A Falling Star, page 31
part #3 of Wintercombe Series
He thanked her, and went back to the parlour. Pride forbade him to go running across the street to check that the story was true, and he spent the rest of the evening in an agony of apprehension, trying to read, trying to stay calm, listening to the sounds of joyful revelry outside, and wondering whether his beloved son would return.
At least he would not be the worse for drink: Bram was a young man of most unusual moderation, unlike his notorious cousin Alex. But when he did appear, long past the supposed curfew, flushed and elated and whistling some jaunty tune that had been much in the air in Taunton that day, Jonah took one look and realised the impossibility of reopening the argument. His son was simply not in the mood for persuasion, or for dispute: reasoning with him would be hopeless.
He sat long in the parlour after everyone else had retired to bed, wrestling with his conscience. He knew that Tabby was right, that Bram was an adult, quite capable of directing his life, and that, having brought him up to make his own decisions, his parents could hardly complain if they were not to their liking. And he knew also, chillingly, that if he carried out his intention, Bram would never forgive him.
Which was to be preferred? A son dead, who had loved him, or a son living, who would turn against him?
In the last extremity, there was no case to answer. He could not let Bram march away to probable death. And once the decision had been made, it was easy. All the chambers in the house could be locked, but none were: the keys, long disused, were kept on a hook in the corner of the kitchen. Slowly, stiff and heavy with misery, Jonah got to his feet and made his way down the stairs, carrying the one guttering candle. The house was quite silent: it was past midnight now, and everyone else must have been asleep for an hour or more. He lifted the keys from their hook. All were different, but he knew Bram’s: it had a very thick barrel and only two notches in the ward. He ignored the miaows and sinuous greeting of the cat Jezebel, and climbed the stairs as quietly as he could, given the many creaks and ill-fitting boards, to his son’s chamber.
No sound came from within, and no light showed under the door. Jonah took a deep breath, inserted the key in the lock, and turned. It was stiff and jerky with disuse, and the noise of metal grating on metal seemed shatteringly loud. But the key had done its work: Bram was now a prisoner.
With care, still surprised that his son had not been roused by the sounds, Jonah withdrew the key. He had wondered if he should drop it down the well — after all, any competent locksmith would have the door open in ten minutes — but he had discarded the thought. He had no idea how long it would be necessary for the boy to remain a prisoner, but it might be days, even weeks, and he would have to be given food and drink. He slipped the key into the pocket of his breeches, and, with a sense of having burned all his bridges behind him, crept sadly down the stairs to his own bed.
*
Bram slept very soundly that night, aided by weariness and several tankards of beer, and heard nothing. He woke refreshed at dawn, with a lift of his heart. Today, he would defy his father, and doubtless his mother too, and join the rebel army. The girls, presenting their precious colour, would have their moment of glory, and then he would seize his.
He jumped out of bed, whistling ‘England’s Darling’, a ballad they had all been singing in the Red Lion last night. The morning was bright, and full of promise, and the sparrows chattered unmusically above him on the roof as he dressed, and sang.
‘Young Jemmy is a lad
That’s royally descended,
With every virtue clad,
By every tongue commended:
A true and faithful English heart,
Great Britain’s joy and hope,
And bravely will maintain their part,
In spite of Turk and Pope.’
Today, no garments would do but his best, however unsuitable for soldiering. So he took out his fine holland shirt, and the breeches, coat and waistcoat, in gleaming tawny satin, that he wore when visiting important customers. His Sunday cravat, frothing with expensive Devon lace, completed the picture. He dragged a brush through his long, curling, honey-gold hair, so thick that a periwig was an unnecessary expense, singing the final verse of the ballad.
‘Let all good men implore
For Jemmy’s restoration,
Whose conduct must restore
The ruins of our nation:
That he to Charles’s praise may live,
Our freedom to maintain,
When Jemmy shall his fame retrieve,
And be in grace again.’
He had a good voice, rich, powerful and well-tuned, and the sounds rang through the house. Sue and Hannah and Libby, likewise dressing in their best, combing each other’s hair and fastening their gowns, heard it and smiled. Jonah, afflicted by pangs of conscience, knew that his son could not yet have discovered that he was a prisoner. But there was no going back now. He waited nervously for the inevitable reaction.
Still humming cheerfully, Bram went to the door, lifted the latch, and pulled. Nothing happened. He tried again, and again, with increasing force, but in vain: the door remained firmly shut. Puzzled, he stared at it for a moment. It had never jammed fast before, although it was prone to stick in damp weather.
The truth came to him abruptly, and with a devastating flash of anger. He kicked at the door, and yelled at the full pitch of his lungs. ‘Father! What have you done?’
Footsteps, many of them, came tumbling up the stairs to his door. He heard Sue, suddenly sharp, and Hannah saying something in bewilderment. Through them all, Jonah’s voice came, at once defiant and apologetic. ‘Bram? I’m sorry, but this was the only way to stop you.’
‘You’ve locked him in!’ Sue cried indignantly. ‘Father, how could you?’
‘This is ridiculous,’ Bram said, through clenched teeth. ‘Father, please, see sense and let me out.’
‘No,’ Jonah told him, very close on the other side of the door. ‘No, I cannot let you join the rebels. You’ll rail against me now, but I promise you’ll thank me later.’
‘I doubt it,’ Bram said grimly. He wished that he had the strength to force the door, but he was not tall, and slightly built compared with, say, his cousin Alex. He added, trying not to plead, but to speak to Jonah man to man, ‘Look, Father, this is so petty, so stupid. If you feel this strongly about me joining the rebels, then for God’s sake let me out, and we’ll discuss it reasonably.’
‘No,’ Jonah said, with finality. ‘No, no, and no. I have the key safe. You need not worry — you can have food and drink, anything you want except your freedom, until Monmouth has gone and all this is over.’
Bram was tempted to put all his energy, and all the tumultuous fury boiling inside him, into one last assault on the door. But he was no longer a child. Brute force was not the answer. For the moment, his father seemed to be implacable, but he wondered whether he would still be so adamant after the rest of the family had had the chance to soften him. From the other sounds outside the door, he guessed that his imprisonment was as much a surprise to his mother and sisters as it was to him.
‘Your breakfast will be brought to you soon,’ Jonah told him. ‘Books, too, if you want them. Is there anything else you might need?’
‘Yes,’ said Bram bitterly. ‘If it isn’t too much trouble, Father dear, I would like my freedom back.’
There was a brief silence on the other side of the door, and then the noise of retreating feet. At once a hubbub of female voices broke out, diminishing as they followed Jonah down the stairs. With no one to hear him, Bram aimed a last, futile kick at the door, and then hurled himself down on the bed.
His black mood lasted all morning, while below him, and outside, his family and Taunton prepared for the greatest day of their lives. Jonah, perspiring and looking nervous but determined, brought a tray with hot frumenty, bread, cheese and beer, put it down just inside the door, and retreated hastily in the face of his son’s glare, as if he thought that Bram would push past him and make a dash for freedom. Then the door was firmly shut, and the key turned in the lock with brutal finality.
Much to Bram’s surprise, he was hungry. He finished it all, every crumb, and then sat for a while on the bed, a brooding frown disfiguring his face, trying to find a way out of this impossible, ludicrous and undignified situation.
He had been there for what seemed like hours when sounds of increased activity beyond the window roused him from his thoughts. He jumped to his feet, and went to look out.
The marketplace around the Cross was crowded thickly with people, and the cheers that rose from them were distinctly derisive. Bram opened the casement and leaned out. He saw some of the members of Taunton’s Corporation, clad in their robes of office and visibly frightened, being hustled through the throng at the point of sword and pistol, to the steps of the Cross. They huddled there in a group, conferring, and there was an interval of some minutes, accompanied by a crescendo of hisses and whistles from the crowd, before one of their number turned to the group of Monmouth’s soldiers standing below them. Even from this distance, his words lost in the noise of the crowd, his posture and gestures indicated vehement refusal. Bram, his own situation temporarily forgotten, watched with a grin on his face as the worthy people of Taunton, infuriated, jeered and threw objects that appeared to range from mud and stones to rotten fruit, and less savoury missiles. The cacophony died away only when one of the rebels sprang up on to the steps of the Cross, and loudly and forcefully appealed for quiet.
The noise faded gradually, like a receding wave, ebbing outwards towards the fringes of the marketplace. One lone voice, just below Bram, bawled into the comparative silence, ‘Why don’t you just string up the Papist-loving bastards?’ To laughter, he was hastily hushed by his friends, and the rebel officer took a paper from one of his comrades and began to read.
It was some kind of proclamation, and continued at inordinate length. Bram, hanging out of the window at a perilous angle, could not distinguish more than about half of it, but that portion was inflammatory enough. King James, described therein as the Duke of York, was accused of burning London, fomenting the Popish Plot, furthering war with Protestant Holland and friendship with Catholic France, planning to place England under the yoke of a Papist tyranny and, for good measure, poisoning his brother King Charles. To each of these charges, a roar of approval rose from the crowd, who evidently agreed wholeheartedly with all of it, however unlikely. Then the officer went on to declare that they were fighting this ‘murderer, and an assassinator of innocent men, a traitor to the nation, and tyrant over the people’, in order to bring him to justice for his crimes. They wished to preserve the Protestant religion, and repeal all laws against Dissenters from the established Church. Nor did they intend to persecute Catholics, so long as they worshipped in peace and did not seek to subvert the law. He finished by announcing that the Duke of Monmouth at present wished only to lead the Protestant forces of the kingdom, ‘assembled for the end aforesaid’, and would not insist on his title, but left that decision to ‘the wisdom, justice and authority of a Parliament legally chosen, and acting with freedom’.
So he was not, yet, openly claiming the crown. Listening to the deafening cheers which erupted from the people as the officer ended, Bram wondered how long that stand would last. His sisters, with schoolgirl jealousy, had waxed envious the previous evening about Mary Mead’s splendid banner, embroidered and fringed all around with gold, bearing a crown and the letters JR. It could hardly be intended to glorify the present incumbent of the throne. The inhabitants of Taunton were for the most part Dissenters, not republicans, and they would undoubtedly want Monmouth for their King, not the Papist James or foreign Dutch William.
The rebel officer stepped down from his makeshift pulpit, and vanished into the press, to rapturous acclaim. There was a stir on the far side of the marketplace, and Bram, craning his neck, saw a procession forming up there on the fringe of the crowd. The people parted to make passage for them, and he saw the principal of his sisters’ school, Mistress Musgrave, place herself at the head of a file of girls, all dressed in their best. She was a small, frail-looking woman in middle-age, so to see her bearing a drawn sword in one hand (there was a Bible in the other) was somewhat incongruous. Behind her came the lovely Mary Mead, proudly bearing her precious colour, the sunlight glinting on the gold, and some twenty of the younger children, also carrying their banners. They were followed by the two Mistresses Blake, the other teachers, with the older girls. Bram saw Sue, pacing slowly and stiffly with the green colour draped from the pole which she held firmly in her grasp. Hannah and Libby, probably as deep a green with envy, came empty-handed behind.
He watched as the procession made its way to Hucker’s house, some doors down from the Loveridge shop. By leaning dangerously far out of the window, he could just glimpse what was happening. To loud applause, the Duke emerged, followed by his entourage. Mistress Musgrave delivered a brief speech, so softly that few could hear her. Monmouth, more used to speaking before a large crowd, was more audible in reply. He thanked her for the Bible, and went on, pitching his voice to reach as many onlookers as possible. ‘I come now into the field with a design to defend the truths contained in this book — and I shall seal it with my blood, if there should be occasion for it.’
There was more cheering, a little hoarse by now, and then the girls were led forward to be presented. Each, even the smallest, sank into a reverent curtsey, and were raised up and kissed on the cheek by the Duke, and by his friend Lord Grey. Bram grinned, knowing that they would never hear the end of this from his sisters. Libby, though she had entered into the spirit of the rebellion with Sue and Hannah, so far did not equal their enthusiasm for the handsome Duke.
Someone brought horses, and Monmouth and Lord Grey mounted. The children formed up their procession again behind, lifting up their colours proudly, and each escorted by a soldier. Then, following the rebel leaders, they made their way back through the jubilant crowd towards the High Street and Paul’s Field where the rest of Monmouth’s forces were encamped. Presumably, the precious fruits of all those frenzied hours of needlework would be handed over ceremonially to the various companies and troops of the rebel army.
Most of the crowd followed their Duke and the schoolgirls, shouting hurrahs and flinging their hats in the air. There was nothing more to see, but Bram lingered at the window, looking for some means of escape. The Loveridge house was tall and narrow, like the others around it, with a single gable in which his window was placed. In the trough between their own gable and the next, a gutter ran, and rainwater fell from that into a pipe fixed to the wall. He was fit and agile, he had often climbed trees and on rooftops during his schooldays: if the downpipe was close enough, it would be possible to descend it.
He measured it with his eye, and tried an experimental stretch, but however hard he tried, the pipe remained tantalisingly out of reach. And there was a potentially lethal drop to the stones of the marketplace below.
He was prepared to take risks, but he was not foolhardy. It would do the rebel cause no good at all to have one of its intending adherents maimed or dead in such a futile manner.
He would have to think of something else. Frowning, deep in thought, Bram went back to the bed, and gave himself up to the problem.
*
‘Bram! Bram!’
He must have fallen asleep, for the sun no longer shone in through the south-facing window, although it was many hours yet from setting. He sat up with a jerk, wondering what was happening. The voice called again, and he realised that it was Sue, just the other side of the door.
At once fully awake, he scrambled off the bed and ran across. ‘Sue! What is it?’
‘Were you asleep?’ she asked, in tones of disbelief. ‘I’d have thought that you’d have found a way out by now.’
‘Your faith in me is touching, but I’m not some hero out of a romance,’ Bram told her drily. ‘For a start, I’m unable to fly.’
Sue giggled. ‘Can’t you? That’s odd, I was convinced that you could.’
‘Don’t be silly. What do you want?’
‘Well, I was going to tell you about Monmouth’s camp, and what he said to me when I presented the colour, and all the other wonderful things that have happened to us today while you’ve been languishing in idleness in your chamber,’ Sue said infuriatingly. ‘But as you obviously don’t want to know about that, or where Father’s put the key, then I won’t tell you.’
‘I wasn’t very interested anyway, I saw it all from… Where Father’s put the key? Do you know?’
‘Of course I know. He’s hidden it inside the spinet, he didn’t know I’d seen him,’ Sue said triumphantly. ‘Do you want me to fetch it? He’s down in the shop at the moment, and Hannah and Libby are in our chamber, and Mother is in the kitchen talking to Nan about supper, so I could get it now if I’m quick, and let you out and put it back and they’d think you could fly!’
‘Well, don’t waste any more words,’ Bram said, his jaw clenched with sudden impatience. ‘Go and get it!’
He heard Sue’s hasty heels clattering down the stairs. His handsome tawny satin was now sadly crumpled by his hours on the bed, but there was no time to change.
For agonising moments he waited, pressed against the door, for the sounds of Sue’s return, praying that the parlour would still be unoccupied, that no one would see her lift the lid of the spinet, that the key was still there…
She was coming. The smart rap-rap of shoes on the stair was unmistakable, and the harsh metallic grating of the key in the lock was all the answer he needed. She muttered something, and he distinguished a word he had not thought that she knew. There followed the sounds of a wrestling match with recalcitrant iron, and then the latch lifted and the door swung open on her triumphant face. ‘It was so stiff that I didn’t think I could turn it,’ said his sister jubilantly. ‘But I managed it in the end.’
‘You’re wonderful,’ Bram said, and gave her a grateful, delighted hug. ‘And you have my heartfelt thanks. Is Father still in the shop?’
