Anne of the Fens (6 page)

“That puny, lily-livered, paper-faced, boil-brained piece of suet, to go against the people of this country, disbanding the Parliament, declaring a war for his own pride, a Catholic in Church of England clothes. No right-thinking Englishman will pay this tax!”

I could see why the King wanted to lock him up.

“And do you know a beggar in a rat-brown cloak?” I thought I should change the subject.

“What do you know of him, young woman?”

He was standing over me.

My knees were still weak, and my heart still beating faster than it should.

“I know little.” My voice quavered again, and I stopped and spoke more firmly. “I saw him at the fair, and I saw him today, and I wondered why he was so far from Boston. He frightens me.”

“Hmph. That one goes everywhere.”

“What shall you do?”

“Go to Holland.”

“Like the pilgrims,” I said.

He nodded. “And maybe someday I shall go to the New World. Like them.”

“There is nothing there, no towns, no houses, nothing, only endless wilderness, and heathen Indians and wild animals waiting to kill you.” I could not imagine a worse fate.

He smiled and his face relaxed again. “I prefer to think of it as an adventure.”

He was not so much older than I, surely younger than Simon. My heart stirred, perhaps at the idea of the adventure, or perhaps only at his blue eyes.

“How long shall you be here?” I hoped it would be long.

“Till a boat arrives in Boston that is going to Holland and will take me.”

“That could be tomorrow or next month,” I said.

“Should you like me to stay longer?”

This time, he not only smiled, he smiled at me. I felt myself blush again. I stood up from the stool and said I must go back to my room.

“What shall I tell your father about your visit?”

I began to beg him, speaking of my father's temper, until I saw he was teasing me.

“What brought you here?”

I wondered what he would think of me, a girl who wanted to read lewd books, but I told him about
Romeo and Juliet
, and he laughed.

“Have you found the books, also?” I asked.

He nodded and pointed to
The Canterbury Tales
lying beside the bed.

“I will think of something to say to your father so that we shall meet again,” he said as I left.

I made my way back up the stairs to my room, so many different feelings running through me. I fell down beside Patience, wanting to wake her so I could talk to her, and wanting her to stay asleep so that I could hug my excitement to myself.

C
HAPTER
E
IGHT

I
WAS TEMPTED
to tell Patience in the morning, but I did not. I had never felt so drawn to a man before. I had not even seen many men, outside of tenant farmers and fishermen who, for the most part, never bathed, and had no learning, and nothing to talk about except turnips and eels. John had been reading Chaucer, and his body was clean. That was only the beginning of who he was.

I was impatient to see him again and waited all day for something to happen. I walked to the Church and tried to still my unholy thoughts. The rest of the day I spent in the library, looking off into space. I kept reliving moments, especially what John had said about a scheme so we could meet again. Perhaps he had not meant it, or perhaps he had failed.

I went to bed sadly, knowing that I could sneak off to the secret room again on my own, and wondering what John would think; probably that I was too forward. As I was taking off my outer clothes, Patience already in the bed, there was a knock on our door. I peered around it so only my head could be seen. It was Seymour, a tall, thin servant, who told me to go to my father's office at once. I threw my skirts back over my shift and ran down the stairs, my hands damp from the exertion and from excitement.

F
ATHER SAT BEHIND
his table and looked stern. “Hmm. There is something I wish to tell you. Something I wish you to do, in fact. But it is also a matter of which you cannot speak to anyone, not to Patience or Sarah or even your mother.”

He was looking down at the table and he kept rubbing his nose.

“Mother does not know?”

“Mother knows.”

The silence that followed told me that Mother did not approve.

“Does Simon know?”

“Simon knows. He is the only other one, and it must stay that way.”

I swore secrecy, but Father still said nothing of what was happening, although he continued to talk about the need for secrecy, with a great many “Hmm's” and rubbings of his nose.

“What is the secret, Father?” I finally asked outright.

“We have a guest.” Silence.

“A guest,” I prompted.

And then finally he told me about John, although not so much as John himself had said the night before. He did say that John was wanted by the King for treason, and that it was extremely important to keep his presence a secret because we could all be arrested for treason for keeping him. “He is a hothead, but we both oppose the King's tax.”

I asked what he meant, and he said only that our guest could be impulsive. At the end, he said he was telling me because someone needed to bring food to the guest.

“Tonight I carried him a tray, and all the servants I met on the stair looked at me strangely. You could carry food without anyone thinking it odd.”

At that moment I was glad to be a girl.

“I made up a story to tell Cook, which I am certain she did not believe. Also John, that is his name, thought my choice of food somewhat odd.”

“What did you bring, Father?”

“A joint of meat and a raisin tart.”

“Nothing to drink and no bread nor vegetables?”

Father reddened a little. “What does it matter? From now on, you can do it. Start tomorrow night. Just once a day, that will be enough; people should not see you come and go. You must wait till midnight tomorrow to carry the tray in. Get the tray from Cook, saying it is for Patience, who is ill. And tell Patience she must stay out of Cook's way.”

“What can I tell Patience? She will want to know why.”

“Whatever you like, but not the truth.”

I was speechless. Father always said we must speak the truth above all else, and now he was telling me to lie.

He seemed to read my face and he waved his hand impatiently.

“Take a lesson from Sarah.”

I blushed, for it was just what I was thinking.

“Of course, I want you to bring the tray in and curtsey and leave. You are not to talk to him.”

I blushed again as I said, “Yes, Father.”

“And speaking of Sarah, make sure she does not see you. She is so thoughtless and wayward, she would have the Sheriff's men upon us in no time.”

The mention of the Sheriff sobered me. This was not just a game so I could be with a young man.

“If we were found out, we might have to flee to the fens, ourselves. These marshes around us have held so many outlaws, from Robin Hood till today. The fens are almost impassable, but I know you do not want to live among wet, cold reeds.”

I was stunned at the idea that our family could live in the marshes, but as Father went on about Robin Hood and other outlaws, past and present, my mind began to wander. He brought himself up short and began to tell me about the secret room, and how to enter it, in great detail. It gave me practice in lying, to keep my face straight and ask innocent questions.

“There is a rabbit head on the fireplace?”

When I left Father's office I felt like skipping, something I have not done since childhood. How delightful life seemed, and how exciting! I had forgotten again about the Sheriff's men.

I had a hard time falling asleep. I kept thinking of John behind the tapestry, gnawing on the joint Father had brought him. I wondered if he had spoken to Father, or if it had been Father's idea that I should bring the food. I had not dared to ask.

M
Y HAPPY IMPATIENCE
continued through the next day. It was raining, a hard rain that we seldom see. Usually it mists and sprinkles and clears for a bit and then mists again. This day, the rain came down like God was pouring out the washing water from a huge pail in the sky. There was no going up to the roof of the castle to distract myself.

I went to the library. Simon was sitting in his chair at the large oak table, and I sat down at my own small table. I asked Simon if he would find me another book, poetry if possible. To my surprise, he came directly to my table and pulled a leaflet out of his jacket, saying he had received it in Boston last Sunday. The leaflet was by a young man named Milton, who Simon said was a good Puritan not much older than I. It made me think I could someday write poems myself. We spent some time looking at the rhyme and meter and talking of the ideas in the poems, mainly religious, but there was one about love.

“Interesting that this young Puritan should find his mind turning to thoughts of love,” I said.

Simon turned away, and I could see his neck growing red.

“Perhaps when you have written this many fine pieces about God's love, you also will have time to think of human love. In the meantime, diagram the meter in this one.”

He picked the most difficult poem, put it in front of me, and went back to his place. Before I knew, my head had fallen to the table. For several days I had not slept well, what with midnight excursions and too much thinking.

When I woke, Simon was standing over me. “I let you sleep for half an hour.”

He brushed my apologies aside. “I used the time to write something for you.”

He handed me a sheet of paper. He had written something on the back of one of John's flyers about not paying the King's tax. I took it, and began to read.

Anne Dudley has asked a "wicked" question. She wants to know how to treat Catholics, as our Puritan faith tells us we should not tolerate them. It is wickedly hard to answer this question.

“Let us discuss it another time,” Simon said. “Just read it through quickly now.”

I skimmed the phrases.

Basis of religion is embracing God's mercy as a principle of living... Importance of teaching those with other beliefs but not forcing them against their will... Religion must be freely chosen... Truth will show itself... We seek religious freedom, we should therefore offer it to others... Our King, the idiot dwarf, must learn these principles, or else England's future shall be a civil war of bloodshed unending...

Simon seated himself on the bench beside me. His eyes glowed and he looked younger than usual. I felt an urge to reach out to touch his arm. I remembered John in the secret room, and felt strangely guilty, not sure if the feeling was because of Simon or because of John.

He began to talk about the pilgrims, who escaped from England and went first to Leiden, in Holland, and then to the New World. As I knew, they were different from us Puritans. Pilgrims felt that other religions should be tolerated, while Reverend Cotton and most other Puritans felt that we have the one Truth and should not accept others among us who might cause us to waver in our beliefs.

“If we have the one Truth,” I said, “then it should hold against any other argument. We should not be threatened by what others say or believe.”

His face shone. “Nothing you could have said could give me more pleasure.” He began to study my face. “There is something changed in you in the last days.”

“I am very tired,” I said. I could not tell him about John.

At that moment the door opened and Mother entered, telling me to come help her with the meal.

I slipped John's paper into the back of the Milton leaflet and said loudly, “I find the poem about God's goodness especially moving.”

Simon grunted some reply and went back to his chair.

I told Mother I must run to my room first, and I took the Milton pages with me, intending to read Simon's paper more carefully in private and to return it to him. Generally we left the books in the library, as they were too valuable to leave around the castle where a servant might be tempted to pick them up. I left the book in my room, under the bed, and went back to help.

When I reached our dining room I saw Father was not with us. I thought he was probably eating with the Earl's family. He had said that Arbella was in need of counsel without her brother's presence. I looked at the large tureens of food upon the sideboard, and I thought of a better plan than my father's. I said, bold as you please, “Father asked me to make up a plate for him.”

I gave Mother a significant look. She said nothing. Father had said to ask Cook for food, for Patience, but I had worried that Cook might only give me a small bowl of gruel, since Patience was supposed to be sick. John needed a good deal of food and drink. I piled a trencher high with roasted duck, bread, a stew of spring greens with thyme, and a piece of early cherry pie, adding a tankard of ale.

At the end of the meal, I took it to my room. I would have to think of something to tell Patience about the food. My mind went back and forth, about what to say, until we went to bed.

I put the plate under the bed, beside the Milton book, and hoped for the best.

As Patience walked around the bed ready to get into it, her candle in hand and ready to blow it out, she sniffed and said, “What is that smell? It smells like duck.”

It had occurred to me that she would smell the food, but what could I say? The best I managed was, “You have strange fancies.”

“No, I declare I smell a roasted duck.”

Before I could say anything further, she was wandering around the room, searching for food. It did not take her long to find the trencher under the bed.

“What is this? This is the plate you took for Father from dinner.”

“Father changed his mind.”

“So why didn't you take it back to the kitchen? It will draw mice.”

“You know I am trying to gain weight. I thought I might be hungry in the night.”