Tidelands Read online

  “And yet . . . well, it’s a very good match for your girl. Stoney Farm! Richard Stoney! You’ll be lucky if people don’t say that she trapped him into it.”

  “Nobody would be so unkind,” Alinor ruled. “It’s obvious that Richard loves her so much, and she him.”

  “Just that it’s such a good match for her,” Mrs. Miller grumbled. “Strolling out of a fisherman’s cottage and getting to Stoney Farm in one jump.”

  “There’s no denying that it’s a good match for her,” Alinor conceded. “But she’ll make a good wife to him. She has learned so much good housekeeping from you.”

  “She’s learned nothing today, but walking around the market and spending other people’s money.”

  “She’ll make it up to you,” Alinor promised, taking Alys’s cold hand. “And now we must be going.”

  “I wish you well,” Mrs. Miller said begrudgingly. “I wish you very happy.”

  “I know you do,” Alinor replied, and picked up her sacks of salt as Alys hefted the sack of wool and walked beside her mother out of the yard. She left the yard gate open for the carter to leave, and they went towards the ferry together.

  “I put the purse back,” Alys said nonchalantly.

  Alinor’s heart skipped a beat. “I thought you said you would do it in the evening. I thought you would come back, when she closes up her hens?”

  “Yes, but when I saw her come out to you to look at the lace, I knew I had a moment. I ran into the kitchen, pulled out the brick, popped in the purse, and put the brick back in a second. She’ll never know it was gone.”

  Alinor almost staggered with the relief. “So, it’s done, and you got away with it.”

  Alys beamed at her. “It’s done, and I got away with it.”

  “And you’ll never do it again,” Alinor commanded. “Promise me, Alys. It’s too great a risk. Never take anything from her again. Not even borrowing. You shouldn’t have done it this time. Promise me, you’ll never do it again. Think of the danger!”

  The girl laughed as though no danger could threaten her. “I’ll promise you that I’ll never be caught,” she said gleefully. “I’ll promise not to end up on the gallows. A fool like Mrs. Miller will never catch me, and soon I’ll have far more money than Jane Miller’s dowry. You wait till I’m Mrs. Stoney, of Stoney Farm, Birdham! I won’t keep my money in a chimney. I shall have my own box at the Chichester goldsmith’s! I shall be a woman of means!”

  TIDELANDS, SEPTEMBER 1648

  Alinor heard nothing from James all through the month of September, but she did not expect to hear from him, and she went through the dusty days at the end of summer with a languid sense of peace. She found that she trusted him, she believed that he would go to that place—that unimaginable and mysterious place—that he called his home, and the men he called his brothers would release him from his vows. Alinor, raised in a country where Roman Catholics had been banned for nearly a century, could not imagine what rituals and oaths James might endure to be free of his blasphemous past. She thought they might frighten him with threats of endless purgatory and drench him in wine like blood and force him to eat raw flesh. Tears came to her eyes when she thought of him facing the terrible mastery of Rome. But she trusted him to be brave and confident in that world that was such a mystery to her. He had said that he would do it, and she knew that he loved her and she believed that he would convince them that he must be freed.

  She was more afraid of the influence of his family, especially his mother, as she could imagine only too easily what a noble lady might say to her adored only son when he told her that he was leaving the priesthood with no greater ambition than to marry a deserted wife, a herbalist, a fisherman’s widow who made a living clinging to a muddy harbor in the tidelands of England. If the Stoneys—yeoman farmers—looked down on Alys, what would the aristocratic Summers say to her drab of a mother?

  James’s parents were sure to forbid him to return to her. They would disinherit him rather than let him throw himself away on a woman that they would accuse of being little more than a hedge witch: little better than a pauper. But then she remembered that they too were landless, they too were clinging to all they had left after six years of civil war, far from their beautiful home, in exile with a defeated queen. They were papists and cavaliers and utterly damned. They could not return to England: both their religious faith and their political loyalty were criminal. They had been far above her when their king was on the throne and their faith accepted, but now they were not. The unimaginable gulf between her and their son had been destroyed forever with the smashing of the altars, with the breaking of the contract between king and people, with the end of deference. While the king could be captured by a mere cornet of the army and end up in an ordinary house in Newport on the Isle of Wight, then Alinor and James were no longer at opposite ends of society with a gulf between them unbridgeable as the mire. His parents must know, as everyone now knew, that the world was changed, that the humble people of England had risen up and that the rulers were no longer in their palaces. If a working farmer like Oliver Cromwell could rule England, why should a fisherman’s widow not rise in the world and hope for better?

  “The prince has been defeated at sea and driven back to Holland. Have you heard?” Ned asked her one evening, as he sat before the cottage door and smoked his pipe to keep the biting flies from his face. His dog lay down in the shade of the bench and panted in the heat.

  Alinor brought him a cup of small ale and sat beside him to sip her own. She had the pole of her distaff pushed into her belt so that the hank of wool was as high as her head and, as she sat beside him, she plucked and twisted the thread with her free hand, keeping the spindle on the end of the thread in constant motion with little taps from her foot. The hank of wool was hot in her hand and greasy with lanolin.

  “I hadn’t heard. But I’ve seen no one since Chichester market. I’ve not been out of the brewhouse, or the stillroom or the kitchen. What’s happened?”

  “You and Alys are working all hours. Did you get a good price for that barrel of salted fish?”

  “Twenty shillings! From the grain trader ship. But what about the prince?”

  “I only just heard it myself. We never hear anything here. It’s as if we were under the waters of the harbor, not just beside it. But Farmer Gaston’s wife has a cousin come to visit from London, and he told me as I ferried him across the rife. You knew that the Prince of Wales had command of a fleet?”

  “Yes, I’d heard that,” Alinor confirmed, thinking of the man who had told her of the waiting fleet, of the chance for the prince.

  “Our navy, the parliament fleet, has chased him out of the Thames and all the way back to Holland. He won’t wait off our shores again.” Ned chuckled. “Must’ve been hoping his father would escape from Newport and that he’d pick him up at sea, take him to France. They must’ve thought that the king would break his parole and escape again. So that’s overset, too. The king’s ships’ve gone, and he’s trapped in Newport, the parliament men telling him how it’s to be, and nothing for him to do but agree.”

  “The king’s ships have failed him?” she asked.

  “Driven back to Holland. He’s got nowhere to go now,” Ned said with satisfaction. “He’ll have to agree with parliament and return with them to London. And I tell you, he’ll find a dusty welcome there.”

  “But what’ll become of him? And what about all the people who followed him? Those in France and Holland, those who went into exile with the queen?”

  “Who cares for them?”

  “It’s just . . . what will happen to them, I wonder.”

  “You know, I think they’ll reprimand the king,” Ned said thoughtfully. “I think they’ll take him to London and make him into a king like no one has ever seen before, a king who has to work with the parliament and the church, not one who’s set over it. I think they’ll give him back his house but not his throne. Maybe they’ll make him Mr. King!” He laughed at his own joke. “I
would bet you a shilling that they don’t give him back his throne, and for sure, he’ll never command an army again. He can’t be trusted. Everyone can see that now: he can’t be trusted.”

  “So will the queen come home to be with him? Will she be Mrs. Queen? And the prince? And what about the lords and ladies and those who followed her to Paris? What’ll they do?”

  “They’ll all have to beg pardon of the people of England,” Ned ruled solemnly. “That’s what I’d have them do. Beg pardon. Pay a fine, swear never to bear arms against Englishmen again, and then live privately, quietly. We should treat them all as bad as papists: fined and banned from public office. They can live in England without rights, silent: like wives and children, like the madmen that they are. They can work but not command.”

  “But they’ll be able to come home?” she pressed.

  “If they want a half-life,” Ned predicted. “But it’ll never be the same again for them. And us. Nothing’ll ever be the same again.”

  Alys came out of the doorway, a hank of raw wool on her distaff. She sat beside them and twirled the spindle with her foot and started to spin.

  “You’ve got a spindle in your hand night and day,” her uncle remarked.

  “Dowry,” she said shortly.

  He nodded. “I’ll give you a couple of shillings on the day,” he promised. “Ten.”

  “I’d be grateful,” she said smoothly. “Thank you, Uncle.”

  She did not look at her mother, nor did Alinor raise her eyes from her work. “We’ll both be grateful,” Alinor added. “To tell truth: we’ve had to promise more than we can find.”

  “It’s a handsome farm,” he conceded. “They’re bound to want a good payment. When’s the wedding to be?”

  “After Easter,” Alinor said.

  “Perhaps earlier,” Alys added. “If we can get the money earlier. Perhaps Twelfth Night. I should love a Twelfth Night wedding.”

  Her uncle shook his head. “There’s no Twelfth Night in the Bible,” he said. “And no call for one in a godly church.”

  “And that’s too soon!” Alinor protested. “We’ll never get anything like the money in that time.”

  Alys shrugged. “A later day in January then. Or February. A day without a name.”

  “Then you’ll have to spin faster,” Ned told her. “Or spin gold, like the lass in the story.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Alinor asked her. “In bad weather and dark afternoons? Why not wait for spring?”

  The pretty girl showed her most mischievous smile. “Because I want a warm bed in bad weather and dark afternoons.”

  Alinor gave a little frown and a nod towards the girl’s uncle to remind her to mind her tongue.

  “Marriage is a serious contract, to be taken in hand for the glory of God,” Ned said solemnly. “Not at the whim of the lusts of the young. You’d do better to be the Lord’s handmaiden, ask in your prayers, till He says the time is right.”

  “Yes,” Alys agreed, her pretty face grave. “But how long would you have me wait, Uncle Ned? For there you are on your own, and there is Ma all alone here. I know we’re a family as cool-blooded as fish, but even so . . .”

  Despite himself her uncle laughed and bent to pat his dog on the head.

  “We’ll never get the dowry in time, if you bring the wedding forward,” Alinor warned her.

  “We will,” Alys said confidently. “Because Richard’s going to make it up for me.”

  “What?” Ned demanded. “The bridegroom pay the dowry to himself?”

  Alys glowed with pride. “He loves me so much,” she said. “He doesn’t want me to worry.”

  “Has he got his own savings?” Alinor asked. “Has he got that sort of fortune?”

  “From his grandfather Stoney. Willed to him. It’s all his. And he’ll give it to me. He’s promised to make up, if we’re short.”

  Alinor moved her shoulders as if a weight of anxiety had slid away. “Thank God,” she said. “I’ve been so—”

  “I told you it would come out all right.”

  “You’re very sure of yourself,” Ned remarked.

  Alys peeped up at him. “I’m sure about this,” she said.

  DOUAI, FRANCE, SEPTEMBER 1648

  James woke just before Prime to the chiming of the great bell, La Joyeuse, and knew himself to be safely home, where he had been raised and educated, where he was known and loved. Here he could use his God-given name, he could speak of his parents; here he could pray for his king. Here he was part of a community, passionately religious, fiercely patriotic, a community of spies ready to return at any moment to their English homes, to bring their country back to God. His waking thought was one of glorious relief: that he had survived his mission to England, where so many young men, educated, known, and loved just like him, had not. Even before he opened his eyes, he thanked God that he had been spared, neither denounced by false friends nor inadvertently betraying himself. He had not faced a court, or death by burning. He could admit to himself now how very afraid he had been. That made him think of Alinor and her unthinking protection. She decided to hide him at the very moment that they met; she had risked her life to nurse him. He thought that she was guided by God to do the right thing, and though she was a heretic, she had served God in saving him.

  As soon as her grave dark gaze came into his mind, every other thought was gone and he was lost for long moments in the recollection of her profile, and how she turned her head, and the fall of her hair. At once he was back in the stable loft, feeling her lips against his skin, but then the pale walls of his cell suddenly reflected the passing candle of the brother who tapped on his door and called “Pax Vobiscum,” and all down the corridor came the reply: “Amen,” “Amen,” “Amen,” as the brothers and the scholars sat up in their little beds and welcomed the gift of another day.

  Only James felt that the blessing was not for him, was not given to him knowingly. His brothers and his superiors at the university and the abbey did not know how he had failed, and if they had known, they would not have blessed him. He feared they would blame him and he knew that they would be right to do so. His waking joy faded, and his confident thanks to God. He rose from his bed barefoot onto the cold stone floor, and washed his face and hands, his armpits and crotch in a bowl of cold water with a cake of best Castille soap. He pulled on his linen shift, his robe, he tied the rope belt at his waist. He pushed his damp feet into his new leather sandals, opened his cell door, and joined the line of young men, hoods over their heads, eyes down to the floor, going to the service of Prime in the abbey. Absorbed in their own prayers, none of them looked at him, or greeted him, and James felt a gulf of separation from these who had been his childhood companions.

  “God forgive me,” he whispered as he walked, surrounded by young men praising God, confident in the world that they would enter, certain that they would restore it to the true faith. “God forgive me, God forgive me, God forgive me my sins.”

  He seemed to pray with true penitence throughout the service, murmuring the familiar responses, singing the psalms. But he knew that he was not penitent, he knew that he was at war with himself. He had failed in his mission, he had failed his king and he had failed his vows. He would not list Alinor among his sins. With her, he had been truly himself, as he had never been since childhood. With her, he had a glimpse of a godly life in the world, not one in the cloister. He thought he might be a better husband than a priest; he knew at any rate that he despaired of his vocation. His passion for her gave his life meaning, where otherwise he was lost. It was a revolutionary thought for a young man who had been dedicated to the Church from childhood, but he could not help himself. He had a conviction that he had never felt before: that he did not want to be here, hiding behind high walls in northern France; that he did not want to keep faith with a king who was unable to rule; that he did not even want to restore the true religion to England. The only thing he truly wanted was to go to his family home in Yorkshire, take the woman that he
loved to his house, and live there as an Englishman, at peace on his own fields.

  As soon as the liturgy was over, the brothers went to the dining hall to break their fast in a silence emphasized by the quiet reading in Latin of the gospel for the day. Then one of the senior brothers rose to his feet and announced the duties of the day, the work expected of the novices, the names of those who would study, garden, farm, clean and cook, or serve in the church workshops. James was ordered to attend the senior professor in his chambers. A few of the young seminarians glanced enviously at James, wishing that they too might be sent to England, to go into hiding to spy and serve the hidden Roman Catholic faithful. He did not acknowledge them. He thought they were fools to long for martyrdom. They would not wish for it if they knew what it was like to stand on a darkened quayside and watch for a light and not know if it were a friend or an enemy. They would not wish for it if they had ever got within a second of the most triumphant victory of the war, only to see it thrown away for a whim. But he avoided their glances, bowed his head in obedience, and went on his own to the professor’s rooms.

  He was admitted by a clerk and found Dr. Sean seated behind his table, his stole of office scarlet against the black of his gown, a black cap of office on his head, his thin face pale and drawn. He rose from his chair and skirted the table to greet James, and hugged him, kissing him on both cheeks in the French way, and then made the sign of the cross and blessed him. “Sit down,” he said warmly. “Sit down, my son, and tell me everything.”

  James, very sure that he could not tell everything, sat on the edge of his chair as the professor seated himself and took up a quill pen to make notes.

  “You came back last night? And you have spoken to no one of your trip?”

  “No one,” James confirmed.

  “You left the king in captivity?”

  “God forgive me, I did.”

  “Tell me how that was? Were you not ordered to get him to a boat? And see him to his son’s ship and safety?”