The Crimson Ribbon (4 page)

Chapter 5

Downstairs the fire still blazes in the hearth and a couple of men doze, stagnant tankards of ale and the remains of a meal on a table next to them. I find and light a lantern and duck into the yard, hiding in doorways and under eaves until I reach the stable block where I can see the glow of a brazier.

Someone has made a fire and a few lads rest nearby on bales of straw, but Joseph is nowhere to be seen. Staying under cover, I skirt the boxes, some of them housing stamping, steaming horses, disturbed by the storm. I curse the mud that seeps into my shoes, knowing the roads will be bad tomorrow.

I reach the far-most point of the inn, just where the open road begins and the blacksmith plies his trade to passers-by. After that, there seems to be nothing but a few shacks and open fields, dark and blurred through the rain.

I do not know why I feel compelled to search Joseph out. My satchel is still stowed safely under my bed and my purse is still hidden in the folds of my petticoat. Siddal still snores on his pallet. Free from the binds of our arrangement, I should be glad, but thinking he may be gone, I feel more alone than ever.

With my courage faltering, I turn back, and then I see him, perched on an upturned trough, just inside the open door of the forge. He is staring out across the fields, shoulders hunched, one hand cupping his injured side. Despite the light I carry, he does not seem to notice me: he is lost in his own world.

Suddenly I feel as though I should not be there. I’m guilty, like an eavesdropper caught bending to a keyhole.

I turn to go but the sound startles him and he looks up, his expression blank, as though he does not recognise me. Then he shakes himself from his trance. ‘Ruth?’

I come forward and nod towards the hand that clutches his ribs. ‘Does it hurt?’

‘Aye, at times. It has not healed well.’ His voice catches in his throat.

In the cast of the lantern I notice the hollows under his eyes. ‘What are you doing out here?’ I ask.

‘Cannot sleep with the storm.’

As if in answer, the sky is rent with a crack of white fire and the yard reverberates with thunder. Joseph winces. I duck under the shelter and sit next to him. We watch the rain come down, listening to the slurp and suck of the gutters.

‘I can help.’ The words escape me before I think better of them. Easing the suffering of others was my mother’s way of serving God; it comes to me as naturally as prayer.

He raises a brow, eyes questioning.

‘I have a little of the healer’s knowledge,’ I say. ‘I have tended wounds before . . . If you show me . . .’

He hesitates for a moment, then shrugs off his jacket. He stands, flinching as he straightens, and turns to face me so that we are both held in the circle of lamplight. He tugs his shirt free and lifts it high, looking steadily ahead into the darkness.

The scar is jagged, the colour of a ripened plum. It begins at his chest and runs down his left-hand side, over the flesh of his belly, ending somewhere beneath the ties of his breeches. Even by candle flame I can see where the skin has puckered and knitted together unevenly, and the angry raw welts where it has still not calmed. The cut was not a clean one, and it was deep. I have never seen worse on anyone still living. By rights, he should be dead.

I stay seated, my face level with his hip, and reach my hands up to his chest. Sometimes I can tell more by touch than by sight. As my fingers meet his skin he glances down, surprised. I feel his heart jumping.

I work my fingertips slowly down the length of the scar, feeling the hardened ridge where the wound has come together. I pause where the flesh is soft and the scarring is worse. I can feel a knotted thickening there, as though pebbles are sewn beneath. I press my flattened palm gently and feel his muscles tense. I know this must pain him, though he refuses to show it. Lower down, the scar is smoother and has healed better, its edges seamless and fading to silver, a dusting of dark hair beginning to conceal it. I run my fingers down as far as I can, meeting with the line of his breeches. The skin here is hot to touch. I catch the scent of him, the scent of the road, but sweet and musky.

I look up and find that he is watching me intently, watching my fingers on his skin. For a moment I am snared by his stare. I cannot lift my hands. My mouth is dry; words will not come.

When at last he breaks the silence, his voice is strangled. ‘Have you ever seen a man die?’

I shut my eyes as memories cascade: the faces of Ely townsfolk, marked with the purple bruises of plague, fevered with the pox; infants cramped with colic, wheezing their last feeble breath; Esther Tuttle’s stillborn child; the kicking of muddy ankles and the baying of a bloodthirsty crowd. My stomach turns.

‘Yes,’ I say.

‘Was it a bad death?’

‘Yes.’

‘Then you know how it is. I’ve seen many men die, most of them in blood and pain. Most did not deserve such an end. Many’s the time I’ve asked why I was spared. Better men than I were not.’

I drop my hands to my lap and sit in silence.

He lets his shirt fall and sits back down. ‘Have you family?’ he asks.

I falter before I shake my head. It is the first time I have admitted it.

‘I had a brother. His name was Jude. I lost him at Naseby, the day I got this. Every day since, I’ve had this pain upon me. The wound will not heal until I’ve put his soul to rest.’

‘There is much that may be done,’ I say. ‘A poultice will help the healing and a dose of comfrey—’

‘There is nothing to be done, nothing that you can help with. The wound is deeper than you can ever know.’

My own heart aches as though it is cut. I want to tell him that I do know, that I understand what it is to have a loved one taken so suddenly, so violently. I want him to know the real reason I am here. I want him to understand that I, too, am fleeing for my life, with wounds just as deep, and fresher than his. Most of all, I want to have him reach his arms around me, and tell me that I am not alone in this.

But I do none of these things. The truth chokes me as I say, ‘They took my mother . . .’

For a moment he does nothing. The muscles in his jaw twitch. Slowly, he reaches out and takes my hand from where it rests in my lap. He enfolds my fingers in his palm. I cannot speak, or meet his gaze, for fear that the sorrow will come spilling out of me, and never stop.

We sit in silence. The rain is easing, leaving behind the biting chill of a fresh spring morning. In the distance, the sky is turning from black to grey. The clouds flash every now and then to the south, towards London and our journey’s end. And over that great city, the sky trembles with thunder, like the sound of distant guns.

Chapter 6

By morning the storm-soaked roads are muddy and spoiled by puddles. But the rain brings one blessing: the heat of the day before is gone and the sky is hazy and pale blue, the sun tempered by a fresh breeze. My clothes, still damp and itchy from the night-time rain, begin to dry, and I tie my shawl to the side of the cart and let it hang loose, fluttering and catching the wind, like a flag.

Every now and then the mud holds us back, our wheels caught axle deep. I spend the better part of the morning climbing down from my perch among the pelts to tug at the reins of the horse while Siddal and Joseph clear the spokes.

Joseph is gruff and churlish. By sunrise any trace of the sad, unguarded man I came to know in the night has vanished. He grunts in answer to Siddal’s orders and refuses to meet my eye. I suppose he is ashamed. After all, I am a stranger to him, pretending siblings or not. I imagine a fighting man like him will suffer to be seen so weak and troubled. Still, the change in his manner is so marked that I cannot help but be hurt by it. I did not choose his company, or ask for the burden of his secrets. The burning of my own grief leaves little room for sympathy, but I am puzzled that whatever affinity moved me by darkness seems such a dreamlike thing in the light of day.

During the afternoon, as we pass through Waltham Woods, Joseph is dozing in the back of the cart. I loll next to him, marvelling at the tall trees that stretch their boughs towards the sky, making a green and gold canopy overhead, like the hangings on the master’s old four-poster. Joseph lies with his hat pulled low over his brow. The light trickles from above, making the leaves glow so many hues. I watch shadow patterns dance on Joseph’s clothes and skin. I notice the hairs on his chin spark deep red as the sun hits them.

After a while his jaw grows slack and his lips part. They are full lips, well shaped. His looks are softer with the innocence of sleep. I long to lean across and raise his hat from his face, to see him vulnerable again. I want to feel the comfort of my hand in his. Instead I touch his sleeve lightly with my fingers.

‘I’m sorry for your brother,’ I say quietly.

He stirs and lifts his hat. ‘What?’

‘Naseby, your brother, your poor wounded belly . . . I’m sorry for it all.’

He scowls. ‘I have no brother,’ he says. ‘And I never was at Naseby Fight.’ He pushes himself up, twisting away from me to check whether Siddal is listening. Satisfied we are not overheard, he leans in so close that as he whispers I feel spittle land upon my cheek.

‘I should never have told you aught of Naseby. Promise me you’ll not speak of it.’ He grabs my arm insistently, fingers digging into soft flesh. ‘They’ll shoot me for deserting . . . I should never have told you. Do you understand? Promise me . . .’

Siddal turns in his seat, disturbed by the movement, and Joseph releases his grip. I nod, rubbing my arm where the bruise will colour. Siddal smirks.

I understand better than Joseph knows. The name ‘Witch’ will follow me to London if I do not hold my tongue. My own life depends upon my secrecy. I’m suddenly glad that I did not share the truth with him. I see it clear now: I must tell no one, trust no one. I must lock my secrets inside so they cannot be used to hurt me. I turn away from him and do not speak another word until we near London.

My first glimpse of the great city comes just as the sun begins to wane. I’m starting to wonder if we will arrive in darkness when, cresting a hill, Siddal calls out, ‘London ahead!’

Before us, the land flattens, low hills rolling away into a valley. And there in the distance is a grey smudge of buildings, haloed by a puddle of smoke.

‘An hour or two more,’ Siddal says, giving the horse’s rump a rap with his switch.

Soon there are houses alongside the road. These are different from the Fenland homes I am used to, where hamlets are grouped around a well, or common land, and huddle together, centred on themselves, villagers protected by a circle of timber and stone. Here the buildings skirt the track, as if the road is the lifeblood of their world. Kitchen gardens and small farmsteads fill the country; pigs and goats live in roadside pens.

Inns and alehouses pepper the route. We stop at one to water the horse and are instantly surrounded by pedlars selling beer, maslin bread and pottage. They seem to come from nowhere, like rats to scraps, ragged, with haunted eyes and shabby clothes. They press around the cart until Siddal, fearing for his goods, swipes them away with his whip.

Twilight is falling and the road is become a steady stream of carriages and carts and men on horseback. We can see the city proper now, glimpses of great buildings and spires each time we reach higher ground. And so many chimneys, spewing dark smoke skywards.

At last we reach the city gatehouse. Stretching away on either side is a great ditch, some yards across. It puts me in mind of the earthworks that criss-cross the Fens, built by the adventurers who came to drain the land. I wonder what city men want with such excavations. Beyond the ditch the city defences rise bleak and grey, pointed with iron spikes, like rotten teeth. Siddal, all puffed up with his knowledge, tells me that the works are only a few years old, put up by the people in the early days of war to protect themselves from the King’s army, after Parliament had routed him at Turnham Green. Already they look as though they have stood for decades, crumbled in places and shored up with wattle and timbers. I gape at his stories of the city’s women and children clawing the mud with bare hands, shouldering great stones, making their homes safe from their king. Joseph sits, grim and unspeaking, as Siddal weaves his tales.

The road is barred here with a chain. I hold my breath while a soldier peers at Siddal’s papers, and at my pass, before nodding us on. Siddal is to take his cart to a merchant who lives near the Royal Exchange. From there, he tells me, it will be easy to find St Paul’s.

When at last we reach Cornhill, Siddal, pretending a gentleman at the end, helps me climb down from the cart.

‘Well, now,’ he puffs, eyes glittering, ‘I have made my end of the bargain. You are arrived.’ He nods and glances about, as if expecting thieves and pickpockets to appear like wraiths and spirit away his fee.

Joseph is by my side, nudging me. ‘Two crown for Master Siddal, Ruth.’ I count the coin from my purse into Siddal’s damp palm. Siddal nods at Joseph in thanks.

‘There is Cheapside,’ he says, pointing to a broad street that leads away to the west. ‘And yonder is St Paul’s. Now, if you’d lend a hand in the unloading of my goods. Such is the extra danger I have put myself under to bring you here, I expect you can spare a minute or two . . .’ This last he addresses to Joseph, who begins unlacing the ropes that fasten the barrels.

For a short while I work at the knots and watch as they fling back the canvas and begin to sort the bundles. As they turn their attention to the work, I take my chance. Grabbing my satchel, I dart across the street and into the dark stretch before the shop fronts. I pick my way quickly through the gloom, keeping to the shadows, towards Cheapside. As I reach the turning I glance back and see that Joseph is looking about him. I press myself into a doorway, hidden by the heavy wooden frame. From there I watch as he circles the cart, then ducks to peer beneath. He calls out, ‘Ruth . . . Ruth!’

Siddal comes out of the shop and laughs. He slaps Joseph on the back, saying something I cannot hear. Again Joseph calls my name, louder this time, and people in the street turn and stare. In the neighbouring house an upstairs casement is flung open and a pale female face peers from within.

Siddal leads Joseph back to the cart to begin the unloading. Joseph doffs his hat to another man, who must be the merchant. He takes up a bundle of skins to carry inside. All the time he looks about for me, cursing under his breath. Siddal and the other man go inside, and Joseph follows. As he passes the threshold, he turns back to search for me one last time. Instead of the frown he has worn all day, the furrows in his brow speak of disappointment, as though, believing himself unobserved, his true feelings are written there.

For the briefest moment, doubt flickers, and I think perhaps I should go to him, but he does not linger: he disappears into the darkness of the house.

I slip from my hiding place and hurry into Cheapside. This is the last I shall see of Joseph Oakes. I feel none of the relief I had expected, but oddly desolate and alone. I pay the feeling no heed – I am becoming used to it.

Cheapside is the broadest street I have ever seen, wide enough for carriages to pass each other twice over, wide enough for shopkeepers to set up trestles before their doors and sell their wares on the street.

Although night is falling, there are still people abroad and I’m thankful for the gentle mill of bodies outside the taverns as I move away from the Exchange and set off to find St Paul’s Cathedral. According to the instructions that Old Bess gave me, it is from here that I will find my way.

On Cheapside the houses are built up three or more floors, each level leaning further out over the street than the last. I keep to the side beneath the overhang. Looking up makes me feel giddy. There are fine, large buildings in Ely, but not so many and not so large as these.

The ground is soft beneath my feet. My nose tells me it is covered with muck. Timbers have been laid out in places to make byways over the stinking drains that run from side-streets into the main thoroughfare. Glimpses of those side-streets show them to be dank, unwholesome places, almost closed overhead by the tunnel of houses. I have the feeling that I might fall into one, as if into a badger set, burrowed into the roots of a tree.

There seems to be no sky here, only a low grey blanket draped over the houses, firewood and hot coals smoked up through the chimneys – and there are so many chimneys – choking the moon and the stars.

Further along, a gang of lads laze on the steps of a stone monument. They are drinking and singing in slurred cacophony. One clambers to his feet and dances an unsteady jig across my path, making his friends cheer and hoot, but I pass them by.

Soon the road opens into a wide courtyard. St Paul’s Cathedral sits in the centre, a huge hulking building of soot-stained stone. Here there are no tall houses but instead row upon row of timbered shacks, all built up against the walls of the place, tacked on as an afterthought. Some are barely more than tents, made from canvas and wooden stilts, pegged down with large grey boulders. More lumps of stone lie here and there, waiting in the mud to trip me. Dogs scavenge, growling at each other in the bid for scraps, yelping as they are kicked away.

The cathedral glowers in the darkness, its outline smudged against the billowing sky. It is big, like Ely, but somehow it seems penned in. Where Ely Cathedral seems to soar heavenwards like a great pale bird, this place is captured and tied down, feathers plucked, waiting for the pot. I can just glimpse the tower, crooked and broken, the spire either missing or lost in cloud.

I feel a weight in my chest as I think of Ely and the palace of grey stone that sits above the wet green flats of the Fens. I remember the sun peeking from behind towers, sparkling from the eyes of gargoyles, sliding across the faces of carved saints and swirling flowers until the building seems to breathe and swell. It is beautiful. It is terrible. Towering over the little church of St Mary’s, where we worshipped every Sunday, like a judgemental grandparent, its presence ever reminds us to beware the Catholic threat in our midst.

But there is one thing I love about the place.

Sometimes, when I was old enough to know better, I would slip from my classes at the free school and run there. I would tiptoe silently among the marble pillars, gazing up at the arches and curves of the ceiling, before finding my way to the winding staircase that leads to the top of the tallest tower. Almost touching the clouds, I would watch people, like beetles, in the market square. Sometimes I saw my mother, pinning laundry in the yard or feeding scraps to the pigs. I could see the gypsy boatmen on the Ouse and travellers on horseback as they crossed the safe passages through the floods. I saw swallows catching insects, free in the great open sky that goes on for ever. It made me feel lightheaded, powerful, knowing that I saw all of this and yet no one saw me. This must be how God feels, I thought, understanding why those ancient churchmen had built such a place. They, too, had wanted to reach the clouds and play at being God.

But there is no such wonder here, just a broken-down building and a press of people. I can see where the rocks on the ground have come from. Statues and stonework are missing from the walls and lie ruined underfoot, as though the Almighty himself has taken a cleaver to the stone.

Groups of men gather around one or other of the stalls, drinking and talking. As I pass a doorway into the nave I see the flicker of candles and the movement of bodies inside but I shy away, too afraid to explore.

I see people preparing for a night outside, hunkering down among the shacks. Hollow-eyed children stare at me as I pass. Afraid of thieves, I press on, clinging to my satchel with both hands.

Soon, at the western end of the church, I ask a lone ragged woman for directions to the Poole household. She does not speak but flaps her arm in the direction of a narrow alley that leads off the churchyard.

The street is in darkness and I’m blind as I step into it, hearing the squeal of rats alongside. I wait a moment for my sight to return, then begin to make my way from door to door. Here and there a nightlight burns in an upstairs window but most houses are shuttered against the chill. Behind bolted doors I hear voices raised in argument, someone playing a fiddle, a baby crying. Outside, there is the stench of rotting vegetables, and the rhythm of my own heartbeat, rushing in my ears.

I find a door with a plaque affixed to it. With my nose almost touching, feeling the shape of the letters with my fingers I read ‘Robert Poole Esq., Tailor and Haberdasher’. This is the house I’m looking for. I draw myself upright and do what I can to tidy my skirts and fasten my hair beneath my cap. I take Old Bess’s letter from my satchel and, clutching it before me like a talisman, I knock upon the door and wait.