Havoc, in Its Third Year Page 4

  “We must talk,” the Master said when the servants left them.

  Brigge knew their discourse would not be of secret fears and hopes.

  He had long before now seen in his host the unmistakable signs of a hot friend cooling.

  Five

  WHAT MAKES A MAN A LEADER? NO ONE WHO KNEW NATHANIEL Challoner as a young man, least of all John Brigge, foresaw the extraordinary career of his middle years. As a young man, he was no great scholar but was pleasant and sociable enough among his friends, and seemed without great ambition or thought of how to advance himself beyond the ordinary. Certainly, Brigge had no inkling of the prodigious qualities others later came to admire in him. When as youths he and Challoner rode out together over the moors, when they climbed the fells and swam in the rivers, Brigge thought he was watching someone little different than himself.

  But then the flower began its spectacular bloom. Once Challoner entered Middle Temple and was called to the bar, his rise was swift, assisted by his oratory and his patrons at court. Many predicted he would advance to lord keeper or lord chancellor, that high office was his for the asking. Yet at the very height of his renown in London, he suddenly gave up his pursuit of honor to return to the town of his birth, where Lord Sav-ile’s harsh rule was notorious throughout the country.

  The young lawyer who came to visit the Winters on his homecoming was a magnificent sight. Tall and straight, with dark hair and dark eyes, he was dressed in a grave black suit of the best broadcloth, with white bands and cuffs. He was much loved by the women in the house. The kitchen maids fussed about him, and Brigge’s mother enjoyed the opportunity to talk of religion with so heartfelt and learned a listener. Challoner always listened respectfully, and for a time Brigge’s mother had hopes of his conversion. Brigge did not. It was not that he doubted his friend’s sincerity, but he knew how Challoner hated to make an enemy. With passions running high about so many things—the town’s government, the king and parliament, heresy and good doctrine, law and disorder, war and invasion— men were accustomed to hearing opinions delivered like volleys of musket fire. All the world was set to argue, men to fall about each other’s ears at the slightest provocation. Men took their stand at the drop of a hat and bellowed they could do no other; opponents were enemies, and argument, conducted with one hand on the hilt of a sword, was the surest way to know the truth: the feeling for dispute had asserted itself over the instinct for settlement.

  But Challoner knew how to listen, this was his gift. Brigge’s mother was not alone in having hopes of him. In those days, before he entered into power, every person with whom he held conversation came away with their own expectations; Brigge sometimes looked at his friend and wondered who he was. Yet Challoner was loyal. When Brigge’s mother was on her deathbed and no one dared come to the house of so notorious a recusant, Challoner came, and he came not in secret but said openly that he was going to see old Mrs. Brigge. The ancient woman, death in her face, was lifted up and brought to the fire, the heat a comfort to that poor little old body. “Beware of rising too high,” she whispered to Challoner. “Be content with what God has lent you.” It was as though all along she had seen more deeply into his friend’s soul than Brigge had guessed. She died two nights later, by the same fireside, drawing a long breath and holding it while Brigge and those in the room held theirs until her spirit departed. Challoner helped carry the pall.

  Soon after his mother’s death Brigge received an invitation from Challoner to meet him with some men of the town: Doliffe, Antrobus, Fourness, Lister, Wade, Binnes, Straw and others—they were twelve in number, all persons of reputation, wealth and standing. Challoner rose to address them. He denounced Lord Savile for a corrupt monopolist and rack-renter whose promotion of greed and corruption had divided the people, set rich against poor, masters against servants, fathers against their children. He declared that here there was punishment but no justice, wealth but no charity. Though his audience were rich men, they were soon swimming out of their senses, swarming to his speeches. He had learned to perfection the lawyer’s good art of leading others into his own principles and wants; he spoke with the sharpness of the logician, the gravity of the philosopher, the gesture of the actor.

  There was nothing wrong with riches and honor, Challoner held. By them men were more enabled to do good and it was right that wealth should be the reward of the godly and not of the wicked. But to pursue private wealth and neglect the common state was to seek in vain peace and happiness for oneself. For all men inhabited one body—the body of the commonwealth—and the health of the body stood in this, that one part answered to another: a man’s hand helped his head, his eye helped his foot, and his foot his hand. The health of the body would be safe only if the higher members considered the lower and the lower answered in the same way to the higher. If they were not as Paul commanded the Romans to be—every one members one of another—they and the town would come to inevitable despair and ruin.

  Challoner promised that if they joined with him they would overthrow Savile from his power. Then together they would make such a strong godly reformation that sin and idleness would be rooted out. Piety would breed industry, and industry procure plenty. Then there would be good commerce, good morals and good government. They could not create heaven on earth, but they could build a city on a hill, as the great John Calvin had done in Geneva, a light for others lost in darkness, where the body would become whole and healthy again. This would be their great project.

  When, afterward, Brigge told him privately that he could not in conscience join with him, that he was not—as his friend knew too well♥one of the godly reforming sort, Challoner asked him simply, “Will you object, John, when justice, charity and order reign?” It was Challoner’s gift that he united men like Brigge and Doliffe. There was something for everyone in what he promised.

  It was four more years before Challoner, through his influence at court and with the agitation of the townspeople, wrested power from Savile and secured the letters patent that became the foundation of their government. There were parades in the market square and on Bull Green, with effigies of Savile burned and bunting and banners proclaiming this glorious new Revolution of the Saints. The people went about in a delirium, waving sprays and sometimes whole branches of bay-laurel to mark their triumph. All hailed the new Master, Nathaniel Challoner, all hailed this handsome lawyer who had brought Savile’s rule to an end. They garlanded him with laurel and put a branch into his hand as though he were Caesar, and when he got up to address them, the crowd went into a frenzy so that he could not be heard above their roaring. Brigge believed they would have made him king had it been in their power. Challoner, still clutching his laurel branch, looked helplessly at Brigge, then pulled his old friend to him and embraced him for all the town to see.

  “This day would mean nothing to me, John,” he said, “were you not here by my side.” There were no orator’s tricks that Brigge could see, no contrivance in his ceremony. Brigge was moved beyond measure, his heart enlarged by Challoner’s words, his whole being made tender. He loved him then as he had always loved him. They were David and Jonathan, Orestes and Pylades, friends who would die for friendship’s sake.

  THE MASTER PUSHED away his plate and leaned back in his chair, his belly full.

  “It is a pity you felt unable to complete the inquisition tonight, John,” he said, drumming his fingers on the table with an air of distraction and impatience. “It creates the unfortunate impression”—he paused to let Brigge know he was seeking the most discreet way to continue—“that you are remiss in the execution of your office.”

  “Remiss?” Brigge said, his voice taut. “In what way?”

  “They complain about you, John,” Challoner said, the restraint in his voice giving way to the impatience. “Doliffe came to see me immediately after the proceedings, bringing three jurymen with him.”

  “Doliffe can say what he likes, the jurymen too.”

  “Are you mad? The people of this town a
re worked up into a fever of fears. For all you scoff, men have seen these horsemen and other suspicious strangers.”

  Brigge could not help but let out a skeptic cry. The Master fixed him with a hard look.

  “Do you think England so safe?” he said. “Do you imagine we have neither enemy over sea nor in our bowels, or that these would not delight in the extinguishing of our liberties?”

  “I am certain they do,” Brigge said.

  “Then why do you treat these matters with such lightness?”

  “I am sorry,” Brigge said, apologizing to extract himself from an argument he could only lose. “As you say, I have been cut off from the conversation of men for too long.”

  “John,” Challoner began, his voice taking on tones of high earnestness, “the dangers the kingdom faces come not only from without, nor only from armies and spies. The condition of the country grows ever more lamentable. The last harvest failed and the harvest before that.”

  “I know the harvests as well as you, Nathaniel,” Brigge said with some asperity. “I live by them.”

  “The people have murrain in their cattle,” Challoner continued.

  “Their swine are infected. Clothiers have no work for their spinners and weavers, their markets have collapsed. When calamity threatens, men seek enemies to blame. Everyone should be very attentive to what is said about them.”

  “What do they say about me?”

  “Some question your faithfulness to the work we are engaged in here,” Challoner said.

  “Tell me what you want me to do, Nathaniel,” Brigge said.

  “No, John! No!” Challoner cried out. “You are not some servant to be ordered about, a soldier to be commanded. You are a governor of this town. What do you think we must do to promote prosperity and good morals, to keep order, protect property? What is your answer?”

  “I have none,” Brigge said.

  “Tell me what you would do,” the Master said, his anger barely suppressed. “Tell me how would you deal with the disorders and crimes we see committed every day? Are people not entitled to be safe? Can they not expect their lives and their goods to be secure?”

  “I have no quarrel with you, Nathaniel,” Brigge said, “or with what you do.”

  “Then why are you not here? Why do you isolate yourself at the Winters and sit in judgment on what we do?”

  “I do not sit in judgment. I have said nothing. I say nothing.”

  The Master glared at him. “I do not have your privilege, John,” he said tersely. “I cannot remove myself as you do. I remain here, at the heart of things, and must act as I see best.” The Master left the table and went to the window to look out into the street. “These blue ribbons people are wearing in their hats and coats—do you know what they signify?”

  “No.”

  “If you or I were to ask the wearer the meaning of his ribbon, he would swear it was nothing more than a fancy. But it is no secret that it is the badge preferred by Savile’s partisans. A third part of the population sport the ribbon, perhaps half, chiefly the poorer sort who once cried that Savile was their oppressor but now are won back to him so that it is he who appears the liberator and we the tyrants. They want a strong man to lead them, even if he is cruel. This is the third year of our government. It may be the last. If we cannot rule, Savile will come back.”

  It did not seem possible to Brigge. So complete was the Master’s victory that Savile was thought gone for ever, sealed up in his house by his own volition. No one saw the great lord but his most intimate servants; there had been no reports of him.

  Challoner dropped into an armchair and rubbed his eyes. “Tomorrow morning,” he began wearily, “there will be a court of sessions. I expect your attendance.”

  “Elizabeth is about to give birth, she may already have given birth. I must return to her as soon as I can.”

  “To see your son,” Challoner said.

  The two words—your son—sounded strange to Brigge’s ears. “My son,” he said. On his lips the words also sounded strange, strange and exciting.

  Challoner was silent for a moment. “Nevertheless,” he said at last, “you would be well advised to attend.”

  Brigge got to his feet and went to the door. “My place is with my wife,” he said.

  “John!” the Master called after him. “John, you are suspected.” Brigge opened the door. “Did you not hear me? You are suspected! Charity constrains me to be blunt with you, which I think a most precious thing among friends.”

  Brigge turned on his heels. “With one word you could dispel the sus-picions,” he shouted. “If you chose to say it.”

  “Can I say it? In all honesty? Can I say that my friend Mr. Brigge is a godly, loyal subject? Tell me I can say it, John, and I will proclaim it everywhere I go. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

  “What have I ever done to show that I am disloyal?”

  “Show? Show?” the Master said with bitter sarcasm. “The showing is not important, John. Outward conformity is not enough. What we must have is your heart,” he said, jabbing a finger to his own breast. “You are in danger from your enemies,” Challoner said, coming up to the door, “and you will be more vulnerable if you are absent. Help me and I will help you. Do your duty and I swear I will do everything in my power to protect you and your family.”

  The Master looked closely at him. “You know you have no choice,” he said.

  “There are always choices,” Brigge answered.

  Challoner embraced him. “I hope you do not live to regret the one you make,” he said. “God keep you from adversity.”

  AT THE CLOTH HALL there were guards with pikes and muskets, and at the corner of King Street he came on the watch, who stopped him and asked him his name and what business he had there. Brigge told them to go to, that they knew who he was.

  “Indeed, sir, we know you very well,” one of the pikemen replied.

  Another strong fellow that sported a blue ribbon in his hat put a meaty hand to Brigge’s chest.

  “Let me alone,” Brigge said, reaching for his sword, “or you will soon regret what you do.”

  “I wish no more than to discuss a matter of theology,” the man said.

  “Will you not do me the courtesy? Papists hold a wafer put into their mouths by a priest to be the body of our Savior, to be His very flesh. Is that not so?” Brigge brushed the man’s hand away. “Yet we all know what becomes of that which we have eaten and taken down,” the man said; he turned to his companions to laugh with them before facing Brigge again. “I hope you treat your shit with great reverence, it being so sacred.”

  “Given your care for it,” Brigge said, “I will naturally save some for you when next I have occasion.”

  He pushed past the watch, being jostled as he went, and heard insults and abuse come after him as he made his way onward. He passed the House of Correction and, looking up at the windows, wondered how Katherine Shay fared. Be harmless as doves, Jesus commanded his apostles to be. Brigge knew the quotation well: Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves. It was said that when St. Francis heard the tenth chapter of Matthew’s gospel it was with unspeakable joy. The words did not bring joy to Brigge, but troubled his conscience. No man now pretended that harmlessness was a virtue. The times were martial.

  Six

  THE BED WAS COLD AND NARROW, THE MAT TRESS MADE OF straw and the coarse, harden sheets were faintly damp. There was no sign of Adam, though the hour was late.

  Brigge went over his talk with the Master. He had always taken care to be discreet about his religion. Since becoming a governor he had made outward conformity with the established church, attending divine service and taking communion three times a year as directed by law. If he found it hard to put up a pretense of enthusiasm, if he did not go gadding to sermons, still no one could point to any act or saying of his that made him a Catholic. But now acts and show were no longer enough. They wanted his heart.
Of those who knew what was truly in his heart, Elizabeth would die before betraying him, and his confessor, who had been prey for half a lifetime, would be torn limb from limb rather than run as a dog before the hunters.

  Anxiety and exhaustion battled within him. His thoughts were random and led one to another until there came to his mind an inquisition he had held at Tong on a woman who had died in childbirth. The midwife had been ignorant and unskillful, and several of the gossips gave hard evidence against her, how, after many hours of labor, the dull-witted wretch put one foot up on the bed, planted the other on the floor, reached in and pulled the child from its mother with such violence that the sound was like the report of a gunshot. Brigge imagined it now as clearly as though he had been standing at the bedside; he saw the horrible contortions on the midwife’s face as she strained and wrenched, he heard the awful snap, and when he looked down at the woman in this hideous labor he saw it was Elizabeth.

  Brigge let out a cry and turned on his side, wracking his memory for sweeter thoughts of his wife. The thought of her belly. As Elizabeth had grown, he wanted more of her. By the sixth month, when she was very heavy and the veins in her breasts were visible and the nipples darkened, he found himself in a state of almost perpetual desire. She responded to his heat with excitement, fecundity and passion going together. Brigge would keep his eyes open when she had her due and see her turn rigid in her limbs, hear her cry out. In those moments he felt that, if only in this, he had done well by Elizabeth, that he had, after so many failures, at last made her happy. He had not been a good husband; he had sinned. He had sinned. But when she was in his arms, naked and swollen and sweating, the world became for her a place of joy and boundless sympathy of souls, and he knew she was happy because she felt herself loved by him.