Havoc, in Its Third Year: A Novel Page 19

  “This is your answer?”

  “Govern men with clemency and caution. Overmuch sharpness and blood will draw upon you their hatred.”

  The Master looked to Brigge and made a short laugh in dismissal of his wife’s plain idiocy.

  “You have whipped more delinquents than Savile ever did,” Elizabeth went, infuriated by his dismissing of her, “and Savile dearly loved the whip. You stock and bridle, you imprison, brand and fine. I have seen women hanged for stealing a shilling worth of corn or cloth from tenters in the gardens. I have seen children branded for taking chickens. This is not the way to order. By raising discipline and punishment to such heights you have set the people by each other’s ears. One man reports his neighbor to the watch for lying drunk in a field. The neighbor reports the other for dallying with a serving girl.”

  “You would have men lying drunk when they should be at their work, you would turn your eyes from a man committing carnal sins?”

  “Has your whipping made people better?”

  “Can people not be made better then?” he scoffed.

  “I think if they are to be brought to a better state it will be by kindness and charity,” she answered.

  “This is ranting Anabaptism. This is the doctrine of Hugwald and Müntzer and the deluded peasants of Germany who rose in rebellion against their princes.”

  “No,” Elizabeth said, lifting the Bible they kept in the kitchen. She held it out to the Master and said, “If you care to look, you will find here this doctrine put into better words than ever I could utter.” She went to stand by Brigge. “This is my husband, whom I know to be a good man,” she said. “He is a good man yet you threaten that he should be hanged.”

  “Perhaps he is not so good as you think, mistress,” Challoner said coldly. “Perhaps you do not know your husband as well as you think.”

  There was a silence for some space of time, Brigge not knowing what Elizabeth had heard or what she knew or suspected.

  At last Elizabeth said, “I know my husband very well. And he shall have kindness and charity from me, as he deserves.”

  Perceiving her resolution, Challoner attempted a greater threat. Turning to Brigge, he said, “We know the priest who was at Lacy’s house to call himself Maxfield. He is not yet in our power, but he will be found and he will face justice, as those who have harbored him will. That is the law. I hope for your sake that you have had nothing to do with this evil man.”

  Neither Brigge nor Elizabeth responded to him. Challoner, seeing his way to the door now clear, took his cloak and hat and went forward. He stepped outside into the darkness. Elizabeth let out a little cry, turned and ran to their bedchamber.

  Challoner said, “Elizabeth thinks me a monster.”

  When Brigge did not offer to contradict his judgment, Challoner sighed heavily, his round shoulders fell. Brigge was about to close the door when he thought to ask, “What has happened to the Irishwoman Shay?”

  “You surely have more pertinent matters to concern you now,” Challoner answered. “As with the vagrants, I have never understood your interest in this woman.”

  “Does she still live?”

  Challoner exhaled wearily. “For now she remains prisoner in the House of Correction,” he said. “But I have asked Adam to see the matter brought to a speedy resolution.”

  “I went to Burnsall myself to search for the serving girl Susana,” Brigge said. Challoner looked at him quizzically. “No man I spoke to there had heard of her or the sister she was supposed to have gone to visit.”

  “You were deceived then as to her whereabouts.”

  Brigge nodded slowly. “It appears so,” he said. “The question is why.”

  “It is unimportant,” Challoner said with a shrug. “It is nothing more than a distraction.” He took a last look at Brigge. He said, “Why have you denied to save yourself, John?”

  “I have denied nothing of the kind,” Brigge answered. “Tell me how I may save myself and I will do it. I have no taste for martyrdom or sacri-fice.”

  The Master merely shook his head. “Your son is very beautiful,” he said, then added quietly, “I will protect you for as long as I am able.”

  Then he turned and went to the stable where James Jagger had put his horse.

  Brigge closed the door. He listened to the clump of the horse’s hooves. So well did he know his house and land, he could estimate precisely from the receding sounds where Challoner was: now on the stony path before the fields, now on the earth of the track that went between them, now on the marshy ground near the beck.

  HE SNUFFED OUT the candles and went down the passage toward their bedroom. He could hear Elizabeth’s crying. He thought his heart would break from the sadness he had inflicted. He opened the door in some trepidation, not knowing whether, now Challoner was gone, Elizabeth would turn on him to rebuke him. But immediately he stepped into the room Elizabeth came to him. Her eyes were red and lost. He took her in his arms and cleaved her head to his chest. He saw a strand of gray hair at her temple. He cursed himself aloud for the wretch he was and wept with her until she found his mouth and kissed him.

  Twenty-four

  AT A POINT IN HER PLEASURE BRIGGE SLIPPED TWO FINGERS inside his wife, this being how Elizabeth liked to have her due from him.

  But then, becoming aware of herself, she tensed her limbs and asked if it was well with him, if she still pleased him. He swore she did and gently coaxed her back to her enjoyment with flattering words and kisses. Nothing had changed in the way of her gratification. She was ever slow to the spasms of excitement, but when they came, she was left quite giddy. Then Brigge had his full enjoyment of her. She was flushed and happy. My wife is beautiful, he thought. Challoner was right in this at least: Brigge would cherish her in whatever time he had left. From the servants’ room he heard the sound of Samuel coughing. He was about to rise when he heard Deborah’s soft voice lull the child to sleep again.

  IN THE NIGHT he felt her come awake. She sensed he too was not asleep and raised her head to look at him.

  “Have I made things worse with Nathaniel?” she cried.

  “He had chosen his course before you spoke to him,” he said, trying to reassure her doubts. “I pray he will take heed of the good things you said.”

  “I dreamed they came to take you,” she said, “and the proofs they offered in your trial were the very words I spoke to Nathaniel.”

  It was her nature to be anxious. Brigge kissed her brow and put his arms around her. Her crying convulsed her whole body. “I dreamed I had killed you by my words,” she sobbed.

  Brigge told her that he would remember those words as long as he lived, and cherish every one of them, that no man had a better or more lovely wife. She became soothed somewhat at his words, but whenever his voice died away, she asked like a child that he speak to her, saying she had need of his voice. He recalled for her things of joy so they might share pleasant memories of people and places they loved. He told her the happiest occasions in his life were the day Samuel came safely into the world and the day he found her recovered from her sickness. She asked him to describe for her what had occurred during her labor, for she could remember little, and so Brigge found himself relating to her the arrival of Scaife to summon him to the town to view the body of the dead infant suspected to have been murdered by the Irish tinker Katherine Shay, and how on his return to the Winters he found her with the midwife and gossips in hard labor. It had not been his custom to speak to her of anything touching his work as coroner or governor, but he found himself relating the proceedings against Katherine Shay and the disappearance of Susana Horton, and he told her of the conversation he had just had with Challoner about the inquisition.

  For the most part Elizabeth listened in silence, asking brief questions here and there. When Brigge had told all he could, she considered for some space of time. At length she said, “How strange that one so assiduous as Doliffe has not sought out this Susana.”

  He told her his though
ts had been the same. They said nothing more.

  She was not content that he should sleep but kissed his neck and with her hands urged him again. Brigge became very eager for her. Nothing pleased or aroused him more than her pleasure and that she took pleasure from him, and he, thinking her abandoned to pure lust, as though it were May Day night again and they were reveling youths in awe of their own carnality and appetites, answered her heat and took her, forgetting himself, forgetting Challoner and Doliffe, forgetting the world. He existed in this moment only for her, to please her, to smell her sweat and taste her skin. Her paps were large and heavy, her belly round, and when she turned on her stomach, he rejoiced in her and the thought that she was his, that his hands could be free with her, that his fingers were invited to do their work, his tongue called and lured to where Elizabeth wanted it to go.

  And in his enjoyment of his wife, in their recklessness together, she whispered something to him. He did not hear it plain, and before he could ask what she had said, she got a foot behind his leg and began to move under him.

  He stopped his work, heart pounding, breath fast, and wiped the sweat from his face and searched her eyes. What had she said? She clung to him, was joined to him in every way it was possible for man and woman to be joined, so he could not think it was possible even for a red-hot needle to come between them they were so close.

  He felt himself fall under the fetters of her arms and legs, pulling him down again on top of her. He tried to resist, keeping a hand on the bed to support himself, but she folded her limbs all around him and moved so that he had in no wise opportunity to part from her, nor wanted to be parted from her, from her heat and pleasure.

  An hour before dawn Elizabeth fell asleep again and Brigge heard in his heart the thing she had whispered.

  “Save us.”

  BRIGGE SLIPPED OUT of the room and into his fields. He stooped to inspect the ground, rubbing the dry soil between his fingers. There had been no rain and the hills around were as red as foxes. He searched the sky. It was clear of clouds. He smelled something on his fingers and brought his hand to his nose. His wife’s smell. What would become of Elizabeth? Lacy or his wife could be induced to confess, by terror or promise. They would certainly implicate Brigge. But Elizabeth? Even now he could not make himself believe the Master would have her hanged. But Doliffe would have no scruple in this. Should he throw himself on the Master’s mercy, recant and betray? Would the turning of conscience be sufficient to win their reprieve? Should they abandon the Winters and try to flee over sea and go to live as beggars in France? Should they take to the road and seek sanctuary in the anonymous wandering life of Starman and Deborah and Katherine Shay? Were these better fates than death?

  Brigge turned and saw Elizabeth at the front of the house. She held Samuel in her arms and waved to him, and he came forward to meet them.

  She appeared weary and her skin was hot to the touch, but she smiled on his approach. After their night together his heart was heavy and light, oppressed and joyful. He knew hers to be the same.

  “You suspect there is something more to this business of the Irish-woman?” Elizabeth said.

  “I do not know what it is,” Brigge said, “or what it could be.”

  “You must find out,” Elizabeth said quietly. “You must find this Susana and discover what she knows.”

  Samuel made a little animal sound as he yawned. There was mucus in his nose, which Brigge wiped away as he took him into his arms. He felt the thrilling warmth of the little body. He knew life to be fragile and happiness fleeting, but still, at this moment, in spite of all the present dangers, he could believe he had been brought to the perfect state: this, he thought, is all there is, all that is worthy of account. Man. Woman. Child. The means to feed, the means to make shelter, the kindness of others, and God’s eternal, generous fount of mercy. He would do anything to preserve what he now had. He would do anything to save them.

  Samuel coughed and more mucus came forth from his nose.

  “I will find her,” Brigge said.

  BRIGGE SENT JAMES Jagger to fetch Starman to him and, when the shepherd came, asked how his flock did. Starman said he had seen nothing to give him concern and had every hope the sheep would soon be good for wool and meat. Brigge considered his answer, then told him to wash and dress himself in a suit of good clothes he would give him, that he was to accompany him to the town.

  While Starman prepared himself for the journey, Brigge went to take his leave of Elizabeth. He found her with Deborah and the kitchen maids, all the women having the same anxious appearance.

  “Samuel has caught cold,” Sara said.

  Only an hour before he had seemed well enough, but now he coughed and spluttered; sadness swam in his eyes and he cleaved to the women. He cried and would not be comforted. When Starman came and announced himself ready, Brigge told him to wait and spent the morning by his son’s side. Deborah alone appeared composed, affirming that children were thus, recovering and sickening and recovering again, and that Samuel was strong in heart and limb and they had no need for concernment. The evenness of her temper began to inflame Brigge and, recalling what Starman had told him of her, he had a sudden thought that she may have poisoned Samuel or in some other way caused him harm; but then, studying her closely, he saw her to be as troubled in heart as any of the rest. His suspicions lapsed though his fears did not.

  In the afternoon, while Starman still waited, Brigge lit candles and prayed to St. Francis and to St. Anthony, the compassionate saints, the lovers of mercy. He and Elizabeth gazed at their son. The child’s breathing came hard and his color was high.

  “You must go now, John,” Elizabeth said.

  Brigge was loath to leave with Samuel so ill and would not do it and was angry when Elizabeth later again urged him to go before it became too late to undertake the journey that day.

  “Time is short,” she pleaded, “if our family is to be saved.”

  Brigge looked at his wife. Elizabeth’s face was wan, her eyes tired and sad, her spirit downcast. He regretted his earlier show of annoyance and asked gently if she would not rest, fearing that she would make herself ill if she continued as she did. She refused him, as he knew she would.

  He kissed her hand. “I am sorry,” he said, “for the wrong I have done.”

  A tear came into Elizabeth’s eye. “I know,” was all she said.

  Brigge went with Starman to the fold where his mare and the little gray nag were and had them saddled.

  Twenty-five

  ADAM WAS A MAN OF HIS WORD, AN EXCEEDING DILIGENT governor. At the new bridge they found the vagrants’ camp pulled down, burned and effaced. There was no sign of Exley, nor of any man. Starman looked over the destruction as though he were a mourner by the graveside. What thoughts he had of what had passed there, or what questions he was asking of the fate of his companions who had lived there, he kept to himself. Brigge allowed him some minutes for his contemplation, or grief, if that was what it was, then called him on.

  They set across the moor, the dry moss, thistle and grass crackling under the horses’ hooves. Brigge explained what he was about, that he wished to find Quirke the alehouse-keeper and question him on the whereabouts of his servant Susana Horton. He told Starman they would have to enter the town without it being known, for it would be dangerous for Brigge to be found there. He asked if he had doubts of their going, but Starman professed his loyalty to Brigge and swore he would do what he could to assist him in his purpose.

  “What do you think lies behind the girl’s disappearance?” Starman asked.

  “In truth, I do not know,” Brigge answered.

  “But you have some suspicions, your honor, do you not?”

  “I suspect she may know something of what happened on the night the child died, or was murdered,” Brigge said, “and that what she knows is to the disadvantage of the men who would destroy me.”

  “What could this serving girl know of these powerful men?”

  This was
the question Brigge had never been able to answer. Yet by instinct and experience he knew something was being concealed from him.

  “Do you suspect these men, or any of them, to have murdered the child?” Starman asked.

  “I can think of no reason why they should,” Brigge conceded.

  “Perhaps you suspect one of them of having fathered the child and, being fearful of exposure as a hypocrite and bastard-getter, did away with his own son?”

  Brigge did not answer. Starman had gifts of perception; he had always known it. Yet he did not welcome hearing his own suspicions spoken aloud, for now they were made audible, so was their foolishness.

  “Had the Irishwoman been long in the town?” Starman asked.

  “No,” Brigge said. He fought down his growing irritation with the shepherd’s acuity. “Scarcely a day or two.”

  Starman said nothing. He had no need. The conclusion was obvious: with Shay so recently arrived in the town, Doliffe could hardly be the father of her child. The idiocy of his undertaking was undeniable. Star-man, sensing the looming shortness of Brigge’s temper, left off further questioning.

  AS DARKNESS FELL, they came within sight of Skelder Gate, but, perceiving the watch to be about and very vigorous, Brigge led Starman away, skirting the town, until they came to a place where the river could be crossed without their being seen, and from there to an unregarded passage through which they gained access to the town without they were challenged.

  They made their way to Bull Green, a part notorious for its vices and sinks and stews, and there came to the sign of the Painted Hand.

  The walls of the alehouse were high, it being among the largest of the tenements. Brigge and Starman left their horses and went inside. The tipplers in the low, smoky room, men and women of disreputable appearance, regarded them cursorily, those who noticed their entry at all, and went back to their business. Some sat in groups of four or five around large stone pots, others in couples, some of the men being very free with their women companions. Some glanced at Starman and, perceiving his condition from the ravages of his face, smirked or whispered to their fellows. Starman cast his eyes down and turned his head away.