The Lady's Slipper (29 page)

Benjamin and Joseph nodded. ‘D’ye know we gave our best fleeces to be given away, yet our wives have no wool to make gloves for the winter.’

Richard nodded. ‘What sayest Dorothy to this?’

Isaac said, ‘I sent a lad to ride out to tell her, but no word back yet, and he is to ride over to Kendall’s place and Rawlinson’s. I fear the message is too late for those barns. But there will be time in Netherbarrow.’

‘Can we not empty the barns, take back what is ours?’ asked Ned.

‘The barns are locked and chained and only Fisk’s overseer has a key,’ said Isaac. ‘We cannot break in. That would be against God’s law, to steal from another man.’

‘But it is not stealing, for it is our own by rights and we are only recovering what has been stolen from us,’ said Ned.

They fell silent again, measuring the ideas in their minds. At last, Richard spoke.

‘That is a thorny question. But we can make a stand at least. Let us pull together, gather anyone who has goods in tithe which are stored in the barn. We will surround it peaceably and they will have to move us before they can move the stuffs out. They will no doubt take the goods, but there is no need for it to be easy, and we shall stand shoulder to shoulder for the cause.’

Richard’s words roused them from their seats.

‘I’ll go tell them at Meadow Farm,’ said Ned.

‘And I’ll to the tannery,’ said Joseph. ‘We will meet you there directly.’

‘Aye,’ said Richard. ‘It is a pity Sam could not be here–I left him a while back at the crossroads. We’ll not catch him now. I know he would have wanted to make a stand alongside us.’

‘Thou hast taken a shine to that lad,’ said Isaac.

‘I can send my Elizabeth to ride out to Burton for him,’ said Benjamin. ‘Happen he will get here in time to stand by us after all. We will need a good many for our purpose–and there is more safety in numbers.’

‘Remember,’ said Richard. ‘No weapons. Things can happen in the heat of the moment and we have all forsworn that path.’

‘As thou sayest,’ said Ned, ducking under the lintel and raising his hand in farewell.

‘Let us ride down together,’ said Isaac to Richard. ‘We can call at the Brewers’ on the way.’ Richard followed him out; he would make a late call on Thomas Ibbetson directly after their peaceful protest.

Stephen dressed himself for dinner in his accustomed blue silk suit, tabby waistcoat and white silk hose, and added the powdered wig that made his scalp hot and his forehead itch. How his father stood it, with his condition, he could not imagine. He eyed the rumpled moleskin suit, lying where he had left it on the bed, with regret. He would not be putting these clothes on again, and he felt an unexpected pang at the thought. Over the past week he had turned it over and over in his mind until he had finally come to a decision. He reached over and stroked the soft animal-like material of the breeches, where they were worn at the knees from the saddle, then picked them up in his arms and held them a moment before releasing them back to the embroidered coverlet.

He had stood up to his father for the first time in his life, and he still could not quite believe it. In fact it was not he, Stephen Fisk, as he was reflected now in the glass–with the gold lace cuffs and beribboned wig–who had stood up to his father. It was Sam Fielding, the Quaker, who had stood up boldly and spoken his truth. When his father had asked him if he was a coward, it was Sam who had answered. Stephen would never have dared to stand up for himself. He was elated, but knew this could only be short-lived. He had seen his father’s mouth set into a hard line when he addressed him as ‘thee’ and knew recriminations would be coming.

In these clothes he did not feel so confident. They made him feel like a lapdog, fit only to be by the fireside. They made him walk differently, like a fop, and he had to be careful not to trip over his heels. In Sam’s clothes he had the freedom to run and ride like a gale; he felt upright and open like a man should.

He would not return to spy on the Quakers. They deserved better from someone they had welcomed as a friend. He would miss Richard Wheeler, and would never be able to explain to him his sudden absence from the meetings, or how much he had valued his company, but it was better this way, for he could not go on with this double life forever. Sooner or later someone would find out and the pigeons would fly.

When he went down for dinner, it was to find himself alone in the dining room. The long table was set for two but there was no sign of his father. Two trenchers were laid out side by side next to the bowls of vegetables, the meat, the bread and salt crock, but they were untouched.

As he was alone, he repeated the grace he had said at Richard’s house, and this small act of rebelliousness brought a smile to his lips. He expected the long, half-stooped figure of his father to appear any moment, but the house was still, barely a creak of a floorboard. Eventually he rang the bell. After the fourth attempt to summon him, Patterson entered, frostily, with a foot barely inside the door.

‘Have you seen my father?’ asked Stephen. ‘He has not dined yet and the meal is growing cold.’

‘He had to go out. Rawlinson sent for him. To the tithe barns.’

‘Without his dinner?’

‘He said to leave it out alongside yourn.’

‘Did he say when he would be back?’

‘No.’ Patterson swept up Stephen’s empty plate with distaste. ‘Maybe soon. But I guess there’s trouble. He rode out earlier with a great army of folk, and they say the Quakers are guarding the barns.’

Stephen was already up. ‘When?’

‘Maybe an hour ago by the glass, but you’ll not catch them now, not on your old nag—’

But Stephen was already halfway down the front steps, despite his clothes. He hurled his wig off as he went, caring not that it fell into the wet. He took a rapier from the weapon rack in the yard and shoved it into his belt. No matter what Patterson’s opinion of his horse, he needed something reliable. The horse remained placid as he threw on the saddle and bridle and struggled into the saddle in his too-tight breeches. He kicked the horse on with such ferocity that she sprang forward almost unseating him.

He cursed his father. To deliberately leave him there, eating mutton at home, when there was a skirmish down at the tithe barn. He had been kept out of the way on purpose. His belly lurched at the thought that there was going to be trouble between Richard and his father. Whatever was going to happen, he needed to be there. He thought of the white scar on Richard’s chest. He would not wait idly at home.

The track to the tied cottages was narrow and the hawthorn hedges ripped at his thighs, but he could hear men shouting even over his hoofbeats. The sky was dark and a distant rumble of thunder warned of an approaching storm. The clouds massed dark grey above. Over the hedge he saw a bank of sand-coloured smoke drift into the air to join the rolling cloud–too dense for chimney-smoke, not nearly black enough for stubble-burning. He urged the horse faster. As he rounded the corner he saw what appeared to be a corn dray and a haycart, now well alight, and the silhouettes of a confused group of men on horseback surrounding them.

A shadow of a man bolted out of the back of the barn and started to run across the field, a man with an unsteady gait, half bent over, struggling to run uphill, but one of the riders must have spotted him and a single musket-shot rattled the air. The man seemed to hang in mid-air, then fell where he was and lay still. Stephen dug his heels into his horse’s ribs, urging it on. A sense of dread engulfed him.

Another group of riders was approaching from the north side; he could hear the clatter of hooves and wheels. It must be the constable and his men from the garrison–he could see their gun-belt buckles and the glint of their sword hilts–and there could be no mistake as the carriage lamps lit up the distinctive black box-carriage with its barred windows that trundled behind.

He spotted his father on horseback near the burning wagons and galloped over to him through the wafting smoke.

‘What’s to do, Father?’ he said, breathlessly.

Geoffrey looked him up and down as if he were a farmhand and he was assessing his fitness for work.

‘We caught the Quakers emptying the tithe barn,’ he said, ‘telling everyone to take back their dues. When we tried to stop them they torched the wagons. We have driven them back inside.’ He pointed at a group of men gathered round the black mouth of the barn. ‘Rawlinson’s over there keeping them secure. But the constable’s here now, so there should be little need for you.’

‘One of them ran out the back, Father, and was shot down.’

‘He was trying to make a run for it,’ he answered curtly. ‘Resisting arrest.’

‘But—’

‘He can serve as an example–perhaps now the rest will stay inside.’

He left Stephen and cantered over to Constable Woolley. Stephen could see him gesticulating, moving some men forward towards the entrance to the barn, whilst others were sent around the back. Stephen rode forward to the front of the barn, peering through the darkness, looking for Richard. He waited just behind one of Rawlinson’s men. Rawlinson recognized him and nodded to him over his shoulder.

‘None of them will see their houses again, I’ll warrant. Your father won’t have dissenters on his land,’ he said.

‘Come forth, and give yourselves up,’ his father shouted from his horse.

The barn remained silent and dark. He repeated his command, but when nothing resulted, he drew the men together to discuss what to do next.

‘Send in the constable’s men,’ said Rawlinson.

‘I do not think any of us should go in there, it smells like a trap. They will be armed.’

‘They will not be armed, Father, they have taken an oath not to fight,’ called Stephen.

His father looked back at him as if he were something unpleasant. His mouth twitched.

‘How much hay is left in the barn?’ Ignoring Stephen, he turned to his overseer.

‘A fair amount, say a half-acre.’

‘Then we will give them a taste of their own smoke.’

He cantered over to a group of horsemen and ordered them to dismount. They dragged the smoking dray over and hastily pitch-forked the flaming sacks through the open door. Anything left still burning from the two wagons was thrust inside. The quiet erupted into men’s shouts and women’s cries. Two village women came running to the door but Stephen saw his father nod to Rawlinson, who raised his musket to his well-padded shoulder and let loose a shot at their feet. They let out a piercing cry and jumped back, eyes and mouths wide with shock.

‘Close the doors and bar them,’ shouted his father from his horse, ‘they’ll soon be begging to come out.’ At this more people surged forwards towards the door, but the men were ready and leaned against it inching it closed. Several of the constable’s men dismounted to lend their shoulders to push. The big wooden door finally creaked shut.

‘Quick! Get the bar on!’

It took two men to heave the heavy wooden bar into place, and the door was still vibrating with the hammering of fists when they moved away. A curl of smoke crept from under the door and the door stopped shaking. It was followed straightaway by the noise of banging on the back door, followed by screams of panic as the realization that they were locked in began to bite home. A man’s voice was shouting over the wailing.

‘Use your coats! Beat it out with your coats!’ It was Richard yelling instructions, but there was so much coughing and shouting that his voice was almost drowned out. Smoke was beginning to seep from the slit windows at the side of the barn as the flames took hold of the dry chaff and straw within.

Stephen drew his horse up alongside his father. Even from this distance the fumes were acrid in his nostrils. ‘Enough,’ said Stephen. ‘That’s enough. Let them free.’

‘A little longer. They need to learn their lesson once for all.’

The heat of the fire was now rippling the air, the smoke pouring like waterfalls from under the rafters. The door began to rattle violently and the noise of shouting and coughing grew louder.

Stephen jumped down from his horse and raced towards the men by the door.

‘It is enough! Open the door,’ he shouted, and the constable’s men began to move towards the barn.

‘No,’ came a familiar voice. ‘Not yet.’

The constable’s men retreated uncertainly, awaiting Geoffrey’s orders. The hammering and shouting in the barn suddenly ceased. Flames were visible licking from the slot windows and the cracks in the roof tiles were lit up orange. Good God in Heaven, thought Stephen, they would burn alive.

Stephen grabbed one of the constable’s men by the arm.

‘Come on! Before we are too late!’ This seemed to break the spell. The constable’s men came to their senses and ran forward to help open the door. The heat had swollen the wood and it would not give. There was not a sound from within. They jerked and heaved, muscling underneath with their shoulders to lift the bar.

‘Push!’ shouted Stephen.

It slid awkwardly out from its housing and they wrenched it away. They hauled the doors open. A blast of hot air buffeted them and they were blown back, shielding their faces.

The fire blazed up the walls, but it was pale behind the wall of heavy smoke. Not a man inside was left standing, they were all lying face down, their clothes the same colour as the smoke, all crowded close together in the centre of the barn. There were women there, and children too. At the sight of the children, Stephen found his throat constricted.

He turned to the constable and wordlessly shook his head. The constable dropped his eyes and looked discomfited. Stephen covered his face with his arm and took a deep breath, then waded in through the smoke. When he reached the first body, a woman, he grasped her by the shoulder and turned her over. Astonishingly, she began to cough, her chest racked by gulping at the air. He half lifted her and she struggled like a new-born colt to stand upright. As she did so, all the rest of the bodies began to rise, to quiver and shake with coughing. It was like a scene from judgement day as one by one they stood and, arms around each other, made for the door into the sweet night air.

The fire was still burning fiercely up the walls, but they must have cleared a well in the centre and huddled together there. They lay close to the ground with rags wrapped around their faces where there was still air to breathe. Stephen’s eyes smarted and his throat burnt. All around him people coughed and choked and half carried each other out of the door. He helped a woman with terrified eyes drag her small boy outside, and recognized her as one of the women from the meetings at the Hall.

About twenty people emerged from the barn, most bent double or crawling, without their coats and racked with coughs. Once outside, they took in great lungfuls of air; they were almost indistinguishable in the dark because they were black with smoke; some nursed burns where they had tried to put out the fire with their bare hands.

When he turned to go back in, Richard appeared from the haze. He would recognize him anywhere, even though he had a kerchief tied around his nose. He was walking slowly with an old man leaning up against him. He recognized Old Ned Armitage, John’s father, from the flour mill.

‘Sam, my friend,’ Richard said, his voice cracked with smoke, ‘thou art here after all. I am glad to see thee.’ He clapped Stephen on the shoulder. ‘Canst thou find this man some water?’

‘I’ll try,’ he said. ‘But Richard, the constable’s men—’

‘The water first, Sam–time for the rest later.’

Stephen remembered his horse, where he kept a flagon of water in the saddlebag.

‘Stephen.’ His father’s voice was loud and imperious. He turned to look guiltily over his shoulder where his father was picking his way down the slope on his fine-boned horse.

He turned to face him. ‘Come away now, Stephen,’ said his father. ‘If you want our land to prosper there is no place for soft hearts.’ His father pointed to the crowd of gagging and retching people. ‘They are lawbreakers, they would steal what is rightfully ours.’

‘Sam?’ Richard said, looking direct into his face with his steady brown eyes. Stephen flinched as though he had been struck; he looked down at the ground.

‘Stephen. Go on home. We do not need your help, now. Tell Patterson to have something ready for me–these looters have made me miss my dinner,’ his father said.

‘Sam?’ asked Richard again. ‘Elizabeth told me she could find no Sam Fielding in Burton. Tell me this is not so.’ His voice was tight. Stephen dragged his eyes from the ground and looked up at him in mute appeal.