The Crimson Ribbon (15 page)

Chapter 27

In the weeks that follow, the tumult caused by Master Oliver’s visit settles, but he has wrought changes that cannot be undone.

Lizzie is good to her word. She takes in no more sewing but spends her days in preaching or prayer. I worry that she will grow tired of our small life here and want to return to West St Paul’s, but we talk little of London, or the past, despite the truths that Master Oliver conveyed. I do not want to go back. Even with such an ally, there is still much to chance in a city where gossip and slander send people to the gallows. And I have too much to lose here. In Abingdon, I am mistress of my own home. There is surprising satisfaction in the knowledge that Lizzie and I live by my pocket alone. I feel a sense of freedom that is new to me, and a sense of hope too, for if Lizzie depends upon me utterly, as I depend upon her, it can only strengthen our love.

Some nights, when Lizzie has spent the day with Thomasine, she prefers prayer to pleasure. On these nights our bedtimes are chaste, and it feels as though she is far away from me, shut off in another world – a world I cannot reach. But I try to reach her with kisses and small gifts – winter violets from the riverbank, sweetmeats and cake bread, bought with Master Oliver’s pennies. I try to bring her back to me, with elaborate meals and a clean-swept house, for I will not have a servant girl to do these things, but she does not seem to notice my efforts.

Other times, the heat from our bodies warms us so that we need no fire. Then she is mine and mine alone. I love these nights. I live for them.

One such night I lie on my back while Lizzie props herself up on one arm and plays with the tendrils of hair that stick to my damp skin. I love to lie like this, enjoying the rare peace of the early hours, knowing she is mine until dawn.

‘How things have changed between us,’ she says.

‘Yes,’ I reply, thinking that my feelings for her have not wavered since the first day we met, except to grow and burn with a fiercer passion.

‘I’m so glad that we can be together like this,’ she says. ‘No pretence, no lies, no secrets. We do not have secrets, do we?’

‘Of course not.’

‘Good, for I would hate to think that you keep things from me.’

I turn on to my side to face her. ‘Do you think I keep secrets from you?’

‘No. It’s only that . . . there are some things I long to ask. But you are so quiet and never speak of them.’

‘What things?’

‘The book you gave me, in London, your mother’s book. Do you ever think of it?’

‘At times.’ The truth is that I think about it almost every day. Although I treasure the ribbons that Lizzie gave me in exchange, I have felt the lack of the book. I do not regret my gift to her exactly, but I have missed the surety it holds. Many a time I have guessed at an ingredient or a dosage for a cure. Not everything is embedded in memory. And more than that, I miss the possession of it, as if ownership of some physical thing had linked me to my mother in a way that memory alone cannot.

‘I would like to know more about it, and the woman who penned it,’ Lizzie says. ‘Will you tell me what you remember of her?’

‘One day I will tell you everything, but not yet.’ The past is my own and I do not want to share it, not even with her.

‘Did you read the book?’ Lizzie asks.

‘Of course. My mother used it all my life.’

‘I have been looking at it these past weeks. There are some pages that I do not understand. Will you explain them to me?’

‘You have it here?’

‘You did not think I would leave it behind?’

She is out of bed and across the room before I know it. She has kept it well hidden, buried deep in the chest in which she keeps her things. I feel a prickle of excitement, of joy, as she returns holding the book.

She puts it into my hands and straight away I feel the warmth and love it contains. I cradle it against me for a moment.

‘It is very special to you, is it not?’ Lizzie says.

‘Yes, it is.’

‘Then it means all the more to me. Let me show you . . .’

I give the book back to her and she turns a few pages. Over her shoulder I see the familiar handwriting, black ink fading to brown.

‘Here,’ Lizzie says, pointing to a page dense with scribbles. ‘What does this mean?’

At the bottom of the page is a list of instructions numbered from one to ten. There is a circle opposite, drawn in an unsteady scrawl, with crosses marked around the rim. An inner circle is marked with a list of herbs. I remember this one. We used it often.

‘It’s a charm,’ I say.

‘I thought so. What can it do?’

The knowledge I have of these things, passed down from my mother and by her mother before her, I keep close. I have seen how it can be mistaken and misunderstood. I have found out only too cruelly how, in the wrong hands, it can bring devastation and grief. I have learned from my mother’s mistakes. But it comes spilling out of me now, as if Lizzie herself has charmed me.

‘This is a spell for protection, to be used against curses,’ I say.

‘And this?’ Lizzie flicks forwards a few pages and finds another diagram.

‘A charm to harness the power of the full moon.’

‘And this?’

‘This one is to ward off death. See the crossed scythes? It is good for the plague.’

‘So your mother was a cunning woman,’ Lizzie says.

I do not like the term. ‘My mother did not call herself a cunning woman, although there were those who called her such, and much worse. She was a kind and godly woman. She made no covenant with the Devil. Of that I am sure.’

Lizzie reaches out and strokes my hair, soothing me. ‘I know the memories must be hard. I’m just trying to understand.’

‘My mother was a good woman, from a simpler time and with simpler ways. War and politics were not for her. This time of fear and suspicion and recrimination was not for her. It was not her way. She taught me things, simple things – ways to heal, ways to pray and ways to speak to God that no clergyman tells of in church. She believed that God is all around us, in every flower and herb, in the rivers and the clouds, and in every one of us. She used her charms and rituals as ways of speaking to Him.’

‘I know she was a true believer. Scripture runs throughout. See here, this is what I wanted to show you . . .’

Near the back of the book, where the words are not so crowded, she has found a scrap of gold. Even I have never noticed these words, spelled out in a tiny delicate hand, as though a spider has scuttled across the page:

Whither thou goest, I will go; and where thou lodgest, I will lodge: thy people shall be my people, and thy God my God. Where thou diest, will I die, and there will I be buried: the Lord do so to me, and more also, if ought but death part thee and me.

Beneath, my mother has drawn a tiny scrawl of arrows and crosses. I know it is the ancient symbol of everlasting love. I am taken aback for a moment. I wonder whom she had in mind when she made such a charm. Lizzie reaches out for the newly printed Bible that Thomasine has given her. She finds a page and hands it to me, pointing to the same words, mirrored on the page.

‘It is from the Book of Ruth,’ she says. ‘I believe you are named for her.’

She is right: the words match exactly.

‘It is a pledge,’ she says. ‘A pledge between two friends, two women, whom God brought together. Listen . . .’

She lies back against the bolster and reads the story of Ruth, a widow and outsider who promised her loyalty to Naomi and, in her devotion, found her way to a new love and a new life. I have heard it before, of course, but never had it spoken to me as it does now.

Lizzie finishes and closes the book. ‘Why do you think your mother would pick out such a passage, if not for you? These are Ruth’s words. They were written for you to see, I think, when the time was right. Your mother had a special wisdom.’

I take the book in my lap and run my finger over the words. Are they really meant for me?

‘It’s beautiful,’ Lizzie says.

‘Yes.’

She comes close to me and brushes my hair away from my face. ‘I would make such a pledge. Would you?’

I look into her eyes and see the love and hope that live there. I want her to look at me like that for ever. ‘I will do anything you ask, you know that.’

She smiles. ‘Then we will swear it . . . on the memory of your mother.’ She takes my hand and places it palm down next to hers on the page. ‘Together then . . . until death.’

‘Until death.’

As I reach for her, my mother’s book slips from my lap and falls to the floor, but I barely notice.

Chapter 28

Lizzie does not leave my side for weeks. Through December, we sleep late and spend our days about the house. She walks with me in the woods to find the last of the ripe juniper berries and we come home laughing, sucking pricked fingers, with pine needles tangled in our hair. She comes with me to the wharf and we pick out the best freshwater eels for our supper. She reads aloud to me while I stew them, the kitchen steaming with the scent of tarragon. She tells me the news from London. Since he became our benefactor, she has a keenness to follow the general’s every move, and asks me question after question about the man I once called master. And I talk, more than I have for months. I tell her about my life before, about Ely and the Fens. I tell her about my mother, and her knowledge of the old ways, as she pores over passages in the book. I tell her about Mary, Frances and the others, about Old Bess and her small kindnesses to me. Before, this would have made me homesick or angry, but now there is no need. I have a home, and it is filled with joy.

It is the smallest things that bring me the most happiness – her arm through the crook of mine when we walk out, the sight of our intertwined fingers fitting together so perfectly, the laughter in her eyes at some shared secret joke. Since the day of my mother’s death, there has been a chasm in my soul that no amount of prayer could sate. Now it begins to fill once more, drop by drop, with each smile, each touch, each kiss.

These weeks are blissful and I cherish each day because I know they cannot last. They will pass, as all things must.

Two days before Christmas, Thomasine comes with a letter from Kiffin. I can tell by the look in her eyes that his answer is not what Lizzie has hoped for in these long months of waiting.

Lizzie reads it, screws it up into a ball and tosses it into the corner of the kitchen. ‘He will not help me,’ she says, her voice tight. She sits at the table, head in hands.

Thomasine sits down next to her and puts her hand on Lizzie’s shoulder. ‘I could try again,’ she says. ‘I can tell him of the good works you are doing here. I will ask John to put his name to it.’

‘It is no use,’ Lizzie says, standing. ‘Do what you will, but William Kiffin has made up his mind. You will not change it.’ She goes upstairs, slamming the door to our bedroom.

Thomasine fetches the letter and smoothes it out on the table. She sits and stares at it, saying nothing, as if I’m not in the room.

‘Thank you for coming,’ I say, wanting her gone. ‘I can look after Lizzie now.’

Thomasine looks up at me. ‘Tell me, Ruth, how well do you know Mistress Poole?’

‘We are the best of friends.’

‘Does she tell you her secrets?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you will know that she is right. This is a hopeless cause. Her name will never be cleared while Kiffin is against her.’

‘Surely not,’ I say. ‘Lizzie has done nothing wrong. You must try again, for Lizzie’s sake. The truth will come out in the end. It always does.’

‘That is what concerns me.’ Thomasine stands, wrapping her shawl around her shoulders. She folds the letter and tucks it into her pocket. ‘Your faith in her is admirable, but perhaps you do not know her as well as you think.’

‘I know her better than anyone.’

‘There are things you do not understand. Elizabeth is much troubled. Do what you can for her. Treat her well. She is more fragile than you know.’

She leaves without saying goodbye.

Secretly, I glory over Thomasine. She thinks that she understands Lizzie’s heart when, in truth, she is the one kept in the dark. She does not know where Lizzie’s passion truly lies.

After Kiffin’s letter, Lizzie becomes snappish and fretful. She tells me that her best chance of forgiveness is to help Thomasine in her work. She must prove her worthiness. There are people who need her more than I do. God needs her. So, of course, I must let her go.

I’m curious about the work that keeps her from me for long hours at a time so one evening I ask to go with her. She is surprised but I sense pleasure in her hesitation. She kisses me and tells me she is glad I take an interest at last.

The very next day she takes me to a prayer meeting where a preacher from Oxford, an acquaintance of Thomasine’s, will speak. I am surprised when she leads me to the back room of the Bell. A tavern on the market square, it is most often filled with traders and their lackeys. It is not the place I would choose to speak to God. But Thomasine is here, deep in conversation with Crowley, a fat, red-headed fellow who looks as though he has had too much ale and not enough sleep. She looks up as we enter and, seeing Lizzie, a rare smile twitches at her lips. Dot is here too, sitting meek in a corner, hands folded in her lap, pink-rimmed eyes buried in her cheeks.

Those gathered are mostly men. A few of the more respectable townsfolk, no doubt here at Thomasine’s invitation, stand together, talking in low voices. Others laze on stools and sup their beer, laughing and smoking pipes. There are only two other women, sisters I recognise from Pendarves’s congregation at St Helen’s. I have seen them about Abingdon. They are always together and stand out because of their sameness – the same complexion, the same clothes, the same meek manners. I can barely tell them apart. They sit quietly, waiting. Their eyes follow Lizzie and me as we find empty stools near the fireplace and warm ourselves.

After a few minutes, Crowley shakes Thomasine’s hand and clears his throat, coughing up spittle and hawking it into the fire. Thomasine joins us, greeting Lizzie warmly. Crowley begins to speak.

‘My brothers and sisters, let us join together in worship.’

His voice carries surprising weight. He spreads his arms as though he would embrace the whole room. Titters from the drunkards do not distract him.

‘I know you are all here for good reason. You are seeking solace. You have questions in your heart. Let me speak to you, my brothers and sisters. Let my words offer you some balm. I ask not for your agreement or your argument, only that you may listen with an open mind and an open heart and ask yourself whether what you hear is the truth.’

He takes a swig of ale.

‘Who has not suffered the yoke of poverty these last few years?’ he asks. ‘Who here has not strained against the shackles of hunger and despair? Who has not seen proof that we are living in unprecedented times? There are those of you here, I know, who once lived quiet and peaceful lives. You thought never to have a care for high politics or matters of King and State. Oh, how those times have changed! Every man and woman has been touched by this war. Every person here has seen misery and hunger and bloodshed. Am I not right?’

There are murmurs of agreement around the room. People are listening.

‘Let me ask you, my friends, where is God in all of this? What for these terrible days? The two sides of this great fight both say they are led by Our Lord. Both sides claim their killings and their victories as providence. How can they both be right?

‘I tell you now, God is not with those rich men, cosseted and fattened on the profits from taxes and estates, who wear velvet and feathers on the battlefield. God is not with those iron-skulled generals who slaughter innocents in the name of the people. The blood of English men has been spilled on these shores to teach us a lesson. These men, these powerful men, have risen up and made themselves into gods! They are pretenders to His throne! Is this how it should be?’

The air bristles. Beside me, Lizzie’s head is bowed, her eyes closed. She is whispering under her breath.

Crowley goes on: ‘I hear the cries in your heart, the cries of ordinary people. God hears your cries. God moves within every one of us. God brings us love – love and strength enough that we might rise up in unison and prepare ourselves for a new world, a world in which we might be free of the warmongering of politicians and army men!’ His face is as pink as a shaven pig’s, eyes popping.

‘The world is turning and there will be revolution. The revolution of universal love. That love is with you already. It is in every man, woman and child. It is in every creature. And we must share it! We must spread the message. Each and every one of us has a duty, a calling. He has brought you here today to awaken you!’

There are calls from around the room. Some of the men laugh and swear, others nod solemnly. I squirm on my stool. This is not what is preached in Pendarves’s church or Kiffin’s meeting room.

‘Christ is preparing to walk among us once again. And we must ready our souls! Do you feel His love? His love knows no bounds. It is not to be kept hidden by rich churchmen and given out on a whim. We are not divided from it by altar rails and popish ceremony. His love cannot be contained in a church, so why do we need one? Why should we torture ourselves with questions of sin and righteousness? If His grace is within us, then we are free – free to act according to conscience, knowing that we act before God! Knowing that all comes from God!’

Suddenly Lizzie is on her feet, knocking over her stool. She flings her arms outstretched, like Jesus on the cross, her face tilted to Heaven. The colour has drained from her cheeks and she is pale, grey-green, as if she is under water. She is quivering all over. ‘I can see!’ she cries. ‘I can see!’ Tears seep from her eyes. ‘He comes to me!’

The room falls silent. Crowley is rapt. There is nothing but her voice, wavering above the crackling of the fire.

‘There is light . . . many-coloured light. There is an angel in the light. I see . . . terrible things. I see armies of blood! I see the righteous cut down and raised up again! The dead! The dead are walking. There will be a time of ghosts and a time of miracles. He will walk among us once again! He is coming!’

Her eyes roll back in her head, her body convulses and she falls to the floor, her skirts ballooning around her. I’m by her side in an instant, cradling her head and calling, ‘Lizzie! Lizzie!’

‘Oh, Lord!’ Crowley bellows. ‘Thank you for this sign! We see how you work among us and we are humbled!’

Others join him in praise. I fan Lizzie’s face with my hand and her eyes flicker behind the lids. Thomasine kneels beside me. ‘Is she well?’

‘She needs air. Don’t crowd her.’

She backs away, shooting me a black look.

Crowley continues his rant. His fiery talk ignites the room. There is cheering. One or two of the drunken men climb onto the table and clank their cups together. I cannot listen to any more of this.

Lizzie opens her eyes.

‘Lizzie, are you all right?’

‘Oh, Ruth . . .’ she breathes. ‘It was wonderful . . .’

‘You are not well. We must go home.’

‘Did you see it? It was so – beautiful!’

‘Can you stand, do you think?’

‘Stand? Oh, yes.’

She sits up. Immediately Crowley grabs her hand and hauls her to her feet, away from me. ‘Praise be!’ he says. ‘Bless this woman that she may be your vessel!’

People clap and flock to her, touching her shoulders and grasping at her hands. Her eyes are wet and shining. I watch as she makes her way to Thomasine, who enfolds her in her arms and whispers into her ear. There is nothing I can do but watch as Crowley asks question after question. What did you see? What did you hear? How did it feel? Thomasine holds Lizzie’s hand and listens to her answers with such pride, as though she herself has been chosen.

At length, Crowley finishes his preaching and praising. He shakes the hands of the townsmen and asks them to spread the word of the miraculous happenings they have witnessed. The drunken men fall to lazing by the fire. The two sisters have long disappeared. I did not notice them slip away. Only Dot remains, seated in the corner, her dark little eyes taking everything in.