i b8cff8977b3b1bd2 (15 page)

“You need feel no shame, Bess,” said Harry roughly. “For I love thee more than before.” At this, he too was amazed. When he had had his will with other women, he had been sated at once and contemptuous. “We must be married, Bess,” he said, and was dismayed to hear these words which had spoken themselves. He had not thought to say them for years, and least of all to her.

“Marriage,” she whispered dreamily, as though he spoke of something as remote as Antilles or Cathay.

“Aye!” he cried with sudden anger. “I’ll want you in my bed and often. But you’re a Winthrop and my cousin. I cannot tumble you in the hedgerows again; besides, you little dolt, d’you not know there may be fruit of this night’s work?”

“Oh - ” she said faintly. “I had not thought . . .” These past hours she had ceased to think. There had been nothing but new feeling, turgid, exquisite. She started to speak, but he turning sharply said, “Hist!” and reached for his sword that lay on the bank beside them.

There was a rustling and sound of footsteps on the path. They both listened tensely. No part of London was safe at night and least of all the parks where rogues and cutpurses often hid until dark.

Harry drew his sword and stood poised as the footsteps neared,. until they saw the wavering yellow light of a lantern, and a man’s voice called, “Harry! Harry Winthrop!”

“Here!” answered Harry on a long breath, and to Elizabeth he said, “ ‘Tis Seaton.” He stepped forward on the path, and his friend ran up to him.

“By God, Winthrop! What sort of games are these!” Seaton cried, “I’ve been hunting you this past hour. Could you not at least do dalliance in an arbour like the rest? Jesu, man, there’s danger in lurking here so late. Thanet and the wenches left long ago!”

He continued to scold until the two stepped into the light of his lantern, then he examined them and suddenly laughed. “By Corpus Venus, I believe you’re both bewitched! Come now, hasten!”

The two young men put Elizabeth between them, and held their swords ready as they hurried down the path and out of the Mulberry Gardens. Thanet had left orders at the Palace Gate and the gate ward let them through. They had not money enough to hire a wherry to take them home by river, so there was yet a long and risky walk from Whitehall, through the village of Charing Cross and along the Strand to Fleet Street. They had no trouble until they had passed the Temple and reached the warren of tenements and vice called Alsatia. Then four filthy beggars darted at them from an alley, and demanded alms in menacing whines.

“Be off with you, you clapperdudgeons,” cried Harry, jerking his sword. “We’ve nothing for you!” But the beggars barred the way, and two more glided from the alley to join them. The latter were furnished with long knives. On all their naked legs and arms were running sores made with lye, which were for the daytime arousing of compassion. But now they abandoned their plea for alms and moved stealthily nearer to the edge of the lantern-light. Harry shoved Elizabeth behind him against a door, and the two young men backed against the wall.

“Your purse, gi’e us your purse, me young cocks - ” growled one with a knife, watching the swords warily. “Or ye’ll see ‘ow far me little comforter c’n fly!” He swung the knife by its hilt.

“There’s naught in our purses,” cried Harry, and when they answered this with an evil jeering cackle, he reached down and yanked the leather bottle from his belt and threw it amongst them. “Very well, here it is!” They fell upon the bottle, scrambling and cursing, and before they discovered what it was, the young men had scooped up Elizabeth and begun to run. Fortunately at Fleet Street they met the Watch ambling towards them with his rattle and bludgeon, and two stout armed lads with torches behind him. “Ye’re out late, citizens,” cried the Watch suspiciously. “Where be ye going?”

“We’ve been revelling at the Palace,” said Harry.”Aye - ”chimed in Seaton, “and our coach has met with an accident, so we must walk.”

The Watch examined them by the light of the torches, then he nodded, convinced by their clothes and gentlemen’s voices.

“Bad luck, sirs,” he said. “I’ll see ye safe
^!
ome.”

He turned and accompanied them up the Old Bailey, pausing at the corner to cry out, “ ‘Tis past two o’clock of a chill spring night, and all is well.”

At the Three Fauns every window showed light, while Richard Fitch and Peyto, for once in agreement, were standing by the open door, peering anxiously up and down the street. They let out a shout when they saw the advancing party. The gipsy ran and kissed Harry’s hand, muttering thanksgiving in his own language, but the apprentice hunched his shoulders and pulled down the corners of his mouth as he said, “So ye’ve come back from your lewd roisterings. We made sure ye’d all been murdered, but it seems the Devil keeps his own.”

“We had an accident,” began Seaton. “We could not help - ”

Before he could finish, the apprentice was shoved aside. Thomas Fones stamped on to the doorstep in his nightcap and dressing gown; he brandished his blackthorn stick and shouted, “You knaves and ribauds, you lying bawdriminy dogs, where have you taken my daughter?”

“Father, Father!” cried Elizabeth, running to him. “I’m here. There’s no trouble,
Father!
” Her voice ended in a gasp, for he brought the stick down furiously across her shoulders, and she staggered. Harry rushed to her, and turning on the enraged Thomas cried, “Indeed, Uncle, you must not hit Bess, and we are sorry to cause you concern - but - ”

“Must not’“
screamed the apothecary.
“You
say ‘must not’ to
me?”
He trembled violently, his pinched face had gone purple, and he choked, tottering backwards to a chair in the hall. Priscilla was there, huddled near the peeping titillated maids. She gaped at her husband, whom she had never thought strong enough for such rage, and ran to him with a cup of posset, but he pushed her off with his stick, still choking. Martha had crept down at the uproar and stood timidly en the stairs staring with fear at her father, and with wonder at Elizabeth, who looked beautiful, untidy, and not at all repentant.

“Look you, sir - said Seaton, coming forward with a conciliatory smile. “When you hear the true tale of our day’s adventures, you’ll be mollified. Why sir, what say you to the knowledge that your daughter has now met
Their Majesties?”

At Seaton’s voice Thomas had stopped choking, but he listened to not one word as he drew himself shakily up from the chair. “Get out of my house!” he cried, pointing to the door with his quivering stick. He no longer shrilled, his shrunken little figure had a sudden dignity.

“Why, s-sir - ” stammered Seaton, “I don’t understand.”

“I
am
sick unto death,” said the apothecary, “but I am still master in mine own house, and you - filthy, skuldugging Papist - will leave here
now!
”

Seaton whitened, and stepped back. So that was it! He saw the apprentice’s malicious smirk and guessed that he had been followed that morning to the priest at Newgate. He saw Harry’s startled frown. Matters of religion had never been discussed between them. Seaton drew a hard breath before he said quickly to Harry, “Aye, it is true. I belong to the Holy Catholic Faith, the one true church of Rome.”

Priscilla gave a moan. The harbouring of a Romanist in their home seemed to her more horrifying than anything Harry or Bess might conceivably have done. She began to weep, snuffling noisily and murmuring, “Oh dear, oh dear.”

“Where will you go, Robert?” asked Harry, himself shocked at this revelation, and though troubled for his friend, aware it was not possible to keep Seaton here.

“To Father Christopher at Newgate. The
gaol
at least will take me in.” Seaton attempted a jaunty smile, waved his hand and strode out the door. Thomas Fones slumped in his chair, but straightened at once, turning on Harry. “I give you credit that you did not know the full duplicity of this knave you foisted on me, but you have much else to answer for.”

The apothecary stopped while a spasm of pain knotted itself in his left breast, ran down his arm and ebbed. He had been about to confront his nephew with all the misdemeanours Edward Howes had brought to his attention that day, and also with the sheaf of unpaid bills he himself had discovered in Harry’s room. But he had not sufficient strength. He gestured to Priscilla for the posset, gulped down a few swallows, then said grimly, “Were you not so near allied to me, and the son of him I so respect, I could not bear such oppositions in mine own house, but this I do command. From now on you will not see my daughter, Elizabeth, nor be able to include her in your bawdry.”

Elizabeth stiffened. She and Harry looked at each other. “Not now,” she whispered, conscious of great weariness, and of faint pity for her father too.

But Harry had never been one to wait, and the threat of coercion in regard to Elizabeth determined him at once.

“This command I cannot obey, my good uncle,” he said briskly. “For I mean to marry your daughter Bess - at once.”

There was a dead silence. Martha sank upon the steps, twisting her hands with excitement. Richard’s and Peyto’s jaws dropped The maids began to giggle, and Priscilla to weep louder.

“What?” whispered the apothecary. “What did you say . . . ?”

““That Bess and I love each other, and mean to marry.” Harry put his arm around the girl, and she leaned against him. “It is so, Father,” she said.

“But you are mad,” said Thomas Fones in a small voice..”Bess is already betrothed. You are cousins. ‘Tis no fit match for - for either of you. She is not of age. You’ve gone mad . .
,
mad.” His head waggled, and his sparse little beard sank forward on his chest. “I want to go to bed,” he said thickly. “Wife, help me! I can bear no more.”

In after years Elizabeth never could clearly remember the events of that month, which was hazed by turmoil of all kinds. On April 2, Thomas Fones wrote to John Winthrop a distracted letter, telling of Harry’s behaviour, and the efforts which had been made to put up with his:

much expense and riotous company . , . but will you know the Issue and requitall of my kindness - your son hath wooed and won my daughter Besse for a wyfe and they both pretend to have proceeded so far that there is no recalling of it at least promise of Marriage, and all without my knowledge or consent, what grief this is to me I leave it to your consideration . ..

and later he added:

I cannot write you the many troubles of my mind what to do, for my nephew says plainly if he can not have my good will to have my daughter he will have her without. . . I am weak and cannot, I see now, be master in mine owne house, and tis hard meddling between the bark and the tree ... he so near allied to me and son of him I respect... I am overwhelmed with troubles and afflictions on all sides ...

John Winthrop was accustomed to discounting much of the apothecary’s nervous agitations, but there was no minimizing this letter. As he read it, John’s face fell to its sternest grooves, his eyes went stone-grey. He handed the letter silently to Margaret, and at the same time beckoned to Bluet, his manservant, and ordered horses saddled for the journey to London.

“This is shocking news - ” said Margaret slowly as she put the letter on the table. “Oh, what is to be done, John?”

“Done?” he said through his teeth. “How can I tell until I get there? What needs to be done shall be, before the Winthrop name and blood is further disgraced. The Lord sees fit to humble me through my son. That Henry is profligate and dissolute,” he pointed to a paragraph in Thomas’ letter, “even that he has been ‘consorting with Papists’ scarce astonishes me ... no wonder then that he should add the seduction of his cousin to his sins. No doubt they are birds of a feather, those two, and shall be roasted in the same hell fire.”

“Yet - ” said Margaret anxiously, after a moment, “you will not be over harsh, dearest, will you? He wants her in lawful marriage, they may have true love for each other which condones much.”

“Ha!” said Winthrop. “You prate the silly woman, Margaret. I shall act as is just and fitting - with the Lord’s direction.”

And in this mood he rode off to London. But when he arrived there, Harry and Elizabeth’s behaviour was not of paramount importance, for Thomas Fones lay on his deathbed.

The family were gathered in the parlour at the Three Fauns. Emmanuel and Lucy Downing sat a little apart conversing in hushed tones. Henry and Elizabeth stood without speaking by the window. Martha, twisting and untwisting a corner of her apron, crouched near her stepmother, Priscilla, who wept without restraint, while clasping her own little Mary to her breast. Sammy, subdued for once, huddled by the fire and gaped at his elders.

The great Doctor Harvey from St. Bartholomew’s had been summoned to examine the patient, and he now ponderously descended the stairs, shaking his head. “There is no hope, my good people,” he said. “None at all. You’d best say farewell to him.”

Priscilla uttered a shriek, and the others clustered around the physician to ask frightened questions, but Elizabeth stiffened and ran frantically up the stairs. It can’t be true, she thought, always he has talked of dying, but it couldn’t really happen. She entered the sickroom and knelt by her father’s bed. Already Thomas had drifted into a peaceful world where the tempests of this one seemed remote. But he opened his eyes as she took his hand and laid it against her wet cheek. “Bessie . . .” he whispered, “Poor Bessie.”

“Dear Father, forgive me, I know I’ve been such a trouble to you, I’ll obey now, anything you wish, I swear it.”

He shook his head feebly. “No matter, child - let be ... seems long ago . . . Trust in God.” He sighed and made a further effort. “Is John Winthrop...?”

“Aye,” she said. “He’s below. Shall I fetch him?”

“All of them,” he panted.

So it came about that as anger had dropped away from the dying man, John Winthrop could not hold on to his, and when Thomas Fones asked it, John gave a stifled consent to the marriage.

“They have . . . done wrong,” whispered the apothecary. “They must not postpone the righting of it even for my death .. . Forgive my daughter, Brother John ... as I do your son. Anne would have wished it so.”