‘I’ve been waiting here an hour or more.’

‘Why did you not come to the door? Come inside.’

‘No. I mustn’t see anyone else. Just you.’

I glance behind me. Margaret is tending the hearth and I’ve left the door open. ‘What is it?’

She tugs at my sleeve and we move away from the house until we are hidden from view.

‘The Watch will have me for the King’s spy, skulking about like this,’ she says, smiling. In the fading light, her eyes sparkle momentarily before she is serious again.

‘I’m come with a message from Joseph.’

‘Oh . . .’

‘That fool of a boy has got into trouble with Stukeley. He would have come himself but he can’t get away.’

‘What kind of trouble?’

‘Stukeley’s in a rage because Joseph was off with you all day yesterday. He has him working round the clock, fearing for his place. If you ask me, it’s just an excuse. Stukeley suspects he’s up to something.’

‘And is he?’

‘My boys are always up to something.’ She smirks. ‘If I wanted a quiet life, I wouldn’t have set my cap at Charlie.’

‘What does he want?’

‘You’re to meet him tonight. He can’t get away until Stukeley is abed. Ten should be safe enough. Meet him at Broken Wharf, outside the tavern, by the river steps. And come alone. He says it’s important.’

She reads my silence and is suddenly straight-faced. ‘Ruth, what’s happened?’

‘Nothing. Nothing for you to worry about.’

‘I’m no fool. I know the signs of a lovers’ tiff. Lord knows I’m on the wrong side of one often enough.’

‘It’s not that, Sal.’

‘What, then? The whole thing is making me twitch. Joseph looked dreadful, like he hadn’t slept. And he had that manner about him again – troubled, like a man with the Devil snapping at his toes. He seemed that way when I first met him, and I don’t mind saying that he scared me a little back then. You don’t cross a man like that. Of course, I know him better now . . .’ She pauses and searches my face. I must not give myself away, but she sees my struggle anyway. ‘If there’s something I can do for you, Ruth, you must ask. They might be a troublesome lot, but they’re good men, and Joseph is as good as any. God knows I’m a fool, but I’d risk much to help him.’

‘I can’t explain.’

She frowns and makes a sound of exasperation. ‘Well, then, I must get back before I’m missed.’ She takes my face in her hands and leans in. For a moment I think she means to kiss me, but she brushes her lips briefly against my cheek and whispers in my ear, ‘You’re a sweet girl, Ruth. You could make him happy, if you’ve the heart for it.’

I watch her go. As she turns the corner she looks back and smiles before slipping into the darkness.

I don’t blame her for the part she plays in the trap, for I know it
is
a trap. What other reason can there be for a moonlit meeting by the river, for such stealth and secrecy? I am just sorry that Isaac’s web has drawn her in, even if she does not know it. I envy her trusting nature. I envy her simple life. Although I do not know her well, I feel bonded with her in a way I cannot explain. I’m sorry that I will not see her again, that I will not have the chance to know her better, once they take me away.

So, Joseph has believed Isaac’s lies. Even though I expected this, it hurts to think that he can be turned so swiftly, his love transformed to hate by a falsehood. If he can believe a man like Isaac, then I am much mistaken in him. I curse myself for my stupidity, for allowing myself to think of him at all. I have let my guard down. I should have known better. I should know, by now, that men like him cannot be trusted. I have been a fool, flattered by the longing in his eyes, seduced by his talk and his dreams, like a naïve girl hankering for a husband. Joseph’s dreams are not my own. When he kissed me, it was Lizzie’s face I saw in my mind’s eye.

Of course I do not go to Broken Wharf, and it is past midnight when they come for me. Isaac Tuttle’s messengers do not come with weapons and warrants, as I have imagined it. There is no bloodthirsty crowd. Instead, two men come and rap upon the street door.

I’m still up, sitting with Lizzie in her room, and I’m at the window before Margaret has answered. In the dark street below I see them waiting patiently, as though they are invited guests. They wear buff coats, swords hitched at their hips. There is no cart, no chain and no gaoler. I suppose they think that one young girl will cause them no trouble and I suppose they are right. I have nowhere to run to, nowhere to go.

‘Is it the Watch?’ Lizzie thinks Kiffin’s cronies have turned her in. I know better. She paces the boards. ‘How can you be so calm?’ she says. ‘Don’t you care?’

I care more than she can know. I care so much that I will give myself up for her. I did not flee when I had the chance. I stayed for her. It gives me some small comfort to know that she will understand this when the truth comes out.

Downstairs, Margaret lets the men in and takes them into the front parlour. I hear the scrape and clatter of their weapons against the doorframe. Then she goes to Master Poole’s room, and I hear him complaining about such late callers. As soon as the parlour door is closed, Margaret comes puffing up the stairs. She does not knock.

‘Mistress, there’s army men here, asking after Ruth.’

‘Ruth? But surely they are come for me?’

‘No, mistress. I heard it rightly. It’s Ruth they want.’

They both look at me.

‘Ruth?’ Lizzie is confused. ‘What do they want with you?’

I do not know how to reply, where to begin. But she must hear my story before she hears Isaac’s lies. This might be my only chance.

‘There is a man,’ I say. ‘A man who wishes me dead. He named my mother a witch and he killed her for it. Now he wants to kill me too.’

‘What man?’ Lizzie says.

‘His name is Isaac Tuttle. He is here, in London.’

Lizzie starts to laugh as though it is a joke, but her laugh soon dies.

‘I’m telling the truth,’ I say.

They both stare at me as if it is the first time they have ever seen me, as if they do not know who I am. I hear muffled voices from below, men’s voices, deciding my fate. It is too late to flee.

‘You say this man killed your mother?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘He believes that she killed his wife.’

‘And did she?’

I am hurt that Lizzie could even ask the question. I shake my head. ‘We were trying to help her. She was in childbed, but her baby would not breathe. Her baby was . . . unfinished. We couldn’t stop the bleeding . . .’

‘So it happens every day. That does not make you a witch.’

‘There were other things. My mother was unwed. She was not well liked. The townsfolk thought . . . It was an excuse.’

‘What did this man do?’

I do not want to remember, but I must.

‘He hanged her.’

My legs are weak as I speak. I want to sit down, right there on the boards, and go to sleep. I want to run from the memories.

‘And where were you?’

‘I was there. I saw it all, and then I ran.’

‘Is that why you came here? To hide?’

‘I suppose so.’

‘And now he has found you.’

Before I have the chance to answer, there are raised voices below and Master Poole is calling for Margaret. She flings me one last astonished look, then hurries down the stairs.

Lizzie and I are alone.

‘How long have you known that this day would come?’ she says.

‘I have feared it all this time, but I saw him only yesterday. I knew then.’

‘Why did you not flee?’

I answer her with a look. There are no words.

Master Poole stands in the corner of the bedroom, wringing his hands. I notice for the first time that he stoops when he walks and, under the lower ceilings of the upstairs room, looks hunched and old.

‘Really, Elizabeth, are you sure this is the best course of action?’

Lizzie is flying about the room, pulling things from chests and closets and piling them on the bed. ‘Yes, Father. Please don’t argue with me.’

He turns to me. ‘I’m sorry, Ruth, but I could not lie to them. They say the order comes from their colonel, and I dare not disobey.’

I bow my head. ‘I’m grateful for what you have done.’

‘It is only one night’s reprieve. They will be back to take you in the morning.’

‘We will be gone by then,’ Lizzie says.

‘My child, whatever they want with Ruth, you have no part in it. Why must you go rushing off into the night?’

‘What have I to stay for?’

He seems crushed, but she is too excited to see it. The idea has taken hold of her and nothing will change her mind.

‘This is your home.’

‘It is not safe. I must go somewhere new. Somewhere away from the lies and the accusations. Somewhere I can work to clear my name.’

‘You are running away.’

‘Can you not see that more scandal will ruin us? Will ruin you and the business. Ruth must go and I must go with her. It is to save
you
that we must go.’ Lizzie comes to me and takes my hand. ‘We will be safe if we go together.’

I leave Lizzie and her father to their farewells. I drag my old satchel from under the trestle, where it has lain untouched for the last year. Into it I squeeze my one good dress, the red ribbons that Lizzie gave me and the last of the pennies I have saved.

I pause for a few seconds and look around this tiny space, the four walls that have cosseted me as the year has turned. I will miss this house. I will miss the life I have had here. But a life on the road is better than no life at all. Besides, I am taking with me the one thing that matters most. It is so much more than I had hoped for.

And so we fly, like two outlaws, bound together by the crimes we did not commit. Before dawn we are at Cornhill, looking for a carter to take us west. We are to go to Abingdon, a place where Lizzie says she has connections. There are people there who may help us.

For the second time I am running for my life, but this time I am not alone.

Chapter 22

As we go west, beyond the city walls, we pass Tyburn Tree. The gallows stand stark and empty against the sky. I have heard of this place many times, muttered as an oath or spoken of in hushed tones by the goodwives in the market, but it is the first time I have seen it. I cannot help but stare at the place where so many have met their end. I hope I have escaped the same fate.

The countryside beyond is pretty, blooming with late spring, cleared to make way for the farmsteads that feed London’s clamour for food. The carter is a man of few words and that suits us. We want no conversation, no enquiries. Even Lizzie is silent as we watch London shrink into the distance. I ask her if she has ever left the city before and she shakes her head. Her mouth is pinched into a tight little O. Now I’m the one with worldly experience. I reach across and squeeze her hand. We must help each other to courage. I cannot fail her but, at the same time, I cannot bear her to fail me. If she crumbles, and wants to turn back, I do not know what I will do.

We travel through the day and at nightfall snatch a brief, disturbed rest at a nameless inn on the wayside. The next morning the carter takes us as far as the great castle at Windsor. From here we must find another transport. The castle, huge and proud above the town, grey stone warmed by the sun, puts me in mind of the cathedral at Ely. It is not a match in looks. Instead of Ely’s soaring beauty, the walls are thick and squat, built for siege, not prayer. But the castle has the same presence, power made in stone, watching over the town as it has done for centuries. I imagine that the people of Windsor love it and hate it in equal measure, just like those at home.

No royal flag flies above the great round tower. This is a Parliament town now, like so many others that once held to the King’s cause, and it shows. Soldiers with stained coats the colour of tilled earth check the carter’s pass and give us the eye.

We pay the man and look for the night’s lodgings, but everywhere we go there are more soldiers. They lounge outside the inns and fill the taprooms within. People stare at us. Men stare at us. Men always stare at Lizzie, but this time they follow us like hunting dogs, sniffing out prey. It is not safe here.

It is Lizzie’s idea to go on by foot. As the day wears on, we leave the town and set off on the Oxford road. I’m keen to gain more distance from London and, travelling alone, we cannot be traced by soldiers with bribe money to loosen tongues. It is warm enough to find an outdoor bed for the night.

The track takes us into the woods, and as the sun begins to set, we stop to find a place to eat and sleep. We leave the road to find a safe harbour within the trees that cannot be seen by bandits and thieves. I am afraid to stray too far, so we settle in a small clearing, near the track, hidden by a high bank of knotted brambles that make a hollow in which we can shelter from the worst of the chill. We will have to do without a fire here, but at least we will not be discovered.

We eat our supper, bought from the market in Windsor, and watch the light between the trees turn deep summer gold. Little pockets of warmth dance across my skirts as the breeze gets up and the leaves shiver, making the sound of rushing water above my head.

‘I have something to show you before it gets dark,’ Lizzie says. The bundle she carries is much larger than my own and from it she pulls a neatly folded set of men’s clothes – a pair of grey woollen breeches, a jacket and a hat.

‘I took them from Father’s room. He won’t mind. He has plenty.’

‘But why?’

‘I’m as tall as any man, and with my hair tied up inside the hat, we will be safer.’

‘But you do not look like a man,’ I say.

‘You’ll see. Help me . . .’

She tugs at the lacings of her stays. I unbutton her dress and she pulls the breeches on over her shift.

‘There – see? They almost fit.’

The jacket is too big for her but she puts it on anyway and we struggle to pile her hair up inside the wide brim of the hat. When we are done she looks misshapen and mismatched, a tatterdemalion. But her face is lit up. ‘You must be my looking glass.’ She spins around and makes me a bow. She smiles, nose crinkling, freckles aglow in the gilded light.

‘Quite the gentleman,’ I say. I spread my cloak on the ground, making ready for the night. We must bed down before the sun is gone.

But she laughs and swaggers around the clearing and between the trees, kicking up pine needles. Then she starts to sing.

I have heard her sing in worship, at Devonshire Square. There, her voice was fine and high, soaring above the others in a quest to reach God. Now she chooses an old tune, one I know well, one I heard often from my mother’s lips. She sounds like a bawd, singing for the loss of a lover. She could be sinking ales with the ’prentices outside the Pope’s Head, her tone so round and ripe. I sit, leaning back on my hands and watch. She likes having me as her audience and climbs onto a fallen tree trunk, her voice ringing out.

It can be no coincidence that she has picked a song that fills me with feeling. It reminds me of a long-ago time, when my greatest ills could be mended by a pretty lullaby and the promise of sweetmeats before bed. She cannot possibly know it, but there is magic in her choice.

As the song ends, she finishes with a flourish and a deep bow, her hat in her hand and her hair spilling down her shoulders, ablaze in the yellow light. I clap and call for more but she shakes her head. She jumps down from her perch and begins to spin round and round on the spot, her head tilted back to catch the last of the sun that trickles down through the leaves. I think of Mary, Frances and me, playing in the field behind the house in Ely, joining hands and spinning each other until we were dizzy and almost sick with it. There is a kind of freedom in such simple things. I want to get up and link hands with Lizzie, but instead I sit and watch her. The air is filled with tiny flies, their wings catching the rays and making them glow like candle flames dancing around her head. She is glorious. She is queen of the fairies.

Then she stops, sighs, and comes to sit next to me.

‘I feel quite different,’ she says, her eyes fixed on something in the distance. ‘Like a different person.’ She sits with her legs wide, unrestricted by her skirts. ‘Tomorrow I shall be
Master
Poole and we shall travel together, as sweethearts.’

My heart leaps. She sits awhile, looking at me, her breath still coming fast. I cannot meet her eyes. I hope the twilight hides my burning cheeks.

‘Come,’ she says. ‘The light is fading. We must make ourselves ready.’

I tidy the remains of our meal and store it deep inside our bags. Then we fashion a bed from our cloaks and Lizzie’s discarded skirts. The hollow is mossy and smells of earth and damp. As we lie down together, my heart feels as though it strains towards hers and my skin prickles at the brush of her clothing against my own.

We lie face to face and I curl up into a ball, a little afraid of the gloom that creeps through the trees. There is still enough light for me to see her face and I study it as she tries to sleep. Although perhaps she is tall enough to be mistaken for a boy, her face will always give her away, for her features are delicate. Her jaw is too fine, her skin too smooth. I watch as she relaxes into sleep and her mouth falls open slightly. I trace the line of her lips in my mind, so that I might remember this moment. Then she opens her eyes.

I hold her gaze, emboldened by the encroaching night. I think I feel a little of whatever has been freed inside Lizzie. In this place, the same rules do not seem to apply.

She reaches out her hand and gently strokes my cheek with a finger. This time she does not move her hand away. As if she knows what I have been thinking, she draws her fingertip to my mouth and delicately traces the line of my own lips. The sensation sends a bolt of feeling straight through me, warming my insides.

She wriggles closer to me then, until our bodies lie together, tangled in layers of cloth. Her knee, unencumbered by her skirts, nudges its way between my legs. As she presses against me, my whole body turns to liquid, golden as the sunset, syrupy as honey. Her face is so close to mine that as she whispers I feel hot breath upon my skin.

‘Will you do something for me?’

‘Of course.’

‘Call me Lizzie. No more “Mistress”. I want us to be real friends now, for I fear I have few left.’

‘I’m always your friend and nothing will change that.’

‘I know you are, Ruth. I knew the moment you came to me. I said to myself, “God has brought someone here for me.” Promise you will never leave me.’

‘Never. I will never leave you. I promise.’

My heart sings, I promise, I promise. I made such a promise the day I met you and I will never break it.

‘My angel,’ she breathes.

And then she tilts her mouth towards mine and I feel the wet tip of her tongue on my lips.

As she kisses me it feels as though my whole body is shaken awake after a long time sleeping. I pulse with a thousand fragments of light and colour behind my eyelids. Desire heats every part of me. My chest feels too small to hold my heart.

I do not know how long we stay like that, kissing and touching each other’s faces with cold fingertips, but I want it never to end. By the time she sleeps, the night is as black as Fenland peat. I cradle her in my arms and watch for snatched glimpses of the stars through the canopy. I cannot sleep. I will be tired tomorrow, but I do not care. It is more than I have dreamed of, to know that we will enter Abingdon not as lady and maidservant, not only as friends but as lovers too.

The silver thread is wound so tight. I thank the Fen spirits for binding her to me. I thank God for the part He plays in all earthly mysteries. I pray only that the thread knotting us together proves as strong as real silver. In this fragile, shifting world, we must cling to the things that are solid. I swear that I will not be the one to let it break.