The Crimson Ribbon (7 page)

Chapter 11

I have not thought of Joseph often since we parted ways at Cornhill, the first night I came to London. Not even half a year has passed but already that journey seems like another lifetime, one in which I was altogether different, and upon which I prefer not to dwell. I had sometimes wondered, seeing the printers and booksellers in St Paul’s Churchyard, whether he had found the apprenticeship he hoped for. Now I have my answer, but I find I am not satisfied. I saw such urgency flash behind his eyes in the half-light of Pope’s Head Alley that all the next day my insides churn with curiosity. It is past eight o’clock when I have done with my chores and, despite my better instinct, decide to hear what he has to say.

The cold stone of the cathedral gives welcome relief from the heat of the day. Charlotte has told me rumours about the great church and Margaret refuses to enter, claiming it is a hotbed of plague and pestilence, a holy place turned unholy by popery and fashion. Now I am here, it seems little more than a meeting place, its once sacred spaces long spoiled and forgotten. During these late-summer evenings, when soot settles on cloaks and caps, no breeze to blow it away, people gather in the cool shadows of the interior to gossip and hear the latest news of the King. Street traders jangle their bells in a mockery of the silent chimes in the tower. Criers bellow a roll call of that day’s plague dead, for anyone with nerves strong enough to listen.

He appears, shabbily dressed, sweat-stained, dark smudges of ink across his cheek.

‘I wasn’t sure you’d come,’ he says, with a smile. ‘Are you well?’

‘Well enough.’

‘The Poole household is a respectable one, I understand. The master is a Haberdashers’ Guild man, is he not?’

‘Yes.’

‘A good trade, if you can attract the business. Not much call for finery, I dare say, with the Court scattered about the country.’

‘The shop does well enough.’

‘So I see.’

I scuff my toe in the dirt between the paving slabs and watch as a crow-headed clergyman in a leather plague mask passes by, swinging a smoking ball of sage.

‘But the daughter is making a name for herself.’

‘What do you mean?’

He takes in my frown. ‘I’ve heard her name on people’s tongues. Probably nothing. Just gossip.’

‘Mistress Elizabeth has been good to me.’

He nods. ‘I’m glad to hear it. Stukeley is not a wealthy man, but it’s good work and he lets me sleep in the back room. I’m learning the trade. I’m lucky. There’s a thousand more like me in London and not all can find work. There’s not enough to go around.’

I did not come here to exchange pleasantries. ‘What did you want with me?’

He glances about. ‘Not here.’ He takes my hand and leads me down one side of the nave, past faceless saints and the tombs of long-dead bishops. A group of men watch us go by, some of them gaudily dressed in lace cuffs and feathered hats, seldom seen on the streets these days. They nudge and snigger, sucking at pipes in a cloud of cloying smoke.

‘Pay them no heed,’ says Joseph, as I flinch.

He leads me into a small chapel, away from the main chancel and mercifully empty. It has been stripped of all decoration, the altarpiece smashed, the odd fragment of stained glass still glimmering in a corner. It stinks of mould and decay. But at least it is private. We sit, side by side, on a low bench.

‘I looked for you,’ he says. ‘I know why you ran off the way you did, and God knows I’m sorry for it. It was my own fault.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’ve cursed myself for my selfishness. I should’ve been kinder.’

‘No matter now,’ I say. ‘You had what you needed from me. I paid my way. That’s the end of it.’

‘You think that? It was not only the money.’

His eyes search mine, and for a moment I am drawn in. Despite his passion for all things modern, there is something of the old days about him. In the Fenland lilt of his voice, in the solidity of his presence, he is like an anchor, weighed deep in the silt of the marshes. He feels comfortingly familiar.

I manage a smile. ‘I have forgotten what you said then,’ I lie, ‘so you may forget it too.’

He nods slowly. ‘That’s good to hear . . . because I must ask you again if I can count on your silence. There are things I told you that must remain between us.’

I think back to that dark wet night in Puckeridge and the livid scar upon his body.

‘Since the King’s men surrendered Oxford, the army looks for trouble within their own ranks. There are rumours that those who were not loyal will be brought to justice. The grandees are afraid of spies, I think, and turncoats. I must be wary. I must know if you’ve told anyone else about me.’

‘I’ve told no one.’

Relief passes across his face. ‘I should’ve known you wouldn’t tell. You, so good at keeping secrets.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You keep yourself so closed. If you are ever in need of money, you should try your hand as a card sharp.’ He smiles. ‘With those mysterious eyes, you’d put even the most hardened gambler off his game.’

I pull away from him and stand up. ‘Have you said all you wanted?’

‘Oh, come now, Ruth, I was making a joke, that’s all.’

‘I must go.’

‘Have you heard the news from home? I hanker for it, picking up titbits anywhere I can, like a street-corner gossip.’

‘My mistress will be waiting—’

‘Have you heard about the witch killings?’

My breath catches as though I am plunged into icy water.

He reads my shock. ‘Aye, one hundred witches were hanged at Bury St Edmunds this year and now there are cases come up at Cambridge and into Huntingdonshire too, towards Ely.’

‘Witches?’

‘At least a hundred, maybe more, at Bury Assizes. And now there’s a plague of it, infecting the eastern counties. Sad to think of it, so close to home.’

I sit back down, my heart hammering. ‘Is it true?’

‘There are pamphlets about it. I printed one myself. I’ve seen some fine pieces of work, with wood-block pictures and all. We could walk out right now in the street and buy at least a dozen. They sell well, you see. The public has an appetite for such things. Some say it’s a sign of the times, that the Devil is at work among the most godly, rooting out the weak and the sinful.’

‘And what do you say?’

He shrugs. ‘With the Court all but destroyed and our precious Pope-loving queen fled to France, perhaps it’s time to find out where else the threat lies. I’m all for purging the country of ill-doers. I just wish the witch-finders would peddle their trade somewhere other than the Fens. God knows there are more than enough tales about the water folk without scaremongering.’

‘How do they find them out, these witches?’ I ask.

‘There are plenty of people willing to point a finger. Enough to fill the gaol at Colchester ten times over.’

‘And what happens to those accused?’ I ask, trying hard to keep my voice level.

‘They’re watched, day and night, until the Devil comes to them. Or they’re examined. If the marks of the Devil are found upon them, they’re tried at the assizes. They’re the lucky ones, though. They’ve a chance at life. I’ve heard stories of lynchings would turn your blood.’

I let out a small cry and he frowns. ‘Are you unwell?’ he asks.

As I turn away from him to hide my distress, two men stumble down the steps of the chapel. They giggle and clutch at one another, clumsy with drink. They don’t see us, crouched in the shadows, and before we can move, one pushes the other up against the wall and kisses him full on the mouth. The other moans and drops the bottle he is holding, ignoring the splinters of glass that explode across the floor, his hands going straight between his lover’s legs.

I choke back my tears and Joseph stands, holding out his hand for mine. The men notice us then and break away from each other. ‘Looks like we’re not alone,’ says one, coming towards us.

Joseph drags me to my feet and pulls me to the steps.

‘You’ve caught yourself a big fish there, lucky girl,’ the man says. ‘Don’t you want to join us?’

I stumble up the steps, their hoots ringing in my ears.

Joseph’s cheeks are aflame. ‘I should never have brought you here.’

I set off for one of the side doors that lead out to the churchyard, Joseph trailing after me. ‘Let me take you home,’ he says.

I round on him. ‘You ask me to come here, thinking only of yourself and your dirty secrets. You tell me you fear for your life when all you really want to do is spread evil gossip—’

‘I’m worried, Ruth. What would you have me do?’ he hisses.

‘Leave me alone.’

I push through the jumble of debris and discarded newsbooks and reach the door.

‘Wait! I just thought . . .’ He pauses, gulping a breath and clutching his side as though it pains him. ‘Let me see you safe home.’

‘No. I go alone.’

‘It would be safer . . .’

But already I am running, fighting tears. I don’t turn back or stop until I am locked behind the Pooles’ kitchen door.

Chapter 12

I have many secrets. They can be a heavy load to carry alone. I long for a confidante. My mother knew everything about me. She knew my whole story, from first breath to the day her own ended. She knew all, except one thing.

There is a certain charm that can be woven only on the darkest nights when the moon hides her face from the sea. My mother forbade it and would not teach me how best to cast it. She said that the old wisdom should be used only for healing, for saving lives, not for meddling with them.

Some would call it a love charm, a binding charm, designed to catch a human heart and tie it to another for ever. What my mother did not know was that I had learned that charm by rote, and I have been waiting for the right moment to use it. I always thought that one day I would find a man strong enough to make me forget the hurts and doubts of the past. Then I would use what I had learned to make him mine.

Now, in the blackest hour of the blackest night in the month, I lie awake while the household is sleeping. When I hear the church bells strike midnight, I rise from my bed, wrap myself in a hooded cloak and pad softly down the stairs. Outside, I have to creep in the shadows, avoiding the Watch, who keep the curfew, but it does not take long to reach the river. The charm needs water. It needs the tide.

On the banks of the Thames, I whisper my wishes to the waves. I go down on bended knee and release a talisman – a tiny pouch, made up from linen scraps, sewn and bound with silver thread. Inside I place a silver penny, the remains of the coin that Old Bess gave me, and a single strand of Lizzie’s hair, collected from her bolster when no one was looking. It will go with the tide and meet the Fen spirits, who will take their payment and send their magic back to me by the time the moon is full. With every turning of the moon, the thread is wound that little bit tighter, drawing her closer to me.

I never dreamed I would cast this spell for a girl, but I find it does not seem to matter. All the fantasies I shared with my girlhood friends, of husbands, the hearth and the marriage bed, seem nonsense to me now. All the things I have been waiting to feel, I feel for Lizzie.

This charm needs patience and the belief that it will work. I send my love out with the tide and trust that it will come back to me twofold.

In the autumn rain, St Paul’s Churchyard turns to mire beneath the endless parade of pamphleteers and gossips. Londoners flock there by day and night, ever hungry for news of the King and the fate of the country. With Parliament in disarray, there are no censors or justices to stop the cascade of newsbooks, pamphlets and tracts that flies from the presses springing up in damp alleyways and hidden cellars around the cathedral.

Lizzie revels in the new freedom, eager for knowledge. She is one of the news-sellers’ most regular customers. As soon as she recovers from her illness, in early October, she spends hours flitting from stall to stall, picking out the latest papers from the great thinkers of the day. Nothing is too extraordinary for her: preachers, politicians, army men. All have their right to a voice now and Lizzie wants to listen.

Her favourites are the many tales of supernatural happenings. Here a devil-child born with two heads, there a spectral army sighted in the sky, elsewhere a plague of flies destroying the apple harvest. It seems there is no end to the signs of God’s displeasure at this country at war with itself.

Lizzie devours the stories, sitting before the kitchen hearth in the evenings. She draws me in and makes me a part of it, reading aloud as I go about my business, scrubbing pots or working the flour for the morning’s baking. This is how I come to learn that Joseph told me the truth that night in the cathedral. A hundred or more witches have been hanged this year in the eastern counties, and more await trial at the assizes. Such a plague of sorcery has never been seen before. The sign of the witch is truly a sign of the times.

I listen carefully, waiting for the day when I will hear a name I know. I keep my secrets close and my fears to myself.

But whatever bad news I hear, I treasure these moments with Lizzie. While Charlotte gossips in the street with the neighbours’ servants and Margaret takes to her bed with her caudle, these times alone with her are precious. I am filled with such feelings. The tiny hairs on my skin crackle and stand on end. My breath comes shallow and fast. My senses are heightened, attuned to every shift of her body, every nuance of tone. I am so aware of her, and it thrills me to the core.

Better still are the days when Charlotte is busy with the laundry and Lizzie asks me to go with her as she browses the wares in the churchyard. Sometimes she takes my arm and walks from the house, chattering as if I were her sister. At these times the distance between us, as servant and mistress, shrinks and I can forget my place. I can pretend that we are equals. I feel her drawing near.

It is on one such day, some time in December, that Lizzie and I spend an hour in the churchyard, exchanging gossip and picking from the best new pamphlets on offer. There is a chill in the air and Lizzie walks arm in arm with me, keeping me close. I can feel the heat of her body, even through her cloak. Our breath steams and mingles. Although the churchyard is busy, it is for me as though no one else exists. I am wrapped up in her; all others seem pale shadows by comparison. At moments like this it seems that the world is made anew, just for us. The world is ours alone. I am lost in this dream when I hear a high, girlish voice calling my name.

Then, as if spirited from the heavens, hands clutch at my skirts and two little bodies twirl about me calling, ‘Ruth! Ruth!’

For a moment I do not recognise them. They are dressed in fine frocks and matching dark capes, their hair ringleted; they are like miniature ladies. But their faces, bubbling with childish joy, are so dear to me I cannot mistake them. It is Mary and Frances, Master Oliver’s youngest girls, my own sweet charges.

‘Ruth, is it really you?’

I fall to my knees, not caring about the muck. ‘Oh, my girls! My girls!’ I wrap my arms around them both.

They giggle and chatter. ‘Is it really you? We thought you were dead!’

‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

‘We live here now,’ says Mary, the eldest and always the most confident.

‘Here, in London?’

‘Yes. We came to be with Father.’

‘You’ve left Ely?’

‘Yes, the house is all shut up.’

‘Oh . . .’

‘We packed our trunks ourselves,’ Frances butts in, pulling at the strings on my cap.

I hug them both close.

‘And now we have found you, and we can bring you home,’ Mary says, burying her face in my neck. ‘Father said I would be happy here, and now I am.’

I glance about for Lizzie, longing to introduce her, but instead my eyes fall upon another familiar figure, pushing her way through the crowds towards us.

‘Girls! What are you doing?’ It is Mistress Cromwell, their mother, thunder in her eyes.

Mary pulls away from me and hops up and down. ‘Mama, Mama, look! See who we have found! She is not dead after all.’

Mistress Cromwell stops short. Her eyes meet mine for the briefest moment, long enough for me to see her shock turn to malice. ‘Girls, stop pestering that poor woman and come back to my side at once.’

‘But, Mama, it’s Ruth. We’ve found her.’ Mary dances a hopping step towards her mother.

‘The woman is a stranger. Leave her be at once.’

Frances looks up at me, confused. I tighten my grip on her.

‘But, Mama—’

‘Come away at once!’ She grabs Mary’s arm and the girl winces, bottom lip quivering.

‘Frances!’

I struggle to my feet, with Frances’s arms still wrapped tightly around me. ‘Mistress Cromwell, please . . .’ I start to speak but find no words. I have only one thought – my love for these girls, like a string, winding me back to Ely and a life that no longer exists.

People are staring.

‘I do not know you,’ she says. ‘My children are mistaken. Frances, come to me at once.’ Then she speaks to a bulky older woman who stands at her side. ‘Sarah, help me.’

The woman takes hold of Frances.

‘It is Ruth! It is!’ Frances bawls, clinging to me. A crowd begins to gather.

I put my hand upon her head, feeling the warm softness of her hair. ‘Do as your mother says.’ The maid pulls Frances away and the child sets up a long wailing cry. Mary joins in.

Mistress Cromwell comes close to me then. I look down at Mary and see the red welt around her wrist, where she twists against her mother’s grip. ‘I do not know you,’ Mistress Cromwell says, loud enough for others to hear. ‘You will leave my children alone or you will see the inside of Newgate. Think on that before you make untruthful claims.’

Then she turns on her heel. I watch as the girls are led away, blotched faces twisting back to see me sink to my knees in the dirt.

I cry myself dry that day. I cry for Mary and Frances and their screwed-up faces, spilling tears like gargoyles after rainfall. I cry for myself, for my losses and loneliness. My heart is breaking all over again. The frayed thread that keeps me tied to my old life is finally snapped. I see there is no going back. Now it is only Lizzie who keeps me from despair. Curled up in a ball on my truckle bed in the windowless attic, with Lizzie’s fingers stroking my hair, the world does not seem quite so cold.

She is gentle with me, cooing and holding me as I sob out my grief, almost as if I am a child myself. And then, when the tears have stopped and the tearing pain dulls to the ache that I am used to, she stays with me still, like a guardian angel.

‘You must think me very foolish,’ I say, when eventually I am calm.

‘Not at all.’

‘Those girls, they are . . .’

‘I know who they are. There is no need to explain. I saw their love for you in their eyes.’

‘Then you believe me?’

‘Of course.’ She smiles.

‘I’m sorry I caused such a scene.’

She shakes her head. ‘With such stories and scandals every day, you’ll not be news for long. It will be forgotten tomorrow.’

‘Then you are not cross with me?’

‘Of course not.’ She pauses for a moment and holds my gaze. ‘Sit up, Ruth. I have something to ask you.’

I pull myself up to sitting, my legs curled beneath me.

Lizzie takes both of my hands. ‘I have watched you closely these last months. I have seen how hard you have tried to fit in here. You have lost so much and yet you hide your pain. You are so strong.’

My heart warms a little.

‘I would like to keep you closer to me,’ she says. ‘I want you with me at all times. I’ve decided that you will become my personal maid. Would you like that?’

‘Oh, yes . . . yes, very much.’

‘Good.’ She squeezes my hands before letting them drop.

‘But what about Charlotte? If there is to be a place at your side then she has the prior claim. She will expect it.’

‘I’m sure Margaret can find some use for her in the kitchen.’

‘She will be upset.’

‘I have decided.’ Her voice is smooth and calm. ‘The household is my concern. You need not worry.’

‘I don’t know what to say. Thank you . . .’

She waves away my gratitude. ‘Rest a little. I need you strong for tomorrow. We will start your instruction in the morning.’

She leans forward and cups my face in her hands. Her fingers are cool on my cheeks. ‘Do not worry about a thing. All will be well, you’ll see.’ She stands then, but before she leaves me, she brushes her lips against my forehead in a tiny kiss, as gentle as fairies’ wings.

Through my pain I love her then. She is the one kind soul in my sadness – the one who will cradle me, who can make me whole again, the one who can save me, if only I can make her love me back.