The Lady's Slipper (21 page)

Stephen Fisk set off early to the Quakers for the morning meeting. To his father’s annoyance, the committee had agreed Stephen should be the one to find out what was afoot at Lingfell Hall. His father’s instructions from the night before were etched into his mind: that he must trust no one, keep his ears and eyes open, and try to win Wheeler’s confidence. He must speak as little as possible lest he give himself away.

In preparation he had managed to speak incognito with the town clerk, claiming to have been convinced at one of Fox’s so-called ‘threshing meetings’. The thrill of being in disguise was even greater when no suspicions had been aroused and Isaac had agreed to introduce him at the meeting. Stephen had said that his name was Sam Fielding. It had amused him to keep the same initials for his alias, as if it gave him more veracity. He had let it be known he was a mercer from Burton-in-Lonsdale, and indeed he had spent several days reading all he could about the mercer’s trade. With his father’s collusion he had taken one of his worst nags, a plain bay with a white blaze, the most unremarkable beast, as his mount. It was slow-going on such a horse, but it gave him time on the way to the meeting to go over his imaginary life story in his head.

He was in truth not just a little nervous, but terrified. He wished he had never volunteered. His father had warned him that the meetings were a cover for the king’s enemies to plan their treasonous activities, and Stephen knew if he were identified as Sir Geoffrey’s son he might not leave Lingfell Hall alive. He remembered someone jesting with him in Oxford that the Quakers themselves were an unruly bunch of madmen who refused to submit to common law. They did not seem quite so amusing now. His hands were sweating slightly, rubbing the saddle soap from the reins until his palms were stained brown.

His horse picked its way along the stony lane, seemingly in no hurry to reach its destination, which was exactly how Stephen himself felt about the task ahead. Dressed in dun-coloured tweed breeches and a matching plain wool topcoat, he felt like a gamekeeper, and for this reason he had sneaked out before breaking his fast lest he should meet his mother–she would certainly have something to say about his odd attire.

He ran over his tale in his head, but did not have long to practise it before it was required. Hoofbeats behind him made him turn in his saddle, and a lone rider on a big Cleveland bay horse cantered up alongside.

‘Going to the Hall?’

‘Aye.’

‘For the morning meeting?’

‘Aye.’

The man swivelled in his saddle to get a better look at Stephen.

‘Then we can ride together. Thy face is unfamiliar, wilt thou introduce thyself?’

‘Sam Fielding. From Burton-in-Lonsdale. I’ve not been to the Hall before.’

‘Well, there’s always a fine welcome–especially to young faces. Hast thou ridden from Burton this morning?’

‘Aye.’ It sounded an odd word to Stephen, but the other man seemed to notice nothing amiss.

‘That’s a fair old ride. We’ll make sure thy horse is well watered when we get there.’

Stephen just nodded. He knew engaging in small talk would be difficult. He could not get used to the old-fashioned speech, and he feared his schooling might give him away. So he rode on. The other man also rode quietly, as if it was expected, pausing only now and then to point to the vivid yellow linden leaves on a solitary tree, and to a red fox as it ran along a furrow in the field alongside. Stephen let the other man go ahead, watching his horse’s rump sway from side to side. He pondered over last night’s dinner and wished he had not had so much wine. His father had upset his mother again by drinking too much, retiring early and leaving her to deal with all the servants and the guests. Patterson had been required to sort him out as usual. Stephen sighed and gathered up his reins in his damp palms. Why couldn’t his parents be civil to one another?

So consumed was he by these thoughts that he was taken by surprise when they drew up and he saw the gables of the house and the cobbled yard with several horses tied there. A fresh bout of nerves made his stomach flutter. He dismounted and followed the other man’s lead, tying his horse alongside his.

‘Come along then, Sam,’ the man said. ‘We’ll go and make thee known to Dorothy.’

Stephen followed him, his neck hot, palms sweating, through a darkened passageway where there seemed to be any number of dirty sheepdogs lying around–the owners presumably in the meeting room, and probably equally dirty, he thought. Everyone turned round to stare as the pair entered, but his new acquaintance shepherded him forward towards a tall woman in a grey dress.

‘Dorothy, this is Sam Fielding, from Burton-in-Lonsdale. He’s the young man Isaac was telling me about–from the conventicle last month.’

‘Good morning, Sam. I am very pleased you have come to our meeting. But tell me, are there no others like thee who could meet together in Burton? It is a long way to ride.’

‘There are but a few of us, ma’am,’ said Stephen, and then smiling, despite his dry mouth, ‘I had heard tell of the spirit at meetings here. I wanted to come and see it for myself.’

Dorothy smiled back. He had made the right impression. ‘Welcome then. I daresay Richard will show thee where to hang thy coat.’

‘Thank you.’ He was alert at the sound of that name. And there was something odd in the woman’s tone of voice when she said it, a sort of disdain. She had not introduced them, but this could be Richard Wheeler, the man his father told him had killed his grandmother. The hairs prickled on the back of his neck. He had no time to move away as Richard grasped his arm and pointed to a row of iron coat hooks and benches at the side of the room. ‘Over there.’ And then, as an afterthought, ‘Sorry, I never said, I’m Richard Wheeler.’

So it was him. Stephen hung up his coat, feeling vulnerable in his shirt-sleeves and vest. He followed the others and sat down in the circle of benches. During the meeting he watched Richard covertly. He was a tall straight man, broad-shouldered and swarthy from outside labour. He had a high forehead and expressive eyebrows which were furrowed as if in some invisible conversation with himself. His hands were strong and capable. He was a bigger man than Stephen, and more powerful. Stephen baulked at the idea that he could be his enemy; his instincts told him he would bear the worst of it should it come to a fight.

During the meeting nobody spoke, people were silent and sat still. No one had asked him any awkward questions or wanted to know his background.

It was twenty minutes before anything happened. A woman got up and talked of a husband and wife who had been jailed and beaten for preaching on the street. He noticed that Richard looked uncomfortable during this, biting his lip and frowning at his boots, and that he kept looking over to Dorothy to see her reaction. It was interesting, observing people, like an experiment he might perform during his studies at school. Dorothy ignored Richard’s glances.

After that there was more sitting in silence, which Stephen found extremely dull. Eventually, Isaac, the town clerk, whom Stephen had already met, stood and announced they would discuss the group’s business affairs, and everyone shuffled on their seats and looked at him expectantly. More tedious talk followed, of giving alms to beggars in the district, of visiting the sick, and the two that were in gaol after a lynching.

Then the meeting was called to a close and they were offered some refreshment. The older ladies of the gathering busied themselves bringing round little oatcakes and cups of barley water, whilst the men stood in groups conversing. Stephen kept close to Richard, his ears open. Now surely, the real business would begin.

‘Hast thou heard–our brethren in Sedbergh have refused to give up tithe this harvest?’ said one old man.

‘Yes,’ said another. ‘They have set a guard on the tithebarn, and are refusing to give up any portion.’

‘The church will not let them get away with it, they’ll send troops in if they have to.’

Stephen’s ears pricked up at the mention of soldiers.

‘We should stand with them, then. The church is a false edifice,’ said the first man. ‘No man needs a church to be with God.’

‘Aye,’ said Richard. ‘I’m done with lining the pockets of priests and parsons, whilst those in real need still go hungry.’

‘Shall we moot it at the next meeting?’

‘We can try,’ said the first man, ‘but there are a fair few in gaol already. Last time we tried withholding our dues, Fisk’s rough-hands came and turned over our barns.’

Stephen froze on the spot, feeling a crimson glow spread across his temples. His father’s name already.

‘What thinkst thou, Sam?’ asked Richard.

Stephen did not reply; he was still taking in the information that his father’s men were fighting with the Quakers over tithes. The second time his name was called, he recognized it with a start.

‘Yes, Sam, how is it over Burton way?’ They all looked expectantly at him for a reply.

‘Oh, I think we, I mean…I think we will probably pay our dues as usual,’ he finished lamely. Richard stared at him without saying anything.

‘Though, of course, we are with you on principle,’ he added, floundering but trying to sense the lie of the land. He hoped he sounded suitably committed.

‘So, Sam, if we should rally enough support, thou wouldst join us in opposing this unholy law?’ pressed Richard.

‘Of course,’ he replied. Had Richard spotted something suspicious about him? Was that why he was questioning him? Stephen felt uncomfortable and looked down at his feet, newly shod in solid leather work boots. His father had told him to rough the toecaps with a grinding stone, and he had done so. When he looked up, Richard was still looking at him, as if his clothes were of great interest. Stephen swallowed and tried to look nonchalant. Richard’s eyes travelled over Stephen’s tweed suit, over the horn buttons, his unpressed cuffs, the yellow cotton cravat at his neck. Prepared to brazen it out if necessary, Stephen drew himself up to his full height. But Richard turned to the other two, and clapped his hands together.

‘Well then, we are all agreed. I will raise it to the vote at the next meeting.’

‘I must be on my way,’ said Stephen, eager to leave the group and reorder his thoughts.

‘Yes, yes,’ said one of the men. ‘It is a good distance, if thou art to be back in time for a day’s trade.’

Stephen bowed slightly as he had seen the others do, and withdrew to the coat hooks where his overcoat was hanging with the rest. So the group was going to organize a rebellion and refuse to pay tithes, were they? His father would have something to say about that. And it was indeed the dissembler Richard Wheeler who was instigating the idea and persuading the others to vote on it. Stephen took down his damp coat, which smelt of greasy wool, and threw it round his shoulders. As he did up the frogged fastening he felt a firm hand descend on his shoulder and, startled, spun round to find himself looking directly into Richard’s face.

‘Now then, Sam, I will accompany thee down the hill,’ said Richard.

‘Oh no, I can ride on alone,’ said Stephen, fear gnawing in his guts. What if Richard had seen the resemblance to his father and was going to take him somewhere to dispatch him? Stephen had no desire to be alone with Richard.

‘It is no trouble, and I have a mind for thy company,’ said Richard, insisting.

‘Very well,’ said Stephen warily, ‘if thou art sure it will not inconvenience thee.’ He spoke slowly, struggling with the archaic-sounding form of address.

Richard was smiling at him now, but Stephen’s mind was racing, planning how he might escape should he be attacked on the route to the main highway. Richard steered him out of the hall with a hand at his back.

‘You have not fooled me, young man, though you might have fooled the others.’

Stephen’s stomach lurched but he tried to remain calm, letting himself be guided out to the yard.

‘What do you mean?’ Richard had not used ‘thou’, but ‘you’, and Stephen likewise had fallen into the trap and used the more modern expression. He had no idea what Richard Wheeler had in mind, but he hurried to the horses, his armpits clammy, his heart hammering against his ribs. He would get mounted first, so at least he would stand a chance of escape.

‘Thy clothes. This is the first time thou hast dressed this way, I can tell.’

Stephen swung himself into the saddle and cast his eyes rapidly over Richard’s silhouette–no sword or musket.

‘What of it?’ He decided to try a bluff. ‘Cannot a man have new clothes without that all the world derides him for it?’

Richard was mounted now and drew his horse alongside. ‘Thou art used to finer stuff than this.’ He prodded at Stephen’s breeches with his whip hand.

‘Maybe.’ Stephen was almost out of the yard now and within sight of open fields. He got ready to kick his horse on, moving him self ahead. Richard urged his horse into a trot so his stirrup-iron clashed with Stephen’s and the horse’s damp belly brushed against his thigh as he came up beside him again.

‘Like thee, Sam, I am a recent convert, and a former gentleman. It takes one to know one, I suppose.’ Richard turned his head and smiled. ‘I still cannot abide these rough cotton shirts, and find plain speech more difficult to master than any fancy Latin.’

Stephen was taken aback to realize that Richard was being friendly, that he had understood his clothes to be an emblem of the power of his convictions, not a ploy to disguise the fact he was his father’s son.

Stephen nodded, trying to sort out a proper response. Richard continued to speak with an air of someone about to bestow a confidence.

‘I have been a Quaker since the war, but still find the simplicity of the life hard. I feel for thee, for I see how discomfited thou art in those clothes.’ He looked at him and laughed. ‘And I applaud thee, for I know how hard it must have been to give away the fine life you had before.’

Stephen gave a noncommittal shrug.

‘Tell me,’ said Richard. ‘Where are thy family? Perhaps I know of them?’

Nothing had prepared Stephen for this unexpected turn of events. Pictures of his parents flashed behind his eyes as he struggled to find an acceptable answer. With a stroke of inspiration he answered, ‘My family was killed by the king’s men in the war.’