The Lady's Slipper (27 page)

Stephen had decided in the end to say nothing to his father about his impending visit to the gaol with Richard. His father had become involved in enquiries about the murder that seemed to be the talk of the whole village. Unfortunately it was one of his father’s artist acquaintances, a wife from the village, who was responsible, and so his father had been frequently in discourse with Rawlinson and Constable Woolley concerning the matter. At least that meant that he was out and about and not slumped at home. Earlier in the day, when he had spoken with his father, he had jumped out of his chair and held his hands up strangely in front of his face.

‘Take her away,’ he said.

Stephen had looked either side of him, in confusion, but could not see anyone.

‘Who, Father?’

‘The old woman. No. Nobody,’ he had said then, rubbing at his face in an air of confusion.

Stephen had felt sorry for him. He must have been asleep, dreaming; he had been most unlike himself since the day he told his mother to go.

After bowing his farewells, Stephen left, impatient to get on the road. In a clean shirt, moleskin breeches and vest, his obligatory wide-brimmed hat stuffed into his saddlebag, he trotted along the dripping lanes to Richard’s cottage, hoping to pass unnoticed. The only person he passed was Miller Hardacre, who was driving his laden cartload of grain back to the mill for grinding. The miller nodded over to him as he went by, but obviously did not recognize Stephen as Sir Geoffrey’s son–or else there would have been much cap-doffing and tugging of forelocks instead. Fortunately few people knew yet of his return from London, thought Stephen, otherwise he would have been expected at church, and his face would soon have been the object of much idle scrutiny.

On the lane down to the cottage he prepared himself to become Sam Fielding once more. He found it easier and easier to take up the part. Stephen Fisk, the wag, the gambler, the rake about town, seemed to be receding daily. Sam Fielding was growing inside of him, pushing out Stephen like an unwanted guest at a wedding.

He rode easily on his common horse, which was as comfortable as sitting in an old chair–true, it lacked speed, and certainly did not look anything to speak of, but he appreciated its docile ways, its reliability, how it made every journey leisurely. He had not noticed the fine views when he was galloping hither and thither on his thoroughbred, and the open spaces were a relief after the crowds and squalor of London.

When he arrived at the latch gate to Helk Cottage, he was surprised to see Richard step out to meet him puffing on a pipe. As usual, he seemed to be full of energy. Even his pipe-smoking looked purposeful.

‘Pump’s out back there, if thou wants a wash.’

‘Thanks to thee. I will,’ said Stephen, tethering his horse and slapping it affectionately on the neck. He went to the stand-pump and rubbed his face and neck under the freezing water, shaking himself dry like a dog.

‘Come in and sit thee down. There’s tobacco on the table and a clay stem too, help thyself. There is no one to see, and I reckon there is no harm in the odd pipe now and then.’

Stephen sat himself down at the table and filled the pipe. He did not tell Richard that he smoked every night after dinner at home. He looked around him with interest as he smoked, curious about this man who was such a mystery. It was all very clean and tidy, almost womanly. There was a shelf with a few dozen leather-bound books and other printed matter, news-sheets, pamphlets and chapbooks and the like, all neatly arranged in size order. It was clear Richard was interested in book-learning, and Stephen tried to read the titles without looking too obviously at them–three Bibles,
Holland’s Atlas
, in several volumes, similar to one he had been shown at school but which had been much too valuable for him to be allowed to handle,
Culpeper’s Herbal
, and even, he noted with some amusement, one titled
The Cook’s Guide
. Not that Richard seemed to need much instruction, for over the fire hung an iron pot from which a savoury steam was bubbling.

Richard laid out two plates. ‘It’s rabbit stew. Here, have some bread.’

When the plates were filled, he sat himself down and turned to Stephen. ‘Wilt thou say grace, Sam?’

Stephen reddened–his family’s Latin remercies would be out of place here. He decided to keep it simple.

‘For this bread and meat, we give thanks. Amen.’

Richard bowed his head, his hands holding his hat on his lap. After Stephen’s words he smiled broadly and picked up his spoon.

They ate slowly, chewing steadily, the only sound the rattle of the spoons and the tearing of the bread. The stew was excellent, with waxy turnip and carrots and plentiful onions in the gravy. Stephen mopped his plate with his bread.

When they were done, Richard said, ‘I see thou hast taken a fancy to my books. Take a closer look if thou wilt.’

‘I was looking at the atlas. Art thou interested in sea travel then?’

‘There are Quaker brethren all over the world now. Sadly, some of the courts see fit to dispose of us by transportation to the Caribbees or the Americas.’ He stood and lifted a heavy tome from the shelf, opening it to display an ink drawing of the Caribbean territories. He pointed with a forefinger to a few small islands marooned in a huge ocean drawn in curly rivers of ink.

‘Some of our people have been sold here for forced labour in the sugar fields. I have heard it is half desert and half paradise, but the land is good for growing things, they say. Better than the wet of Westmorland, I’ll warrant.’

Stephen stared at the scatter of odd-shaped islands and shuddered. The idea of being shipped across the ocean into slavery, with no hope of return, was a hard price to pay for one’s convictions. These Quakers must be made of stiffer stuff than he.

Richard opened another volume and flipped the pages. ‘And here, New England.’ He indicated a country at least ten times the size of England. ‘At least here they are not bound men. We have not heard how our folk fared on the passage yet. There are rumours they will not be welcomed there any more than here. But thou canst see for thyself, it is a vast country. God willing, they will find a place to call their own.’

‘Dost thou think the Fleetwoods will be sent overseas?’

‘Jack and Hannah? I hope not–I am petitioning for their release, on the grounds they are no longer a threat to anyone.’ He shook his head and his face darkened. ‘The trial is to be next week, but we do not know if they will let us speak for them yet.’ He paused, eyebrows furrowed, evidently considering their plight. ‘But let us get on the road, they will be expecting our provisions today. I have petitioned each week to see them but so far have had no luck. But the least we can do is to make sure they keep up their strength and spirits. I have some ham, ewe’s cheese, and some more loaves in the cold press.’

Stephen helped Richard load his horse’s panniers with food and water, a large supply of candles and a Bible into which Richard slipped a small pamphlet. Seeing Stephen’s curious gaze, he said, ‘It is a copy of Boehme’s tract. I thought Jack may need spiritual as well as bodily sustenance.’

‘Are they both lettered, then?’

Richard’s face fell. ‘Of course. I am forgetting myself. Thou art right, Sam, probably not.’ He was immediately crestfallen, uncertain whether or not to add this small gift to the rest.

‘But perhaps there may be someone to read it for him, or maybe just the comfort of having it in his hands, that someone has thought fit to send it,’ said Stephen.

Richard smiled. ‘Happen thou art right. We will take it.’

They drew up outside the big gate and dismounted. To Stephen, it was the first time he had actually seen the gaol, and as expected it looked a stark, forbidding place. A tremor of fear licked at his bones. If he became too closely associated with the Quakers, he could finish up inside these dark walls.

Richard strode over and banged purposefully on the small gate, and a window slid open. He stated his name.

‘Richard Wheeler. I have provisions here for Jack and Hannah Fleetwood.’

The door opened on its heavy hinges and a curly-haired lad ushered them inside the courtyard.

‘Wait here,’ he said and went to fetch the head gaoler. Inside the yard nothing could be seen except slit windows, and the scaffold with the noose slung to one side, ready. Stephen eyed the trap-door with equal measures of curiosity and squeamish dread.

‘What you got?’ A thick-set man in heavy boots lumbered over, then led the way to the platform where Richard unpacked his baskets for inspection. ‘No knives or ropes?’ He licked his flabby lips and grinned at the lad, revealing brown teeth. ‘We wouldn’t be wanting to cheat the crowds of their entertainment next week, would we?’ The lad suppressed a snigger, his knuckles pressed to his nose.

Stephen and Richard remained silent, as the gaoler picked over the provisions laid out on the planking. He flicked the lid from one of the baskets and put his face over the contents, inhaling deeply.

‘What’s this?’

‘Some cured ham, and some cheese,’ Richard said impatiently. ‘And here’s a shilling for thee if we can deliver it to them ourselves.’

The gaoler sniffed at the two freshly baked loaves and did not even turn around. ‘Each?’ he said.

‘No,’ Richard said, ‘a shilling’s all we have.’

‘Then you can see her, not him. Come back the morrow with another if you want to see him.’ He held out his hand for the coin, which he rubbed on the stained front of his jerkin before putting it in his grubby purse.

‘I’ll take Jack Fleetwood’s dinner down to him, while Bubb takes you to the women’s quarters.’

Bubb said, ‘But, sir, Jack Fleetwood—’

Stephen saw the gaoler issue Bubb a warning look, and he promptly held his tongue.

‘What about Jack?’ Stephen asked.

‘Nothing,’ the gaoler said, glaring at Bubb. ‘Just that he’s looking a lot better of late.’ Bubb turned his back, so Stephen could not see his face. Stephen suspected he was laughing, but when he turned back he seemed to be coughing.

As Stephen looked across the yard he saw two of the prison guards open the gates and a sedan chair entered, carried by two sweating, liveried attendants.

‘Here.’ The gaoler held out his ring of keys with one of them protruding from the rest, and Bubb, now recovered from whatever ailed him, took it.

Stephen watched the gaoler make haste over to the sedan chair and bow low as the well-dressed occupant stepped out, avoiding a puddle and holding onto his be-feathered hat to avoid knocking it off. The gentleman took out his purse and proffered a coin on his gloved hand. The gaoler nodded and deposited it in a bag hung from his belt. ‘Thank you, Paucett,’ said the gentleman. ‘Shall we proceed?’

‘Yes, sir, follow me, sir,’ said the gaoler, bobbing his head up and down. As usual, there was one rule here for the rich and quite another for everyone else. Stephen stared covertly at the man in the sedan chair in case he was a friend of his father’s and might recognize him, before turning back to see what Richard was doing.

Richard hoped he had not made a mistake in bringing young Sam here to the gaol. He worried it might test his faith a little too much, to see his brethren thus brought down, and might deter him from his calling. But Sam seemed to Richard to be a stout-hearted lad, and wiser than most young folks. Richard knew that embracing the Quaker way was not easy, and he admired that in one so young. He gathered up the provisions and the Bible.

The young Bubb had been assigned to take them down, and at his whistle two more guards armed with swords appeared from the opposite side of the yard to accompany them down into the belly of the castle where the prisoners lodged.

‘I hope you said your prayers before you came,’ said Bubb, his eyes bright with salacious gossip, ‘because there’s a witch in there with her now.’

Richard caught Sam’s eye as they cautiously descended into the gloom; Sam shook his head. ‘That does not sound good,’ he whispered.

‘Yes, she slit someone open too, knifed them from here to here–’ he drew a long line across his belly–‘so I can’t let you in. But you can eye her through the door. Mind you, not too close, she might grab for you through the hatch.’

He opened a barred gate with the key and they stepped through into a stinking corridor, with doors ranged along either side. Even when Bubb lit a rush torch, it shed little light in the prevailing gloom. As they passed, a few prisoners came to the squat iron-studded doors and hammered and shouted pitifully for assistance from behind, but Bubb ignored them, at last sliding back a small square window in one of them to reveal a dark interior. Then he retreated back through the iron gate, and shouted, ‘Ten minutes. That’s all.’

Richard called softly from outside, ‘Hannah.’

There was no answer, so he called again, ‘Hannah.’

A weary woman’s voice came back. ‘Mistress Fleetwood cannot stand. She is too weak. What do you want of her?’ The voice was familiar. Richard peered through the hatch into the dingy cell, but his eyes were unaccustomed to the darkness and he could not make out a single feature within.

‘We have brought bread and comforts from her friends at the Hall,’ he replied.

Richard heard muffled voices, and the faint sounds of someone’s skirts moving around on the straw inside the cell, before a white face appeared out of the dingy background and he was looking into the witch’s grey eyes. Alice Ibbetson’s eyes.

The eyes flared in anger. ‘You.’ The words were like a slap. ‘You dare to come here now, after incarcerating me here all this time?’

Richard took an involuntary step backwards, and felt Sam’s hand on his back. He was shocked to the core, as if someone had thrown a pail of icy water over him.

‘Mistress Ibbetson, I had no idea.’ He could not fathom it. His thoughts raced, trying to reason it out. He had seen her at home, just the week before. He took in her unkempt hair and the broken fingernails where her hands grasped the bars, the dark circles beneath her eyes. ‘How has this come about?’

‘Do not play games with me, Mr Wheeler. Is the wild orchid so important to you, you would see a woman hang?’ He stared back at her in incomprehension. ‘For a murder she did not commit?’ she asked.