The Crimson Ribbon (2 page)

Chapter 2

Have you ever seen a person hang? There are few, I think, who have not been witness to a painful death in these last years of strife. Who has not been to an execution in the market square on hanging day? Who has not cheered and clapped at the violent end of some common thief or some bandy-legged slattern?

It is different when it is someone you love. The person at the end of the rope is no longer an object, to be mocked and despised. They are not the enemy. They are a part of you. They are a part of your wholeness, and when the breath is choked from them, so a part of life is choked from you.

Will Cobbett holds me back as I watch my mother’s perfect face bulge and swell. Her eyes run with red tears. Her legs twitch like those of a freshly slaughtered fowl. I watch as she stops fighting it, as her arms fall limp by her sides and her tongue lolls. I stand by, powerless, and watch my mother die.

As her spirit leaves her battered, broken body, so the fire seems to go out of Isaac Tuttle. His shoulders sag and his snarling lips slacken. He watches his victim swing, as if surprised at what he has done. Then he turns and slumps down the riverbank until he reaches the water’s edge, where he kneels and begins washing the blood from his hands.

Martha Featherstone continues her vigil, her voice a thread, wavering above the hum of the crowd. Samuel orders the rope cut down and my mother’s body falls into the mud like a jumble of discarded rags.

‘What about the girl?’ Will says. He pushes me forwards, and I feel eyes slice me, like knives.

Isaac doesn’t answer but carries on wiping the stains from his skin.

‘Send her to Hell, like the witch,’ Samuel says, to a buzz of agreement. ‘She is a cursed bastard, a witch’s child. She will go the same way as the mother.’

‘Swim her!’ comes the cry, as I knew it would.

I am pushed towards the river, the mob gathering, not yet sated.

Isaac stands in their way. He comes close to me and eyes the welt that spreads across my jaw. He leans in, puts his cold fingers up to my cheek and turns my face away from his. Then he runs his hand down my neck and over my bodice, squeezing my breast beneath my stays.

‘A little whore . . . just like your mother,’ he says.

Will’s grip slackens a little. No doubt he wants nothing to do with Isaac’s perverse lusts. I see my chance and stamp my foot down hard on Will’s boot. He yelps and I pull my hands free and claw at Isaac’s face, feeling the soft, wet give of his eyeball beneath my fingertips. He bellows and swipes at me but I twist and tear away from them both.

I run, almost blind, stumbling but escaping the hands that reach for me.

‘Let her go!’ I hear Isaac shout behind me. ‘She will not get far.’

He is right. I run to the only place I know, the only place where I might be safe. I run home, to the big house on the green – the Cromwell house.

News travels fast in Ely. Servants will always make it their business to know the latest, especially when it concerns one of their own.

It is Old Bess who finds me, as night falls, shivering on the mattress in the servants’ quarters that I have shared with my mother all the years I can remember. It smells of last summer’s straw and the rosemary she wore in her hair.

Although I know what I have seen, I swear it cannot be true. Without my mother I am alone in this world. She was all to me – my protector, my comfort, my closest friend. I cannot fathom what life may be without her. I want to dream, and wake to find her next to me, sleep-warm smiles banishing my nightmares, telling me that all is well, that today is the same as every day before. Any other truth is too terrible to bear.

But there is a pain, beginning at my heart, seeping through my limbs, thrumming in my head like poison. When I close my eyes, all I see is my mother’s face, bloody and lifeless. My body tells the truth, even if my mind cannot.

Old Bess is the master’s mother. She is ancient, with white hair, parchment skin and the deep brown eyes of a much younger woman. It is she who rules the house in the master’s absence, not the simple dough-faced wife. Old Bess is the anchor that keeps the household docked in this world of stormy seas.

She swoops in, like a great bat, rustling in black damask. ‘Is it true, child?’ she asks gently. She enfolds me in her arms.

My body trembles as though I am taken with a fit. I spew up a strange, strangled whimpering. My eyes are dry; though I long for tears, they do not come. Instead I feel turned inside out. My innards seethe so much I begin to think I will die of it.

‘My poor girl.’ Old Bess rocks me, like a babe. ‘You are safe now.’

But I am not safe, and she knows it as well as I.

They come with weapons and torches. They take up their place on the green before the house. They call out to God and to his angels. They call out to the master. They want me surrendered that they may mete out justice as they see fit. They want me dead.

‘Stay here,’ Old Bess whispers. ‘And be silent.’

She leaves me cowering on the mattress and goes into the main part of the house, where the mistress and her two youngest girls huddle before the fire. I want to obey her but I am too afraid to be left alone. There is only one door to the servants’ quarters and it has no lock. Fear sharpens my wits. I gather myself and tiptoe after her, sliding silently up the front staircase, choosing the boards that do not creak. I find myself a shadowy spot by the window that overlooks the green. From here, I see the men gathered below.

Their number has dwindled to a dozen or so, but now they carry weapons – poor men’s arms – axes, clubs and long hunting knives. Isaac Tuttle stands at the fore, alongside Samuel and Will. They look savage, swaying from drink, braying like a pack of dogs. Martha Featherstone and Edith Cobbett are with them still. Martha weeps and holds up her arms to the heavens as if beseeching God. I cannot tell if it is my death or my deliverance that she prays for.

There is a banging on the street door. It is Isaac, fists curled and ready. ‘Give me the witch! She is rightfully mine!’

I imagine the Cromwell family gathered downstairs, Mary and Frances clinging to their mother’s skirts. With the master and his sons away, we have only one man in the household. The stableman, Christopher, is a quiet, gentle sort and no match if it comes to a brawl.

Isaac pounds on the door again and my heart thumps in time with it.

‘Bring her out, or we will burn her out!’

Samuel whoops a battle-cry, brandishing the flaming torch he holds. Others join him. Some are army men and no strangers to slaughter.

I hear the front door open and Old Bess steps out onto the green. The men howl and laugh, pleased at such easy prey.

‘You will leave this house and go home to your wives,’ she says.

‘We will have justice,’ Isaac slurs. ‘Bring the witch to me and we’ll leave you in peace.’

‘There is no witch in my household, Isaac Tuttle, and there never was.’

Isaac sways closer. He grins and a string of tobacco-stained slaver drools from the corner of his mouth. ‘We have proof.’

Will Cobbett steps forward. He carries a sawn-off pike. At the pointed end of it I see what looks like a slab of meat, wet and glistening in the torchlight. Then I realise: it is Esther’s child. They have skewered the tiny body like an animal on a spit. I gag, covering my mouth with my hands.

‘See the demon that the witch brought forth from my wife! What more proof is there? We have dealt with the mother and now we will finish this. We will deal with her bastard!’

Old Bess raises her voice: ‘There is no sin on the girl’s part, or on the part of Annie Flowers. It is you who have sinned greatly this night and you who will pay for it.’

She jabs him in the chest with a bony finger. ‘It is God who has given you this unfortunate child, Isaac Tuttle, as punishment for your own lusts. You are known for your drunkenness, your fornication and your violence. Annie Flowers is not the first to suffer at your hands. If your wife lived, she could vouch for that. Now God has punished you. Think on it.’

Torches flicker and crackle as the Fenland wind gets up.

‘And as for the rest of you,’ Old Bess says, ‘you can be sure I know you all by name. When my son hears of this there will be retribution indeed. Lawful and just retribution. Do not doubt it.’

At this mention of the master and his powerful influence, a few of the men lower their weapons and look to one another.

But Isaac is undeterred. ‘You do not scare us, old woman.’

As he speaks, Christopher steps up behind Old Bess, holding the axe he uses for chopping firewood. He blocks the doorway.

‘Leave this house,’ Old Bess says, ‘or you will be the ones who hang. You know I have the power to do it. God knows it would be right to do it.’

Already some of the men are backing away, the fight clearly gone out of them, preferring the thought of their tankards, or their beds, to the future that Old Bess predicts.

But Isaac roars and pushes up his sleeves as if preparing for a fistfight. Samuel takes hold of his arm and says something I cannot hear. Isaac shrugs him off. Even in the shifting torchlight I can see his face, flushed with fury. He draws out a short blade and swipes wildly at the air, missing Old Bess by inches.

A cry goes up from the men as she staggers backwards. Before he can strike out again, they are on him, pinning his arms, holding him back. Even drunkards are wiser than to attack their betters.

Christopher bundles Old Bess into the house.

The men have hold of Isaac. He fights against them but they are too many. They force him to the ground and Samuel holds a knife to his neck until he is forced to submit.

‘Not this time, then!’ Isaac shouts, and I know he is talking to me. ‘But I can wait! I will not rest until I have justice! I will see you dead!’

I watch, letting go of a breath I do not even know I’m holding, as they drag him off into the night.

The floor beneath my feet shudders as the door slams and the bolts slide across. Then comes a child’s cry I recognise as that of Frances. She is the littlest, only seven years old, and my favourite. Her tears usually make my heart falter, but fear has purged all other feelings.

Isaac’s threats echo. He meant what he said. He means to see me hang.

The mistress sends both girls upstairs and Christopher tries to soothe them as he leads the way. I crouch in my hiding place beneath the lintel. I do not want them to see me like this, wretched and desperate, for they will read the story in my eyes.

How I wish the master were at home, for none of these Ely men would dare go against him. He has the power of Parliament’s army and the righteousness of God on his side. It is his good name, and his good heart, that has kept us safe until now. But instead I must beg the protection of my mistress. The Cromwell house has been my cradle all these years; now it must be my sanctuary.

I need the kindness of Old Bess too. She will understand. She will hold me close and tell me I am not alone. She is the only one I can trust in the master’s absence.

My legs shake as I stand and try to still my breath. I creep down the stairs and pad to the door of the parlour. What I hear makes me freeze.

‘She must go tonight.’

‘Calm yourself, my dear. You are upset,’ Old Bess says.

‘I always knew Annie Flowers would bring shame upon this house and I was right.’

‘We cannot turn Ruth out into the street. She would not last the night. Do you want her to meet the same fate as Annie?’

‘It is not my concern.’ I hear the scrape of a chair as the mistress sits.

‘It is very much your concern when you’ve already lost one servant. Would you lose another?’

‘I would have my children safe in their beds.’

I hear footsteps pacing and the swish of Old Bess’s skirts. ‘I will send word to Oliver by first light. He will know what to do.’

‘No!’ The mistress is adamant. ‘I have charge of this household and I say that she must go. I will not have her here for one more day. You saw those men. You heard what they said. If they dare to trespass so far, nothing will stop them. Men like that think nothing of the law, nothing of sin. They will attack us as we sleep. They will burn the place down!’

‘I cannot send her away. Oliver will want to take this to the law . . .’

‘Oh – Oliver! I have never understood why he insists upon housing and feeding the pair of them. He knows my thoughts and disregards them. Well, now I shall have my way.’

‘You are mistress of this house, my dear, but are you sure this is the Christian thing to do? Do you feel no responsibility for the girl?’

‘You heard those men. They will come back. And what then? Are we to live in fear, night after night? Are we to be hounded and mocked in the streets? We are a respected family and I will not have the taint of witchcraft upon us. I will not have the Cromwell name dragged through the dirt along with that of Annie Flowers or her bastard.’

Old Bess hushes her. ‘Have compassion. Annie served us well these fifteen years. Ruth has lived with us all her life. She is a friend and companion to your little ones. We cannot abandon her when she needs us most.’

‘She is a servant, nothing more. Oliver would agree. His position is precarious and any hint of scandal would damage us. There is too much at stake. And you, Mother, are forgetting your place, as well as hers.’

Old Bess sighs. ‘I suppose, for Oliver’s sake . . .’

‘And the family. Think of them. Would you put a servant’s needs above those of your own grandchildren?’

‘Very well, for the sake of the family, then, for Oliver’s sake, she must go.’

Chapter 3

Christopher knows the safe roads through the Fens and rides hard, stopping only once to water the horse. We reach Cambridge by nightfall the next day. He takes me to a hostelry called the Devil Inn. The sign, swinging above the door, shows a red impish creature with horns and a barbed tail. I wonder at his choice, but am too weary to care.

He leaves the horse with the ostler and secures a room for the night, but when we are safely seated in the taproom, supplied with trenchers of yesterday’s bread and maggoty cheese, he tells me that he will not pass the night.

‘The mistress was clear. I’m to go straight back, no waiting.’

‘But you can’t travel in darkness,’ I say. ‘Besides, the horse is tired. It needs rest, as do you.’

I look around the room, thinking that I cannot bear to be left alone in such company. Groups of young men carouse at tables laden with tankards. The women among them are gaudily dressed and painted with white lead and rouge. A couple sit before the fire, kissing openly. This place is aptly named.

‘That’s true, but I dare not anger her further. I have to take my chances.’

‘Then you will leave me here, alone?’

‘I’m sorry, Ruth. Those are my orders. I must obey them.’ He picks at his food and will not meet my eye.

I never did like goodbyes. Even as a small child I would run and hide rather than bid farewell to my mother whenever she went out to market or to tend one of the townsfolk. It became a game to me. In the end, she gave up trying to leave me behind and I trailed everywhere with her, learning her skills by mimicry.

Now I cannot stomach another parting and fall to dumb sulking as Christopher finishes his meal. As he stands to leave, dusting crumbs from his lap, I feel the last shred of hope that he will change his mind and take me home snap like a twig underfoot. I stare at my plate.

‘Farewell, then, Ruth,’ he says, holding out his arms to embrace me. He waits a while before letting them drop to his sides and picking up his hat. ‘May God go with you, child.’ Grim-faced, he dons his cloak and leaves.

I watch a maggot crawl from the hunk of cheese and worm its way across my plate.

Sitting alone in this stinking place, I realise that the people I have grown up with, and shared my life with, are no substitute for true family. The ties of blood are absent. To them I am just a servant, and that is not the same thing at all. I have deceived myself into believing that they care about me. I have collected every kind word from Old Bess, every smile from Master Oliver, all the hours spent playing happily with Mary and Frances, and thought that these things meant as much to them as they did to me. It all means nothing. The only person who really loved me is dead.

I began to understand this as, just hours before, I pressed up against the panelling in the passageway outside the parlour and listened to the mistress dismiss me, as if I have less value than a squealing new piglet, born in the slop of the sty.

‘She must go tonight,’ she said. ‘And Oliver must know nothing of it.’

‘You cannot mean to keep this from him?’ Old Bess said.

‘His regard for our servants is unseemly. Ruth is a grown girl now, a young woman. People will talk, just as they always have about her mother. It did not matter when we had nothing, when we were nothing. But now Oliver has risen so high. He has such power. He is a gentleman. He must behave like one.’

‘You would have him act the Cavalier, wanting everyone to bow and scrape, just because he has a general’s position and a few coins in his pocket?’

‘Of course not. But he has more pressing matters to deal with. He has the future of the country in his hands. We should not trouble him with domestic concerns.’

‘Perhaps you are right. I know my son and I know he will be compelled to act. He cannot afford distraction at such a time. Better to tell him Ruth left by choice. We will keep her whereabouts between us, for now at least. London is best, I think. I have an acquaintance there who will help.’

‘There must be no connection. Nothing to tie her to us.’

Then the scratch of a quill, the sizzle of sealing wax.

‘She will need money,’ Old Bess said.

‘Give her only what she needs. And make sure she knows she is not welcome here. I do not want to see her again.’

The food on my plate sickens me but I reach out for the ale and drain the pot, swallow the lump in my throat and wipe away the tears that swell.

I put my hand on my satchel to feel the hard, square shape inside and draw some comfort from it. This is all I have left of my mother: a book, bound in tattered brown leather and tied with a cord. On the curled yellow pages, in a spidery hand, she noted a lifetime of knowledge – the spells and charms and herb-lore that condemned her. It is my only record of her and her only gift to me. I have no belongings to speak of, no chests full of clothing, no keepsakes or vanities, so it is this book that I clung to as I set off through the cold damp dawn to try my luck with the Fen spirits. But it is of little use to me now. Even with all the charms in the world, I cannot bring her back.

I watch the couple before the fire. I watch how the man’s hands move over the woman’s bodice. I see how she breathes, head tilted back and eyelids quivering. She wears a length of crimson ribbon in her hair, a sliver of blood-red opulence, just like the ones my mother favoured. A leery-eyed old man watches the couple too. He catches my gaze and nods knowingly. I look away, shamed.

Just then, a man comes swaying towards my table and leans heavily against it. He is young and handsome, with the confidence of one who knows it. His smart clothes are dishevelled, his undershirt open to the waist, displaying a slice of pale, smooth skin.

‘What have we here?’ he drawls. ‘A pretty lady, all alone?’

His two companions follow. Like him they are richly dressed and reeking of liquor.

‘Mistress, it pains me to see such a face without a smile,’ the man says. ‘Pray don’t cry, for we have the means to cheer you.’

His friends snigger.

‘I wish to be alone,’ I say.

‘Lord Jeremiah Lytham never leaves a damsel in distress.’ He makes a low, mocking bow and slides onto the bench next to me. ‘How can I be of service?’ His eyes are bright and blurred with drink.

‘Thank you, but I’m not distressed.’

‘On the contrary, pretty one, it’s quite plain that you’re in need of good humour.’ Lytham claps his hands for the serving girl, who comes running. His friends pull up stools and ogle her as they order wine. She leans forward across the table, simpering, her lacings half undone, flesh spilling. One of the men slides a finger between her breasts, draws it out again, puts it into his mouth and sucks. The girl chitters and pretends to be shocked, but her eyes are lusty, hungry.

I back away, clutching my satchel to me. ‘Please, sir, I had rather be left alone.’

Lytham scoffs. ‘Any girl who comes into a place like this is surely looking for some fun.’ He walks his fingers up the sleeve of my dress. ‘Don’t be shy. You’re in good company – the best in the place.’

I shake his hand from me. ‘I’m not a whore.’

‘Of course not. None of these estimable ladies is a whore.’ He sweeps his arm wide, indicating the drabs about the place. ‘We’re in search of a little companionship. And when I see a comely young thing like yourself – a country girl I’ll wager, like a breath of fresh country air – well, I delight in such a companion.’ He strokes my neck and leans in close. ‘What do you say?’

His breath stinks of stale beer and onions. I push him away and try to stand. ‘You are mistaken.’

‘Sit down, bitch,’ he hisses, pulling me back to the bench. ‘Do not raise your voice to me. Do you know who I am?’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Oh, but you shall. No common slut refuses me . . . and I am losing patience.’

‘Sir, I tell you, I am not a whore!’

He pulls me towards him and grips his arm about my shoulders. ‘Not a whore? A virgin, then. I’m in luck, boys!’

His friends laugh and leer as I tussle with him.

‘You’ll sell me your wares this night,’ he whispers into my ear, ‘or I shall have you anyway, without recompense. You will remember my name and you will remember this night.’

He wrenches the satchel from my grasp and throws it to the floor. He pins me to the bench and tugs at the lacings of my dress, his fingers fumbling with the strings.

I could struggle, I could call out for help, but I do not. I give in, close my eyes and pray for oblivion. I have no fight left in me. What does it matter anyway, if he takes me right here on the trestle? I have no life, no friends and nothing I recognise as my own. I am as good as dead.

I am no stranger to the ways of men.

He was a farmer’s son: at sixteen, only two years my elder, but the very picture of a man to my unripe eye.

For one long, hot summer my days were sweetened by dreams of him. He had the looks of a prince, with shifting eyes, one moment blue as a robin’s egg, the next grey as floodwater at leaf fall.

The first time I curled my hair and went to market without a cap, I did it so he would notice me. When I strayed from the causeway into the plush drained fields tenanted by his father, I did so hoping to cross his path. When he smiled at me, I smiled back.

He came to me one day at the end of that summer and told me he was destined for Parliament’s fight. He laid me down and whispered words of love in my ear. He told me I would make him the happiest of men.

But when he was done with me, he was done with his pretty words.

‘So it’s true what they say. Like mother, like daughter.’ He shook himself clean, spotting my skirts. ‘Little whore . . .’

That day, I swore no man would have the heart of me again. But what do I care now, if a man takes my body?

There is a great thwack of metal upon wood and I feel Lytham’s prying fingers jump with shock.

A male voice says, ‘Leave the girl alone.’

I open my eyes to see a tall man dressed in a sackcloth cloak. With his hood drawn up, I cannot see his face, just dark, straggling stubble and a stern mouth. He towers over us, a rusting sword held out across the table, pointing at Lytham’s groin.

Lytham takes his hands from me and leans back in his seat. ‘And what business is it of yours?’

‘I said, leave the girl alone.’

Lytham’s companions, shock-eyed, flounder for their weapons. One pulls out a short dagger but drops it, clattering onto the flagstones. He goes down on his knees to retrieve it.

The hooded man raises his blade and holds the tip of it to Lytham’s throat.

Lytham falters. ‘Touch me and you’ll hang for it,’ he says.

The hooded man shrugs and indicates the door with his blade. ‘Be gone.’

Lytham slides from the bench and stands, swaying on his heels. ‘Come,’ he slurs to his friends. ‘I tire of this game. There’s better sport to be had elsewhere.’ Then, turning to the man, ‘You, sir, had better watch your back. I won’t forget such a slight.’

The hooded man watches them leave. Then he sits down opposite me and slips the cloak from his face.

He is younger than I’d supposed, no more than twenty years. He has swarthy looks, dark eyes and dark hair shorn in the fashion of the New Model Army. A broken nose gives him the look of a brawler.

‘Are you all right?’ he says, as I rearrange my dress, fingers trembling.

Before I can answer the landlord addresses him: ‘I’ll thank you not to be scaring off my best paying customers, sir.’

‘Why are you serving that Royalist scum anyway?’ the man says.

‘A paying customer is a paying customer. My establishment is a place for relaxation and refreshment, not politics.’

‘Nothing political about those braggarts.’

The landlord accedes. ‘You’d have done better not to make an enemy of Lord Lytham. I’ve seen him draw swords for less. If I were you, I’d keep my head down for a few days.’ He nods to the flagon of wine that the group have left on the table. ‘That’s already paid for. I reckon the young lady has had a shock. It’s yours if you want it.’

The man pours two cups of the deep red liquid and passes one to me. ‘It’ll help,’ he says. He slugs his serving and pours another.

I drink and feel the bittersweet heat of it run through me.

He sits, eyes fixed on me, until I feel as uncomfortable as I had under Lytham’s gaze. ‘I thank you, sir,’ I say.

He shrugs. ‘Men like that still think they have rights over the rest of us.’

‘I can look after myself now.’

‘You’re shaking like a leaf in autumn. Drink.’

I do as I’m told, glad of the warming and softening of my body. ‘You’ve done me a service,’ I say, ‘but I’ve no means to pay you for it. You have my gratitude, but that is all. I’d rather be left alone.’

‘What – so some other drunken fool can try his luck?’ He leans across the table and lowers his voice. ‘Or am I mistaken? Are you hoping for a finer catch than Lord Lytham and his merry men?’

I pull my shawl around my shoulders. ‘Of course not.’

‘Well, then, what’s your business here?’

‘I . . . I’m on my way to London.’

He raises an eyebrow. ‘London. Why?’

‘To stay with friends,’ I lie.

‘At such a time as this, the roads swarming with thieves and beggars? Some friends, to let you travel alone. Have you a horse in the stables?’

‘No,’ I admit, thinking of Christopher, already on his way back to Ely.

‘Then how do you travel?’

‘I have a pass.’

‘I see.’ He pauses and looks me over. ‘Who grants you permission?’

‘My mistress arranged it.’

‘A pass is all well and good, but it’ll not buy you a horse.’

I have no answer to that. I drain my cup and refill it from the flagon.

He strokes the dark hair on his chin and when he speaks again, he seems to be talking to himself. ‘Full of secrets and determined not to share them. We’ve much in common. That will make us good companions, I think.’

‘But I told you—’

‘You admitted yourself, just now, that you’re indebted to me. Is that not so? And you cannot pay me. So, I would strike a bargain with you.’

‘Sir, I never asked for your help. It’s unfair that you make demands of me.’